I promised myself I would write something today, because I haven't been writing and that's, well, a problem for me. I've been reading plenty, and making the most of my break, but no writing. Which is shit, really, because this is the best possible time I could have to sit back and work. No class work. No job responsibilities. Really nothing to do with my time but write. Or revise. Or blog. Which is about the lowest form of writing I could stoop to, and so here I am.
Aside from not writing, I've been enjoying my time off from classes. I've shuttled back and forth between here and Philly a couple of times, spent days hanging around with old friends, drunk enough coffee to bathe an infant. And there's at least three weeks left for adventuring and so much to see.
I realized the other day, after I spent a few hours wandering around the Met with a friend and didn't manage to scratch the surface of their exhibits, that there's really no excuse to ever get bored in this city. There's always something to see or do, much of which doesn't cost a dime. Parks, museums, art exhibits in public buildings. My friend Amanda found a store that has six floors of nothing but expensive textiles that will be lovely if I'm ever inclined to fondle the other half's linens for an hour or two (which happens more often than you'd think from a guy who doesn't know his own thread count).
One of the things that always frustrated me about Chicago is that it never seemed like I could get away with any no-money fun, unless I resorted to harassing people on the street (and I did from time to time). For all that NYC deserves its reputation as an expensive place to live--and it is--there's a nice balance it strikes in offering fun things to do for nothing. It's an aspect of this city I really love and need to take advantage of more often. Note to self.
Right. As blog entries go, I think I'll file that as one of the lesser ones, but for now, I need to go to sleep. Until next time...um...insert witty sign-off here.
Saturday, December 29, 2007
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
FAQ
A friend of mine in the Columbia writing program has an FAQ section on his Web site (that's Frequently Asked Questions, for those of you born in and around the nineteenth century), and I have to say, it makes me a little bit jealous of him. Mostly because it comprises, in nearly its entirety, the same questions I have on my Questions I Never Get Asked list. For example:
1. How do you spell that?
It's spelled R-O-S, as in Samuel-S, as in Samuel-I. As in, "Martini and Rossi," which is a vermouth company. Alternatively, you could think of it as being like Carlo Rossi, the maker of fine jug wines. Carlo is, in fact, my uncle from a somewhat estranged side of the family. We don't see him much, but I like to support the family business.
2. Paper or plastic?
Plastic, typically. I know it's not the most environmentally correct way to go on this particular question, but I find I have more use for plastic bags than I do for paper. I can store halved onions in plastic, for example, or any fruits and vegetables that would otherwise do poorly in my fridge. I've also made good use of plastic bags in place of bubble wrap for sending out delicate packages, whereas all I've ever done with paper bags is add them to the trash pile. Or, on occasion, made them into puppets for live-action versions of Fandango commercials.
3. How was your trip?
My trip was probably fine. I don't think I've ever taken a trip that didn't qualify as strictly fine. Which is to say, I've never had a trip take any disastrous turns, but I've also never had a trip so free of basic annoyances that it qualified as transcendent or even great. Most of the time, the trip does get me there and back, though, so I can't really complain. There was this one trip with my friend Holly, though, that went, not exactly disastrously, but kind of berserk.
We were driving from North Carolina to Philly together for the holidays, with a stopover somewhere in Delaware. Newark, I think. Somewhere in Virginia, about two hours south of Richmond, her car stalled and wouldn't get started again. Holly called AAA, and in short order, we were met by two mechanics--one large, who we named the Big Guy, the other small, who we called the Little Guy. The mechanics took a look at the car and said something very necessary had died. I think it was the alternator, but I wouldn't know. So the alternator died and the nearest alternator was two weeks away. We asked for a ride back to their shop to make a phone call, and they told us if we did that, one of us would have to ride in the car. Which was on back of the tow truck. Since neither Holly or I thought we'd be able to live with ourselves if the other person died while on back of the truck, we both decided to ride in the car. It was a little like tailgating at high speed. The two mechanics, seemingly oblivious to the danger Holly and I were in, sped down the highway and off onto a few winding back roads, until we were at their mechanic shop. Once there, Holly and I determined somehow that our best bet was to get one of the guys to take us to Richmond to catch a train. The Little Guy, whose name was Shorty, as luck would have it, volunteered for the task, and off we went. This time inside the cab of the car. Upon arriving in Richmond, we couldn't find the train station, but were able to find the airport. There, we tipped Shorty and thanked him, then bought a plane ticket at the last minute for Philly. This was back in the day when you could still buy a last-minute plane ticket. And with that, the adventure ended.
But yeah, other than that, my trip was fine.
4. Why do you ask?
No particular reason. I was just interested. Really. More often than not, unless the thing I'm asking about is really dire, like "Do I have skin cancer?" or really official, like "Where do I sign?" I'm just asking because I was interested. If you have to ask me why I'm asking, odds are good, this is the answer.
5. What's up?
Not much. What's up with you? Unless there's something madly exciting happening to me, I'd rather hear what's going on with you. Hence the infrequency with which I update this blog. And the number of women I've dated who claim I never tell them anything about myself. Honestly, I'm not that interesting.
6. Are you hungry?
I'm not particularly hungry at the moment, but I could probably eat. I think I've actually come to this answer out of a need to be vague in response to a vague and kind of leading question. The way it goes in my family is that they ask me if I'm hungry, and I say yes, they immediately feed me when I get home. If I say no, they've been known to delay dinner. Which is really the exact opposite of what I want at any given time. Unless I'm really starving, in which case I'll just fix myself a snack, I don't need to be fed the immediate instant I get hungry. So I always find it best to cop to having, not a sense of hunger exactly, but a general disposition towards eating. That hedges my bets nicely.
7. How long are you going to keep this joke going?
I guess that's really it, but in truth, I could keep going for as long as it takes for the joke to stop being funny. And then some. It takes a long time before I cut off a thought that's made me laugh. I mean, take this one. It continues to amuse me so much that I've actually gone back, now, weeks later and added to it. Because there was unfinished tomfoolery to be had, and I cannot have that. That's how dedicated I am to a joke that's only modestly funny to me. Imagine what I do when the joke really gets me off. Go on...imagine. I'll wait.
And there you go. The questions I get asked with the most frequency.
What do you read?Practically nobody asks me that when they find out I'm a writer. Nobody! It's a sin, frankly, because I have some pretty good taste in literature (The few questions on his list that I do get asked a lot are also on my Questions that Annoy Me list. Like, "Where do you get your ideas?" From my brain, typically.) Anyway, after much deliberation, and a few late-night conversations--possibly/probably including alcohol--I have decided that this blog needs an FAQ. So here they are, the questions everyone asks me all the time. In no particular order.
I’m by no means a fast reader though I do manage an average of 50 books a year, most being literary fiction, classics and contemporary alike. See Reading List for suggested titles.
1. How do you spell that?
It's spelled R-O-S, as in Samuel-S, as in Samuel-I. As in, "Martini and Rossi," which is a vermouth company. Alternatively, you could think of it as being like Carlo Rossi, the maker of fine jug wines. Carlo is, in fact, my uncle from a somewhat estranged side of the family. We don't see him much, but I like to support the family business.
2. Paper or plastic?
Plastic, typically. I know it's not the most environmentally correct way to go on this particular question, but I find I have more use for plastic bags than I do for paper. I can store halved onions in plastic, for example, or any fruits and vegetables that would otherwise do poorly in my fridge. I've also made good use of plastic bags in place of bubble wrap for sending out delicate packages, whereas all I've ever done with paper bags is add them to the trash pile. Or, on occasion, made them into puppets for live-action versions of Fandango commercials.
3. How was your trip?
My trip was probably fine. I don't think I've ever taken a trip that didn't qualify as strictly fine. Which is to say, I've never had a trip take any disastrous turns, but I've also never had a trip so free of basic annoyances that it qualified as transcendent or even great. Most of the time, the trip does get me there and back, though, so I can't really complain. There was this one trip with my friend Holly, though, that went, not exactly disastrously, but kind of berserk.
We were driving from North Carolina to Philly together for the holidays, with a stopover somewhere in Delaware. Newark, I think. Somewhere in Virginia, about two hours south of Richmond, her car stalled and wouldn't get started again. Holly called AAA, and in short order, we were met by two mechanics--one large, who we named the Big Guy, the other small, who we called the Little Guy. The mechanics took a look at the car and said something very necessary had died. I think it was the alternator, but I wouldn't know. So the alternator died and the nearest alternator was two weeks away. We asked for a ride back to their shop to make a phone call, and they told us if we did that, one of us would have to ride in the car. Which was on back of the tow truck. Since neither Holly or I thought we'd be able to live with ourselves if the other person died while on back of the truck, we both decided to ride in the car. It was a little like tailgating at high speed. The two mechanics, seemingly oblivious to the danger Holly and I were in, sped down the highway and off onto a few winding back roads, until we were at their mechanic shop. Once there, Holly and I determined somehow that our best bet was to get one of the guys to take us to Richmond to catch a train. The Little Guy, whose name was Shorty, as luck would have it, volunteered for the task, and off we went. This time inside the cab of the car. Upon arriving in Richmond, we couldn't find the train station, but were able to find the airport. There, we tipped Shorty and thanked him, then bought a plane ticket at the last minute for Philly. This was back in the day when you could still buy a last-minute plane ticket. And with that, the adventure ended.
But yeah, other than that, my trip was fine.
4. Why do you ask?
No particular reason. I was just interested. Really. More often than not, unless the thing I'm asking about is really dire, like "Do I have skin cancer?" or really official, like "Where do I sign?" I'm just asking because I was interested. If you have to ask me why I'm asking, odds are good, this is the answer.
5. What's up?
Not much. What's up with you? Unless there's something madly exciting happening to me, I'd rather hear what's going on with you. Hence the infrequency with which I update this blog. And the number of women I've dated who claim I never tell them anything about myself. Honestly, I'm not that interesting.
6. Are you hungry?
I'm not particularly hungry at the moment, but I could probably eat. I think I've actually come to this answer out of a need to be vague in response to a vague and kind of leading question. The way it goes in my family is that they ask me if I'm hungry, and I say yes, they immediately feed me when I get home. If I say no, they've been known to delay dinner. Which is really the exact opposite of what I want at any given time. Unless I'm really starving, in which case I'll just fix myself a snack, I don't need to be fed the immediate instant I get hungry. So I always find it best to cop to having, not a sense of hunger exactly, but a general disposition towards eating. That hedges my bets nicely.
7. How long are you going to keep this joke going?
I guess that's really it, but in truth, I could keep going for as long as it takes for the joke to stop being funny. And then some. It takes a long time before I cut off a thought that's made me laugh. I mean, take this one. It continues to amuse me so much that I've actually gone back, now, weeks later and added to it. Because there was unfinished tomfoolery to be had, and I cannot have that. That's how dedicated I am to a joke that's only modestly funny to me. Imagine what I do when the joke really gets me off. Go on...imagine. I'll wait.
And there you go. The questions I get asked with the most frequency.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
In Philly
My semester ended a couple of days ago, leaving me with six weeks to read and write and get ready for the next semester. At least, I think it's six weeks. I mean to spend this time actively preparing for next semester, finishing up a few stories and getting started on the novel I've had brewing in my head for a while. One can only hope it'll go over well. In the meantime, I have time to enjoy NYC a bit before I have to start working again.
The semester ended well, by the way. I think I'm finally getting the hang of this grad school thing. Which is easier said than done, really. It took me most of the semester to realize I was having a hard time adjusting to the change of scenery and the new pacing of my life. After six years, I'm not used to school anymore. I'm definitely not used to being surrounded by writers. Honestly, and this was pretty dumb of me in retrospect, I thought I'd just plop right down into a new city, new life, new everything and just merge without a blink. As it turns out, I needed a bit of time, but I think I have the hang of it, at last. I'm looking forward to next semester.
Family news...
My grandmother died over the weekend. Apparently, she hadn't been eating much of anything for a while (something I noticed over Thanksgiving), and it finally took its toll on her. Truthfully, I suspect she decided it was time to let go, and so she did. She died happy, and peacefully, and she died with most of her faculties intact. Apparently, one of her last requests was for a glass of scotch. Grandma liked scotch, and I suspect she just wanted to get a last taste in before she went.
Personally, I'm relatively OK. Most of the time, deaths in my family don't bother me so much. I don't know exactly why, but I like to think I just see death as a part of life. Something I couldn't control and wouldnt'. Plus which, we've been expecting this to come for a long time. A few years ago, grandma's cardiologist gave her a prognosis of just a couple of months, which she shoved in his face and turned into three good years. I think my grandmother just decided she'd had a good run of it and let go. Hopefully, I'll have that much control over it when my time comes.
Anyway, I'm in Philly tonight. The actual funeral isn't until January, but we're holding a viewing tomorrow, and I thought I should be here for it. Half the reason I came out to the East Coast was so that I could be with my family when they need me. I figure I should make the best of it.
It's strange. My grandfather--her husband--died around this time, almost to the day. I remember it started me writing a novel I had been putting off for a while (and then subsequently never finished). Maybe now I should finish it.
So that's that. Next time, I'll have an FAQ section for you guys. That's right...I get some frequently asked questions.
The semester ended well, by the way. I think I'm finally getting the hang of this grad school thing. Which is easier said than done, really. It took me most of the semester to realize I was having a hard time adjusting to the change of scenery and the new pacing of my life. After six years, I'm not used to school anymore. I'm definitely not used to being surrounded by writers. Honestly, and this was pretty dumb of me in retrospect, I thought I'd just plop right down into a new city, new life, new everything and just merge without a blink. As it turns out, I needed a bit of time, but I think I have the hang of it, at last. I'm looking forward to next semester.
Family news...
My grandmother died over the weekend. Apparently, she hadn't been eating much of anything for a while (something I noticed over Thanksgiving), and it finally took its toll on her. Truthfully, I suspect she decided it was time to let go, and so she did. She died happy, and peacefully, and she died with most of her faculties intact. Apparently, one of her last requests was for a glass of scotch. Grandma liked scotch, and I suspect she just wanted to get a last taste in before she went.
Personally, I'm relatively OK. Most of the time, deaths in my family don't bother me so much. I don't know exactly why, but I like to think I just see death as a part of life. Something I couldn't control and wouldnt'. Plus which, we've been expecting this to come for a long time. A few years ago, grandma's cardiologist gave her a prognosis of just a couple of months, which she shoved in his face and turned into three good years. I think my grandmother just decided she'd had a good run of it and let go. Hopefully, I'll have that much control over it when my time comes.
Anyway, I'm in Philly tonight. The actual funeral isn't until January, but we're holding a viewing tomorrow, and I thought I should be here for it. Half the reason I came out to the East Coast was so that I could be with my family when they need me. I figure I should make the best of it.
It's strange. My grandfather--her husband--died around this time, almost to the day. I remember it started me writing a novel I had been putting off for a while (and then subsequently never finished). Maybe now I should finish it.
So that's that. Next time, I'll have an FAQ section for you guys. That's right...I get some frequently asked questions.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
It's Finally Here
I'm not even going to bother with words for this one. The video below speaks for itself.
I take that back. I'll bother with a few words to say that the large version is up here.
I take that back. I'll bother with a few words to say that the large version is up here.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
My Disembodied Head
I finally got off my ass and shot some footage of myself for the Fetus Joe movie and sent it off to Sam, who then chroma-keyed my body out of the shot and left my head just floating there in the doorway. Like so:
It doesn't look like much now, but when it's in motion, my head is a powerhouse like you wouldn't believe. Oh, but you'd better believe it, because if you don't, my head will unleash pain upon you like you never believed was possible.
Anyway, I have to write some narration for the piece, and then the completed video will be, um, complete.
In the meantime, classes have resumed here. A few opportunities have risen and passed, and a few stories have started gestating in my head. I've started making mead to ferment over the winter, which has begun to settle in beautifully, in those wonderful chilly days that make a city foggy and grey and beautifully industrial feeling. I can't wait for snow.
It doesn't look like much now, but when it's in motion, my head is a powerhouse like you wouldn't believe. Oh, but you'd better believe it, because if you don't, my head will unleash pain upon you like you never believed was possible.
Anyway, I have to write some narration for the piece, and then the completed video will be, um, complete.
In the meantime, classes have resumed here. A few opportunities have risen and passed, and a few stories have started gestating in my head. I've started making mead to ferment over the winter, which has begun to settle in beautifully, in those wonderful chilly days that make a city foggy and grey and beautifully industrial feeling. I can't wait for snow.
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Aaaand, We're Back.
Once upon a time, I had a blog called Here There Be Whales, and it was a pretty good blog. Made some people laugh. Made other people cry. Sometimes it did both. Usually by accident. Then I started on this whole crazy graduate school what to make myself a writer, and I stopped writing regularly. Which is odd, isn't it?
I think so, too, so I've decided to start updating this page more regularly again. There's a couple of reasons for this. One is that I'm living in a new city, which means a lot of new experiences I really should be sorting through. The other is that I'm honestly a little blocked in my writing. Haven't had a new idea in a while, and I'm kind of hoping writing here will help me start writing out there again. And finally, there's the fact that my dad has started a blog called Pan Zen Zero as a way of bridling his rage at the current state of American politics. It's pretty funny.
Anyway, send me your weirdnesses and your ephemera. I need things to write about.
I think so, too, so I've decided to start updating this page more regularly again. There's a couple of reasons for this. One is that I'm living in a new city, which means a lot of new experiences I really should be sorting through. The other is that I'm honestly a little blocked in my writing. Haven't had a new idea in a while, and I'm kind of hoping writing here will help me start writing out there again. And finally, there's the fact that my dad has started a blog called Pan Zen Zero as a way of bridling his rage at the current state of American politics. It's pretty funny.
Anyway, send me your weirdnesses and your ephemera. I need things to write about.
Monday, October 15, 2007
More Fetusi
Just a brief entry.
The semifinal cut of the Fetus Joe movie is up online at Sam's Web site. The clip he's waiting on is of me, so I need to get off my ass and do it. If anyone knows someone with a video camera in NYC and a tripod, send them my way!
Fetus Joe vs. the World!
Rumor has is John Williams is signed on to do the soundtrack.
The semifinal cut of the Fetus Joe movie is up online at Sam's Web site. The clip he's waiting on is of me, so I need to get off my ass and do it. If anyone knows someone with a video camera in NYC and a tripod, send them my way!
Fetus Joe vs. the World!
Rumor has is John Williams is signed on to do the soundtrack.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Fetus Joe in 3 D
I know I've been conspicuously absent from this blog for the last month or so, which sucks for the two people out there still reading this thing. Sorry, but as it turns out, there's actually a lot of work that goes into school. Something along the lines of three or four hundred pages of reading a week, not counting the stories I read for my workshop.
That's not to say I'd rather be back doing nothing at a desk all day...not a bit. I'm just a little bit tapped, is all. If I'm being honest, I'm starting to question whether I belong here, really, as a writer or as a person. Which is silly, but is something that weighs on me.
Enough of that. While I've been staring at my screens and wondering if anything I write is actually any good, Sam has been working on the Fetus Joe movie, which is undeniably good. He's got some hack on to write voice over narration for a good deal of it. Some kind of stream of consciousness bullshit...who knows what these Hollywood desk-jockeys write about these days? Anyway, the rough cut is up at Sam's blog, and rumor has it, there's footage out there of an exploding cat. Here's the rough cut. The aspect ratio's wrong, but I'm pretty impressed by the fact that he got the rubber fetus puppet to defy gravity like that. Also that he made a rubber fetus puppet...that's a skill you can take to the bank. Or David Cronenberg. One or the other.
That's not to say I'd rather be back doing nothing at a desk all day...not a bit. I'm just a little bit tapped, is all. If I'm being honest, I'm starting to question whether I belong here, really, as a writer or as a person. Which is silly, but is something that weighs on me.
Enough of that. While I've been staring at my screens and wondering if anything I write is actually any good, Sam has been working on the Fetus Joe movie, which is undeniably good. He's got some hack on to write voice over narration for a good deal of it. Some kind of stream of consciousness bullshit...who knows what these Hollywood desk-jockeys write about these days? Anyway, the rough cut is up at Sam's blog, and rumor has it, there's footage out there of an exploding cat. Here's the rough cut. The aspect ratio's wrong, but I'm pretty impressed by the fact that he got the rubber fetus puppet to defy gravity like that. Also that he made a rubber fetus puppet...that's a skill you can take to the bank. Or David Cronenberg. One or the other.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Good deeds
This is the second part to my special two-part September 11 post. I normally don't commemorate this day at all, but Sue sent this to me, and I like it. So read on.
NEW YORK - On Sept. 11, Jacob Sundberg of San Antonio has pledged to make eye contact and smile at everyone he meets. Kaitlin Ulrich will bring goody baskets to the police and fire departments in and around Philadelphia. And 100 volunteers from New York – 9/11 firefighters and family members among them – are going to Groesbeck, Texas, to rebuild a house destroyed by a tornado last December.
This is a minute sampling of the hundreds of thousands of people who have pledged to memorialize those killed on 9/11 by doing something good for others.
The heroic acts of all those killed trying to save others that September morning has spawned a growing grass-roots movement. The goal is to ensure that future generations remember not just the horror of the attacks, but also the extraordinary outpouring of humanity during the days, weeks, and months that followed.
"It was the worst possible day imaginable, and in some ways, a remarkable day, too, in the way in which people responded," says David Paine, cofounder of myGoodDeed.org. "We need to rekindle the way we came together in the spirit of 9/11: It would be almost as much a tragedy to lose that lesson."
Sept. 11 has inspired dozens of philanthropic efforts – from groups dedicated to building memorials to foundations designed to improve education in the Middle East. But myGoodDeed has a more universal goal: to turn 9/11 into a day dedicated to doing good – from small, simple things like Lisa Scheive's pledge to help stranded turtles cross the road in Pompano Beach, Fla., to lifesaving efforts, such as John Feal's decision in New York to donate one of his kidneys to help a seriously ill 9/11 worker.
The idea has been endorsed by members of Congress, and at myGoodDeed's urging, President Bush for the first time this year included a call for volunteering in his annual 9/11 proclamation.
After major disasters, Americans have historically tapped a deep reserve of compassion and reached out to others. But in the months and years that follow, those compassionate and civic urges tend to recede. Studies at Harvard's Saguaro Seminar on Civic Engagement in America found that in as few as five months after 9/11, most Americans had gone back to their daily lives and were not more engaged as they said they'd hoped to be. Part of the goal of turning 9/11 into a national day of service is to remind Americans of the inherent joy of giving and to hopefully spur volunteering and charitable acts throughout the year.
"I don't know of any research that's been done on one day of service, but studies have shown that people who do volunteering in high school are more likely to volunteer throughout their lives," says Thomas Sander, executive director of the Saguaro Seminar.
The idea of turning 9/11 into a day of service, charity, and good deeds came from the family and friends of one man: Glenn Winuk, a volunteer fireman and lawyer who worked a block and a half from the World Trade Center. After he helped evacuate his Broadway law offices, he grabbed a medic's bag and ran toward the smoke pouring from the South Tower. That's where his remains were found after the towers fell. Mr. Paine and Glenn's brother Jay had been friends for years. They decided that turning 9/11 into a day of service was best way to memorialize Glenn.
"It completely reflects the way my brother lived his life, and it also specifically reflects how he died," says Mr. Winuk, myGoodDeed.org cofounder. "He laid his life on the line for other people that day."
In 2002, Paine and Winuk sent e-mails to friends and family and suggested they do a good deed, such as donate a day's pay on 9/11. Then the idea evolved, and they founded myGoodDeed.org. In 2004, 100,000 visited their website and pledged to do a good deed on 9/11. This year, those pledging number more than 250,000.
"A lot of people don't know what to do on 9/11," says Paine. "This hits people in their heart and their soul. It connects with something that's fundamental."
I like the idea of taking this day to remember the good things that people did for each other on it. Particularly in light of what's followed, of our government's cynical attempt to use that tragedy as an excuse to push forward its agenda in Iraq. It's good to remember that, for a brief moment, we dropped all of our bullshit and showed our best. I'm not sure what good deed I'm going to do, but I'll do something.
NEW YORK - On Sept. 11, Jacob Sundberg of San Antonio has pledged to make eye contact and smile at everyone he meets. Kaitlin Ulrich will bring goody baskets to the police and fire departments in and around Philadelphia. And 100 volunteers from New York – 9/11 firefighters and family members among them – are going to Groesbeck, Texas, to rebuild a house destroyed by a tornado last December.
This is a minute sampling of the hundreds of thousands of people who have pledged to memorialize those killed on 9/11 by doing something good for others.
The heroic acts of all those killed trying to save others that September morning has spawned a growing grass-roots movement. The goal is to ensure that future generations remember not just the horror of the attacks, but also the extraordinary outpouring of humanity during the days, weeks, and months that followed.
"It was the worst possible day imaginable, and in some ways, a remarkable day, too, in the way in which people responded," says David Paine, cofounder of myGoodDeed.org. "We need to rekindle the way we came together in the spirit of 9/11: It would be almost as much a tragedy to lose that lesson."
Sept. 11 has inspired dozens of philanthropic efforts – from groups dedicated to building memorials to foundations designed to improve education in the Middle East. But myGoodDeed has a more universal goal: to turn 9/11 into a day dedicated to doing good – from small, simple things like Lisa Scheive's pledge to help stranded turtles cross the road in Pompano Beach, Fla., to lifesaving efforts, such as John Feal's decision in New York to donate one of his kidneys to help a seriously ill 9/11 worker.
The idea has been endorsed by members of Congress, and at myGoodDeed's urging, President Bush for the first time this year included a call for volunteering in his annual 9/11 proclamation.
After major disasters, Americans have historically tapped a deep reserve of compassion and reached out to others. But in the months and years that follow, those compassionate and civic urges tend to recede. Studies at Harvard's Saguaro Seminar on Civic Engagement in America found that in as few as five months after 9/11, most Americans had gone back to their daily lives and were not more engaged as they said they'd hoped to be. Part of the goal of turning 9/11 into a national day of service is to remind Americans of the inherent joy of giving and to hopefully spur volunteering and charitable acts throughout the year.
"I don't know of any research that's been done on one day of service, but studies have shown that people who do volunteering in high school are more likely to volunteer throughout their lives," says Thomas Sander, executive director of the Saguaro Seminar.
The idea of turning 9/11 into a day of service, charity, and good deeds came from the family and friends of one man: Glenn Winuk, a volunteer fireman and lawyer who worked a block and a half from the World Trade Center. After he helped evacuate his Broadway law offices, he grabbed a medic's bag and ran toward the smoke pouring from the South Tower. That's where his remains were found after the towers fell. Mr. Paine and Glenn's brother Jay had been friends for years. They decided that turning 9/11 into a day of service was best way to memorialize Glenn.
"It completely reflects the way my brother lived his life, and it also specifically reflects how he died," says Mr. Winuk, myGoodDeed.org cofounder. "He laid his life on the line for other people that day."
In 2002, Paine and Winuk sent e-mails to friends and family and suggested they do a good deed, such as donate a day's pay on 9/11. Then the idea evolved, and they founded myGoodDeed.org. In 2004, 100,000 visited their website and pledged to do a good deed on 9/11. This year, those pledging number more than 250,000.
"A lot of people don't know what to do on 9/11," says Paine. "This hits people in their heart and their soul. It connects with something that's fundamental."
I like the idea of taking this day to remember the good things that people did for each other on it. Particularly in light of what's followed, of our government's cynical attempt to use that tragedy as an excuse to push forward its agenda in Iraq. It's good to remember that, for a brief moment, we dropped all of our bullshit and showed our best. I'm not sure what good deed I'm going to do, but I'll do something.
Thursday, September 06, 2007
Jakal is a Wily Dog, and a Cold Lover
So I've survived my first week of classes. It started last Thursday with a class on mosaic literature and ended yesterday evening with a lecture on Elizabeth Bishop. Suffice to say, I love my classes, and I'm a big fan of my fellow classmates. In my first workshop, I volunteered to present first, which meant I had a story due in two days. Beyond that, there's not a whole lot to tell. I could go into further depth, but really, do you want a blow by blow of my first week? No, I didn't think so.
What you will find interesting is the videos that Sam has been making. Well, you'll possibly not find them so interesting as amusing. It seems there is a Jackal loose in the Virginia Stage Company, and boy, is he ever causing problems. Here's the first bit of video evidence. And as though that wasn't bad enough, he's started breaking hearts. (Here are Sam's two blogs on the subject. Blog 1. Blog 2.) Rumor has it, there might be some professional ramifications for Jackal's actions...Virginia Stage apparently frowns on interspecies relationships among its employees.
What you will find interesting is the videos that Sam has been making. Well, you'll possibly not find them so interesting as amusing. It seems there is a Jackal loose in the Virginia Stage Company, and boy, is he ever causing problems. Here's the first bit of video evidence. And as though that wasn't bad enough, he's started breaking hearts. (Here are Sam's two blogs on the subject. Blog 1. Blog 2.) Rumor has it, there might be some professional ramifications for Jackal's actions...Virginia Stage apparently frowns on interspecies relationships among its employees.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
And That's How I Got Here
Where to begin?
So much has happened over the last three weeks. To start with, I've found a place. The leaf in the wind approach that I decided to take worked out. In the eleventh hour, the university came through with an apartment a block or so from campus. I'm sitting in it now, and it really is just a fantastic place. Large and well-lit with plenty to see and do all around me and a friendly room mate from Texas who is probably more daunted here than I am. It's an apartment I could live in for a while. Really. I love it.
So, I found a place. And I sold my stuff in Chicago--as much of it as I could bear to part with, which turned out to be a lot of it--and packed up the rest into a little corner of my studio, where I stared at it and contemplated how odd it is that six years of my life, messy and crude and convoluted as it has been, tucked so neatly into a square space.
When that was done, I said some goodbyes. The night it stormed so badly the city blacked out, we went to Joey's Brickhouse and Greg, the owner, invited us in to sit and drink for free by candlelight. So we did. And we ate donuts and had a great time until it was so late I couldn't keep my eyes open. And the next night, Ian hosted us at his place, and I did the same. And on the third night, I did not rest, but went to karaoke with friends who were noble and good enough to brave frat boys singing "Thank God I'm a Country Boy" in horrible, screeching tones.
When I had said my goodbyes, I got into a van with a guy who was also going my way. And we drove. On the day we left, an accident delayed us three hours. Then traffic in Chicago delayed us another two, and for all intents and purposes, it seemed like the city was doing everything in its power to keep me from leaving. Which a part of me kept wishing it had. Wishing I'd get one more day to enjoy it, to spend with friends, to bike around the lake. When my things were packed and we started to drive, the guy I was going with asked if I was sad to be going, and I couldn't really answer because if I had, I wouldn't have been able to keep myself from crying.
We drove two days cross country, and when we got to Philly, I dropped my stuff off at my grandparents' house. My apartment here, while nice, is still occuppied by a guy. He's moving out on Friday, but the university doesn't know that yet, so they think he'll be here for another three weeks. Until he tells them otherwise, I don't get to move my stuff in. So I dropped most of it off in Philly and will get it back later. Until then, all I have are my clothes, my computer, my air mattress, and my bedding. I've moved to places with less.
So I keep reminding myself that tomorrow is orientation and that a week from today classes start and that riding this current has taken me far and that it will take me farther (hmmm...by a curious typo, that phrase nearly became "it will take me father." Perhaps I should warn him...and get my accent checked).
So much has happened over the last three weeks. To start with, I've found a place. The leaf in the wind approach that I decided to take worked out. In the eleventh hour, the university came through with an apartment a block or so from campus. I'm sitting in it now, and it really is just a fantastic place. Large and well-lit with plenty to see and do all around me and a friendly room mate from Texas who is probably more daunted here than I am. It's an apartment I could live in for a while. Really. I love it.
So, I found a place. And I sold my stuff in Chicago--as much of it as I could bear to part with, which turned out to be a lot of it--and packed up the rest into a little corner of my studio, where I stared at it and contemplated how odd it is that six years of my life, messy and crude and convoluted as it has been, tucked so neatly into a square space.
When that was done, I said some goodbyes. The night it stormed so badly the city blacked out, we went to Joey's Brickhouse and Greg, the owner, invited us in to sit and drink for free by candlelight. So we did. And we ate donuts and had a great time until it was so late I couldn't keep my eyes open. And the next night, Ian hosted us at his place, and I did the same. And on the third night, I did not rest, but went to karaoke with friends who were noble and good enough to brave frat boys singing "Thank God I'm a Country Boy" in horrible, screeching tones.
When I had said my goodbyes, I got into a van with a guy who was also going my way. And we drove. On the day we left, an accident delayed us three hours. Then traffic in Chicago delayed us another two, and for all intents and purposes, it seemed like the city was doing everything in its power to keep me from leaving. Which a part of me kept wishing it had. Wishing I'd get one more day to enjoy it, to spend with friends, to bike around the lake. When my things were packed and we started to drive, the guy I was going with asked if I was sad to be going, and I couldn't really answer because if I had, I wouldn't have been able to keep myself from crying.
We drove two days cross country, and when we got to Philly, I dropped my stuff off at my grandparents' house. My apartment here, while nice, is still occuppied by a guy. He's moving out on Friday, but the university doesn't know that yet, so they think he'll be here for another three weeks. Until he tells them otherwise, I don't get to move my stuff in. So I dropped most of it off in Philly and will get it back later. Until then, all I have are my clothes, my computer, my air mattress, and my bedding. I've moved to places with less.
So I keep reminding myself that tomorrow is orientation and that a week from today classes start and that riding this current has taken me far and that it will take me farther (hmmm...by a curious typo, that phrase nearly became "it will take me father." Perhaps I should warn him...and get my accent checked).
Monday, August 20, 2007
Well-Educated Hobo
As the time for me to move to NYC gets closer, I should be getting more and more frightened, but somehow I'm not. I still don't have a place to live and I still don't know exactly what I'm going to do for money and I still don't know...
That's right, I don't have a place to live yet, though I'm moving in a week. I thought I had a place lined up. When I left NYC, I had visited a broker and set up a place to live, but by the time the landlords had processed my application, it all fell through. They had given the place to someone else. There was another apartment, my broker explained, and they would give me that one if I wanted it, but it was smaller and the layout was lousy. And from there it stretched on for weeks, with me on the phone with my broker three times a day, receiving pictures of apartments and promises of leases, maybe. My heart slowly sank and this deal slowly, but surely started to feel worse and worse.
Really, all the time gave me was a chance to think and to resort my priorities. What did I really want in an apartment? What was I going to have when I got to NYC. How are my finances going to be over the next year? Then an opportunity came up. Some friends of my friends here needed a room mate, so I e-mailed them to see about moving in. I was two days too late, but it set me to thinking. I like living alone, but living with room mates means my rent wouldn't be as high. My place would be furnished. I would have people to explore with, if I want. It would be a good way to start my time in NYC. So I called my broker and told him that I'm going it alone. He instantly offered to refund my deposit and said he understood.
So that's where I am. Scouring the listings on Craigslist looking for people to live with near me. I don't have a place yet. I might have only a sofa to sleep on when I get to NYC. And yet I'm not frightened. OK...I'm a little frightened, but with the sense that this will all work out. It will all work out. At this point, I've been through so much crap that has finally worked out in the end that I have nothing but faith that I will find a place. Even if it isn't the perfect place, it will be better than paying a broker to find me the place I didn't really want.
In the meantime, I'm left to marvel at the postings on Craigslist. Postings that say things like this one:
And I'm left to reel at the disturbing probability that he'll find exactly what he's looking for. I shudder to think.
That's right, I don't have a place to live yet, though I'm moving in a week. I thought I had a place lined up. When I left NYC, I had visited a broker and set up a place to live, but by the time the landlords had processed my application, it all fell through. They had given the place to someone else. There was another apartment, my broker explained, and they would give me that one if I wanted it, but it was smaller and the layout was lousy. And from there it stretched on for weeks, with me on the phone with my broker three times a day, receiving pictures of apartments and promises of leases, maybe. My heart slowly sank and this deal slowly, but surely started to feel worse and worse.
Really, all the time gave me was a chance to think and to resort my priorities. What did I really want in an apartment? What was I going to have when I got to NYC. How are my finances going to be over the next year? Then an opportunity came up. Some friends of my friends here needed a room mate, so I e-mailed them to see about moving in. I was two days too late, but it set me to thinking. I like living alone, but living with room mates means my rent wouldn't be as high. My place would be furnished. I would have people to explore with, if I want. It would be a good way to start my time in NYC. So I called my broker and told him that I'm going it alone. He instantly offered to refund my deposit and said he understood.
So that's where I am. Scouring the listings on Craigslist looking for people to live with near me. I don't have a place yet. I might have only a sofa to sleep on when I get to NYC. And yet I'm not frightened. OK...I'm a little frightened, but with the sense that this will all work out. It will all work out. At this point, I've been through so much crap that has finally worked out in the end that I have nothing but faith that I will find a place. Even if it isn't the perfect place, it will be better than paying a broker to find me the place I didn't really want.
In the meantime, I'm left to marvel at the postings on Craigslist. Postings that say things like this one:
"Seeking Attractive Female for Mutual Benefits (Rent)
I am a successful professional that works in one of NYC's most prominent firms. I am willing to assist with rent in exchange for benefits. The more we click, the more generous I get. 420 friendly a plus.
I look forward to hearing from you soon. If interested, please email a pic."
And I'm left to reel at the disturbing probability that he'll find exactly what he's looking for. I shudder to think.
Sunday, July 29, 2007
Not Dead, I Swear
Sorry for the long hiatus. I have no good excuse, except that, what with the impending move, I've been suffering from a bit of verbal paralysis. I've noticed this about myself: when I get stressed, I tend to freeze up on the writing front a bit. That's a great trait for a guy about to enter graduate school for writing.
I'm in NYC looking for apartments and finding the whole process frustrating, daunting, and a whole slew of other infinitives that express my grief over my inability to find a place. I nearly cried when I had to call my dad and ask if he'd cosign for me, since nobody will accept an excellent six-year rental history as a sign I'm a good tenant. If not for the fact that I have great parents and friends, I think I'd be a step closer to fulfilling my nightmare of becoming the best-educated hobo in Manhattan.
Anyway, it's kept me from writing.
In the meantime, while I have slacked away from the blogosphere, my friends have been busy. Sam has officially started up a Fetus Joe blog (he actually did this over a month ago...which is precisely how slack I've been). Before I left my job, I was working on assembling the complete book of Fetus Joe, and though that hasn't come to fruition (yet...crappy real life!), I'm happy new cartoons are coming out. I won't be archiving these anytime soon, though. Anyway, it's not strictly limited to Fetus Joe, but he's a main character. If I ever get off my ass and start having ideas again, I might contribute something to it. Until then, Sam's got the hilarity front covered.
And with that, I'm off to make a few calls and get out into this lovely rainy Manhattan day.
I'm in NYC looking for apartments and finding the whole process frustrating, daunting, and a whole slew of other infinitives that express my grief over my inability to find a place. I nearly cried when I had to call my dad and ask if he'd cosign for me, since nobody will accept an excellent six-year rental history as a sign I'm a good tenant. If not for the fact that I have great parents and friends, I think I'd be a step closer to fulfilling my nightmare of becoming the best-educated hobo in Manhattan.
Anyway, it's kept me from writing.
In the meantime, while I have slacked away from the blogosphere, my friends have been busy. Sam has officially started up a Fetus Joe blog (he actually did this over a month ago...which is precisely how slack I've been). Before I left my job, I was working on assembling the complete book of Fetus Joe, and though that hasn't come to fruition (yet...crappy real life!), I'm happy new cartoons are coming out. I won't be archiving these anytime soon, though. Anyway, it's not strictly limited to Fetus Joe, but he's a main character. If I ever get off my ass and start having ideas again, I might contribute something to it. Until then, Sam's got the hilarity front covered.
And with that, I'm off to make a few calls and get out into this lovely rainy Manhattan day.
Sunday, June 17, 2007
Joe Intro
Lately I've been compiling a book of the complete Fetus Joe cartoons, including the contest cartoons and a couple of cartoons Sam drew after the boy was born. It also includes an introduction to the book by myself. Here it is, for your amusement.
Fetus Joe Intro
I’ll never forget the day in 2005 when my friend Sam, then recently married to his wife Terry and living off in Massachusetts, called me and told me that Terry was pregnant. My reaction can best be described as a conflict between joy and fear, coupled with mild catatonia. The catatonia, of course, is an all too common reaction to big news—faced with a gargantuan change in their reality, people often need to take a few moments to stammer, drop their jaws, and maybe shriek like a monkey. I have little doubt Sam, himself, reacted in much the same way when he got the news from Terry.
As for the conflict I experienced of fear and joy, what can I say? Of course, I was proud and overjoyed for my friend that he was going to be a father, not to mention wholly grateful to him for playing his part in ensuring the survival of my species. But that word, Parenthood, gnawed at me at night when I was trying to sleep. Just that one word was enough to tighten my breath and send my heart into arrhythmia. Parenthood meant the end of the Sam I once knew. Soon he’d be moving to the suburbs and driving a minivan, taking the kid to soccer practice and weekending at amusement parks populated with colorful cartoon characters. The day would come soon when I’d tell him about some new beer I’d found, and Sam would hike up his over-sized sweatpants and say “That sounds too wacky for my tastes…I’m more of a Bud man, myself.”
Then one day, I received an e-mail from Sam with the subject line “Fetus Joe vs. the Wolverine.” Inside was a cartoon of a wolverine, it’s leg torn and bloody on the ground, its face frozen in the ghastly horror of a bully just beaten down by the class nerd. And above it, a fetus gloating its victory to the world. I was so relieved. What a fool I had been even to worry. Of course! Parenthood wouldn’t destroy Sam…it would just be an opportunity for him to bestow his wackiness onto his offspring.
We can only speculate as to what forces inspired Sam to spend the next nine months pitting his unborn child against wild beasts of all shapes and sizes. A sociologist or a cultural anthropologist would likely tell us that the cartoons came out of a desire to quell his own fears for his child, to symbolically imbue the boy with health and strength, much as cavemen painted images of animals on their cave walls to ensure a successful hunt. But they would be full of shit. Warm, smooth shit. In truth, I suspect they came mostly out of boredom and the occasional need to comment on the events of the pregnancy (such as when Fetus Joe attacked Terry’s sciatic nerve) or the everyday trials of living in Boston (such as the amazing exploding turkey, a common nuisance on the Massachusetts turnpike). Whatever the impetus, all can agree that they were funny as shit. And they proved to me, once and for all, that I never need fear the loss of Sam’s wackiness. For it is a font that springs eternal. In his pants.
Friday, June 15, 2007
Memeify
My friend Mr. B. has tasked me with carrying on a meme that he received from a friend and that his friend received from a friend, and so forth. Technically, I'm not sure if this actually qualifies as a meme. Since I'm actively aware of the fact that I'm passing it on, I think it falls more in the realm of peer pressure. The Internet equivalent of convincing me to smoke pot or have unprotected sex, because, hey, everyone is doing it. Which, given Mr. B.'s intro of the whole deal, makes me think I'll soon have a nasty case of e-clap. But hey...wouldn't want to be uncool, so here goes:
"Bloggers must post these rules and provide eight random facts about themselves. In the post, the tagged blogger tags eight other bloggers and notifies them that they've been tagged."
Luckily, I don't know eight other bloggers. So I'll be less virulent than Mr. B. was.
Eight random facts about me.
#1 I've recently discovered that I really enjoy making up fictional biographies for my friends' MySpace pages. In them, I turn my friends into great historical figures--assassins, radio personalities, former vaudeville stars. It's one of the most freeing writing exercises I've ever experienced, and I love it. So much that sometimes I make up fictional biographies, even if my friends don't actually ask me to.
#2 On occasion, I think I might actually be God and not know it. More to the point, I don't think I am God, it just occurs to me that I have absolutely no proof that I'm not God. This started several years ago when I was, I don't know, 23 or so and I would meet people on the street who didn't know me. But I knew them and I could tell you a lot about them. Maybe not everything, but certainly a lot more than I had any rights to know. Which is how I imagine God feels when God walks around on Earth. Anyway, I once used this line of thinking in an argument to disprove that Jesus is the son of God. Because I know I don't have any kids.
#3 One time in middle school, I very nearly killed another boy after he and some jock friends stole my bike from me and held me down between two very thick wrestling mats until I couldn't breathe and panicked and screamed for them to let me up. When they did, I ran after him, determined to kill him. Had I been a faster runner at the time--fast enough to catch him--I can say with some certainty I would have beaten him to within an inch of his life. I wouldn't have given it a thought. So if you're out there, Mark, and you're reading this, consider yourself lucky I didn't catch you. I know I do.
#4 My favorite kind of pie--and possibly my favorite all-time dessert--is key lime pie, the best example of which I've ever tasted came from a coffee shop in Asheville, NC, called Old Europe about a eight years ago. I could have eaten that stuff for hours. I've since been back there and, while it's still good, it's not as good as it was eight years ago. Back then it was perfect--just the right amount of tart and sweet with a creamy, custardy filling and graham cracker crust. It was a great joy to have a slice, at a time when great joys were sometimes hard for me to find. The worst slice of key lime pie I ever had was at a diner at a truck stop somewhere in God-knows-where. It looked like a slice of nuclear waste, topped with merringue. This was also the first slice I ever had, so I went around for a long time thinking I didn't like key lime pie until a friend's mom set me straight. Seriously...if you ever make key-lime pie, don't put merringue on it. For the love of all things.
(As a complete sidebar, or fact #4.5, a close contender for the favorite all-time dessert is rich chocolate mousse served with a glass of neat single-malt scotch to sip alongside each bit.)
#5 Once when I was in grade school, I got in trouble with a teacher for taking the bolts out of a standing coat rack she had in her room while I was sitting on the floor watching a movie. She was really flipped out about it, no doubt a reaction brought on by deep neurosis from years of having her coat rack spontaneously fall apart after showing movies, and she demanded that I not only put back the bolts I had, but replace any that were missing on the rack. For some reason, I decided that this was the kind of thing my parents would also really wig out about, so I made up a lie for them that I needed the bolts for a class project in which we were making metal dolls out of thin steel plates and assembling them with bolts. The children were to provide the bolts. My parents happily complied and some weeks later, grinning ear to ear, asked if they could see the metal doll I made in class. I told them the teacher had liked them so much, she had kept them for herself.
In retrospect, my parents knew I was lying from the first word out of my mouth. As they often did because:
#6 I'm a terrible liar. Most people who know me know I'm lying almost as soon as I start. This is because practically the only time I ever lie is if I think the lie will make the world funnier somehow (the exception to this is if I'm skipping work and have to fake sick...but that's not lying, that's acting for fun and profit). So I smile at the lie and people know I'm lying. The amusing side effect of this is that sometimes I'll be telling someone a fact--an actual fact--and it will amuse me, so I'll smile, which makes them think I'm lying. Then the irony makes me smile bigger, and it just goes downhill from there.
#7 The only failing grade I ever received was in a meditation class in college. The teacher had a no-skip policy with only three possible exceptions (so he had a three-skip policy, I should have said). I was really depressed that semester and frequently woke up not wanting to go to meditation class, so I skipped more than my three. At the end of the semester, he gave me a choice: I could either take a failing grade or I could write a three-page paper on some issue of how meditation could help someone's health. I had a writing comp course that year and was so bogged down writing papers, there was no way I ws writing another. So I got an F.
#8 I've only ever won two contests in my life. The first was a call-in contest for a Nintendo videogame system. To win, you had to watch the Mario Brothers cartoon hour after school and call in with a code. I was calling on a rotary phone, so by all rights, I never should have gotten it. But one lucky day, the guy who called in first got the answer wrong and I was next. It was the happiest moment of my eleven-year-old life.
So I think I'll pass this along to, oh say, Ian, Lindsey, Ed, Dan, Bonnie, Jeff, Eric (assuming he still reads my blog), and...oh...let's say Neil.
"Bloggers must post these rules and provide eight random facts about themselves. In the post, the tagged blogger tags eight other bloggers and notifies them that they've been tagged."
Luckily, I don't know eight other bloggers. So I'll be less virulent than Mr. B. was.
Eight random facts about me.
#1 I've recently discovered that I really enjoy making up fictional biographies for my friends' MySpace pages. In them, I turn my friends into great historical figures--assassins, radio personalities, former vaudeville stars. It's one of the most freeing writing exercises I've ever experienced, and I love it. So much that sometimes I make up fictional biographies, even if my friends don't actually ask me to.
#2 On occasion, I think I might actually be God and not know it. More to the point, I don't think I am God, it just occurs to me that I have absolutely no proof that I'm not God. This started several years ago when I was, I don't know, 23 or so and I would meet people on the street who didn't know me. But I knew them and I could tell you a lot about them. Maybe not everything, but certainly a lot more than I had any rights to know. Which is how I imagine God feels when God walks around on Earth. Anyway, I once used this line of thinking in an argument to disprove that Jesus is the son of God. Because I know I don't have any kids.
#3 One time in middle school, I very nearly killed another boy after he and some jock friends stole my bike from me and held me down between two very thick wrestling mats until I couldn't breathe and panicked and screamed for them to let me up. When they did, I ran after him, determined to kill him. Had I been a faster runner at the time--fast enough to catch him--I can say with some certainty I would have beaten him to within an inch of his life. I wouldn't have given it a thought. So if you're out there, Mark, and you're reading this, consider yourself lucky I didn't catch you. I know I do.
#4 My favorite kind of pie--and possibly my favorite all-time dessert--is key lime pie, the best example of which I've ever tasted came from a coffee shop in Asheville, NC, called Old Europe about a eight years ago. I could have eaten that stuff for hours. I've since been back there and, while it's still good, it's not as good as it was eight years ago. Back then it was perfect--just the right amount of tart and sweet with a creamy, custardy filling and graham cracker crust. It was a great joy to have a slice, at a time when great joys were sometimes hard for me to find. The worst slice of key lime pie I ever had was at a diner at a truck stop somewhere in God-knows-where. It looked like a slice of nuclear waste, topped with merringue. This was also the first slice I ever had, so I went around for a long time thinking I didn't like key lime pie until a friend's mom set me straight. Seriously...if you ever make key-lime pie, don't put merringue on it. For the love of all things.
(As a complete sidebar, or fact #4.5, a close contender for the favorite all-time dessert is rich chocolate mousse served with a glass of neat single-malt scotch to sip alongside each bit.)
#5 Once when I was in grade school, I got in trouble with a teacher for taking the bolts out of a standing coat rack she had in her room while I was sitting on the floor watching a movie. She was really flipped out about it, no doubt a reaction brought on by deep neurosis from years of having her coat rack spontaneously fall apart after showing movies, and she demanded that I not only put back the bolts I had, but replace any that were missing on the rack. For some reason, I decided that this was the kind of thing my parents would also really wig out about, so I made up a lie for them that I needed the bolts for a class project in which we were making metal dolls out of thin steel plates and assembling them with bolts. The children were to provide the bolts. My parents happily complied and some weeks later, grinning ear to ear, asked if they could see the metal doll I made in class. I told them the teacher had liked them so much, she had kept them for herself.
In retrospect, my parents knew I was lying from the first word out of my mouth. As they often did because:
#6 I'm a terrible liar. Most people who know me know I'm lying almost as soon as I start. This is because practically the only time I ever lie is if I think the lie will make the world funnier somehow (the exception to this is if I'm skipping work and have to fake sick...but that's not lying, that's acting for fun and profit). So I smile at the lie and people know I'm lying. The amusing side effect of this is that sometimes I'll be telling someone a fact--an actual fact--and it will amuse me, so I'll smile, which makes them think I'm lying. Then the irony makes me smile bigger, and it just goes downhill from there.
#7 The only failing grade I ever received was in a meditation class in college. The teacher had a no-skip policy with only three possible exceptions (so he had a three-skip policy, I should have said). I was really depressed that semester and frequently woke up not wanting to go to meditation class, so I skipped more than my three. At the end of the semester, he gave me a choice: I could either take a failing grade or I could write a three-page paper on some issue of how meditation could help someone's health. I had a writing comp course that year and was so bogged down writing papers, there was no way I ws writing another. So I got an F.
#8 I've only ever won two contests in my life. The first was a call-in contest for a Nintendo videogame system. To win, you had to watch the Mario Brothers cartoon hour after school and call in with a code. I was calling on a rotary phone, so by all rights, I never should have gotten it. But one lucky day, the guy who called in first got the answer wrong and I was next. It was the happiest moment of my eleven-year-old life.
So I think I'll pass this along to, oh say, Ian, Lindsey, Ed, Dan, Bonnie, Jeff, Eric (assuming he still reads my blog), and...oh...let's say Neil.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Update...
Last night, I e-mailed The Other Matthew Rossi to let him know he had gotten a compliment, and he e-mailed me back to let me know that I should direct all complimentors to his blog, which is here.
Last night, I e-mailed The Other Matthew Rossi to let him know he had gotten a compliment, and he e-mailed me back to let me know that I should direct all complimentors to his blog, which is here.
Monday, May 21, 2007
My Doppleganger Returns
I found this comment from my Story blog a couple of weeks ago waiting for me when I came into work today:
Hi, I'm phil from England. I only discovered your writing last night and read solis Invicti straight away. I loved the writing. You have a real talent and I intend to find more of your work. You inspire me to keep going with mine. It was like a rush of sensory images that you couldn't help but be captured and enthralled by. I hope you've written lots!
-PGR
Suffice to say, I was flattered to get the fan mail. For a brief second, I joked with myself that I'm an international success, until I realized I'd never written a story called "Solis Invicti." So I googled my name and up came this. Which is, as I suspected, by The Other Matthew Rossi. So it seems he has surfaced again. Dr. Moriarty to my...um...similarly named Mr. Moriarty.
So, unfortunately, I can't accept the compliment, as it's meant for someone else. But Phil is right. It's a very good story.
Hi, I'm phil from England. I only discovered your writing last night and read solis Invicti straight away. I loved the writing. You have a real talent and I intend to find more of your work. You inspire me to keep going with mine. It was like a rush of sensory images that you couldn't help but be captured and enthralled by. I hope you've written lots!
-PGR
Suffice to say, I was flattered to get the fan mail. For a brief second, I joked with myself that I'm an international success, until I realized I'd never written a story called "Solis Invicti." So I googled my name and up came this. Which is, as I suspected, by The Other Matthew Rossi. So it seems he has surfaced again. Dr. Moriarty to my...um...similarly named Mr. Moriarty.
So, unfortunately, I can't accept the compliment, as it's meant for someone else. But Phil is right. It's a very good story.
Saturday, May 19, 2007
Writing News/Blog News
As my move date comes ever closer, I'm becoming acutely aware of just how unprepared I am to actually move. Things like where I'm housing, registering for classes, figuring out what to take with me and what to leave behind, all seem like things I should have figured out or done by now, but I haven't yet. It's a bit nerve racking. In the meantime, I'm trying to spend as much time as I can finishing up various writing projects. Stories that I started and didn't finish for a variety of reasons.
I've also started a long-procrastinated project of updating my blog to operate more like a homepage for me. Someplace where you can find my stories and poems, in addition to the usual ephemera I post here. I've placed links to new blogs specifically dedicated to my fiction and poetry. I'll be post there more often in the next couple of weeks.
Finally, an interesting opportunity has come up for me in February. It's a bit too soon to go into any detail about it just yet, but if it pans out, it'll be pretty cool.
I've also started a long-procrastinated project of updating my blog to operate more like a homepage for me. Someplace where you can find my stories and poems, in addition to the usual ephemera I post here. I've placed links to new blogs specifically dedicated to my fiction and poetry. I'll be post there more often in the next couple of weeks.
Finally, an interesting opportunity has come up for me in February. It's a bit too soon to go into any detail about it just yet, but if it pans out, it'll be pretty cool.
Sunday, May 13, 2007
Going Off the Air
Short post to let everyone know that I'm going to be shutting off my cable pretty soon, so I won't have any Internet service at home anymore. Actually, that's probably good news for readers of this blog, because it means I'm probably going to be going out to wifi cafes more often. Which means I'll be more likely to blog. When I got the cable installed a year and a half ago, I thought it would increase my ability to blog. Instead, I just find I get home tired, unwilling to blog, and not really inclined to venture out again.
Ban them...Ban them all...
This is kind of old news, in that it happened over a week ago, but here's yet another instance of book banning in a school. In one of the author's blog entries on the subject, she includes this:
One thing I didn’t mention in the last post about the “Citizen’s Request for Removal of Instructional Materials” form that got the book pulled is that there was a checkbox near the bottom with three options. They are:
Ban them...Ban them all...
This is kind of old news, in that it happened over a week ago, but here's yet another instance of book banning in a school. In one of the author's blog entries on the subject, she includes this:
One thing I didn’t mention in the last post about the “Citizen’s Request for Removal of Instructional Materials” form that got the book pulled is that there was a checkbox near the bottom with three options. They are:
Do not assign it to my childI think this says a lot about the mentality of a person seeking to get a book banned. It says that the parent in question wasn't comfortable with other people exposing her child to moralities different than her own, but that she was perfectly comfortable imposing her own moral sense on the rest of the school. People who try to ban a book isn't just trying to protect their own children from ideas they disagree with. They're trying to wipe out the ability for anyone to choose to think that way, at all.
Withdraw it from all students as well as my child
Send it back to the proper department for reevaluation
Did you guys see that one in the middle? That’s the one that was checked.
Friday, May 04, 2007
Small Celebrity
I've been going through extensive dental work lately to make up for the ten-year hiatus I took from going to the dentist while I was in college and afterward while I was unemployed. That's eight years with no dental insurance, followed by two years trying to figure out how to expain it to the dentist. I was lucky enough to find a dentist who understood. Or at least didn't feel the need to lecture me. I was also relieved to find out I don't have to have my wisdom teeth removed.
And once again, my friend John wrote to me to tell me his English class loves me. This is the class who convinced me last year to become a vegetarian. As ridiculous as it seems, every time he writes to me to tell me that, once again his kids have questions and that, once again, they love my answers, I get a little thrill. It's just a little reminder that I've grown up to be the person my teenage self would have liked.
Slowly lifting the ban...
There was recent article in the NY Times about a liquor company out of New York that has set out to create an absinthe legal for production in the U.S. The product, which is called Lucid, has been a hot subject of debate among American absintheurs. The problem of producing absinthe has long been one of food regulations. The FDA bans any product that includes wormwood, ostensibly because wormwood contains the chemical thujone, which is dangerous if ingested in large enough quantities. Quantities that don't exist in any properly made absinthe (in fact, there's more thujone in sage than in wormwood, so you're likely to get a larger dose of it from eating a plate of stuffing than you will from a proper absinthe).
There have been attempts prior to this to make an absinthe that can fit U.S. regulations, most notable among them being a wormwood-free product called Absente (pronounced "absent"...it's a pun, you see), which replaced wormwood with a related plant called southernwood. What makes Lucid different is that they have supposedly left in the wormwood, but produced the absinthe in a way that leaves out the thujone. It remains to be seen whether the product is any good--Absente is crap--but I'm hopeful that this is a good first step to creating a legal absinthe in the U.S.
Beer me...
In other brew-related news, last weekend I took a trip down to Indiana to attent the Three Floyds Dark Lord Day. For those unfamiliar, it's a once-a-year event to kick off their Dark Lord beer, which is regarded by beer enthusiasts as the Holy Grail of stouts. Dark and sweet and thick like motor oil, it's a pretty impressive beer. I wasn't going to go to the event initially, Munster, Indiana being a long and difficult way to go for a beer, but when I woke up, it was a beautiful day. Just the kind of day for a good adventure. So I hopped a train down to Hammond and took a cab to the brewery and then stood in line for several hours, waiting for the beer.
On the way back, I hitched a ride to the train station with a pair of guys who were very insistent that I accept their ride, and then chatted for an hour with a musician who had just missed the same train I had, which was his ride to a gig.
All in all, the journey was more interesting than the goal. Which tends to be the way these things go.
Laugh or Cry...
Bonnie sent me this article earlier today. For those of my readers who don't like to read, the first sentence should say it all:
Utah County Republicans ended their convention on Saturday by debating Satan's influence on illegal immigrants.
Don Larsen, chairman of legislative District 65 for the Utah County Republican Party, had submitted a resolution warning that Satan's minions want to eliminate national borders and do away with sovereignty.
Satan's minions, in this case, are illegal immigrants. The article contains a number of gems, including this one, which made me laugh out loud:
Illegal aliens are in control of the media, and working in tandem with Democrats, are trying to "destroy Christian America" and replace it with "a godless new world order -- and that is not extremism, that is fact," Larsen said.
Ah yes...I had forgotten about the truckloads of migrant television executives roaming about the country. The whole article is really hilarious until you realize these people are elected officials. It's just another reminder that, as good an idea as Democracy is, if you allow ignorant people to rule themselves, they will do so ignorantly.
Finally...
I'll be running the door at the Belmont Burlesque this Saturday. This week, the show is at Martyr's on Lincoln just south of Irving Park. Apparently, there's a Canadian troupe coming in to be guest dancers. Join us, won't you?
And once again, my friend John wrote to me to tell me his English class loves me. This is the class who convinced me last year to become a vegetarian. As ridiculous as it seems, every time he writes to me to tell me that, once again his kids have questions and that, once again, they love my answers, I get a little thrill. It's just a little reminder that I've grown up to be the person my teenage self would have liked.
Slowly lifting the ban...
There was recent article in the NY Times about a liquor company out of New York that has set out to create an absinthe legal for production in the U.S. The product, which is called Lucid, has been a hot subject of debate among American absintheurs. The problem of producing absinthe has long been one of food regulations. The FDA bans any product that includes wormwood, ostensibly because wormwood contains the chemical thujone, which is dangerous if ingested in large enough quantities. Quantities that don't exist in any properly made absinthe (in fact, there's more thujone in sage than in wormwood, so you're likely to get a larger dose of it from eating a plate of stuffing than you will from a proper absinthe).
There have been attempts prior to this to make an absinthe that can fit U.S. regulations, most notable among them being a wormwood-free product called Absente (pronounced "absent"...it's a pun, you see), which replaced wormwood with a related plant called southernwood. What makes Lucid different is that they have supposedly left in the wormwood, but produced the absinthe in a way that leaves out the thujone. It remains to be seen whether the product is any good--Absente is crap--but I'm hopeful that this is a good first step to creating a legal absinthe in the U.S.
Beer me...
In other brew-related news, last weekend I took a trip down to Indiana to attent the Three Floyds Dark Lord Day. For those unfamiliar, it's a once-a-year event to kick off their Dark Lord beer, which is regarded by beer enthusiasts as the Holy Grail of stouts. Dark and sweet and thick like motor oil, it's a pretty impressive beer. I wasn't going to go to the event initially, Munster, Indiana being a long and difficult way to go for a beer, but when I woke up, it was a beautiful day. Just the kind of day for a good adventure. So I hopped a train down to Hammond and took a cab to the brewery and then stood in line for several hours, waiting for the beer.
On the way back, I hitched a ride to the train station with a pair of guys who were very insistent that I accept their ride, and then chatted for an hour with a musician who had just missed the same train I had, which was his ride to a gig.
All in all, the journey was more interesting than the goal. Which tends to be the way these things go.
Laugh or Cry...
Bonnie sent me this article earlier today. For those of my readers who don't like to read, the first sentence should say it all:
Utah County Republicans ended their convention on Saturday by debating Satan's influence on illegal immigrants.
Don Larsen, chairman of legislative District 65 for the Utah County Republican Party, had submitted a resolution warning that Satan's minions want to eliminate national borders and do away with sovereignty.
Satan's minions, in this case, are illegal immigrants. The article contains a number of gems, including this one, which made me laugh out loud:
Illegal aliens are in control of the media, and working in tandem with Democrats, are trying to "destroy Christian America" and replace it with "a godless new world order -- and that is not extremism, that is fact," Larsen said.
Ah yes...I had forgotten about the truckloads of migrant television executives roaming about the country. The whole article is really hilarious until you realize these people are elected officials. It's just another reminder that, as good an idea as Democracy is, if you allow ignorant people to rule themselves, they will do so ignorantly.
Finally...
I'll be running the door at the Belmont Burlesque this Saturday. This week, the show is at Martyr's on Lincoln just south of Irving Park. Apparently, there's a Canadian troupe coming in to be guest dancers. Join us, won't you?
Friday, April 13, 2007
Story
I got into a conversation with another grad-school-bound writer I know and we decided to do a quick writing exercise. The rules were as follows: 15 minutes writing time; nobody may die at the end; must be set in winter (or a wintry setting); and it must include fire or water, but not both. Here's mine.
"The Riddle of the Albatross"
There was no food. I stood on the shore and watched Andrei search through the flotsam brought in on the last tide. No food floating in the water. All of it had been in cans. Tin cans of tuna. Beans. Vegetables. Any and all of it something we could have eaten if it wasn't on the bottom of the ocean. Lost forever. Like us. I stared at myself in the gunmetal water. My face was like a corpse's—drawn and thin. I grinned and my teeth stood out for miles.
"The Riddle of the Albatross"
There was no food. I stood on the shore and watched Andrei search through the flotsam brought in on the last tide. No food floating in the water. All of it had been in cans. Tin cans of tuna. Beans. Vegetables. Any and all of it something we could have eaten if it wasn't on the bottom of the ocean. Lost forever. Like us. I stared at myself in the gunmetal water. My face was like a corpse's—drawn and thin. I grinned and my teeth stood out for miles.
When I looked up at Andrei, he was hefting something out of the water. Something big. A sack of potatoes, maybe, that had floated when the ship went down. I ran over to him to see what it was.
A body. A little girl, still dressed in her Sunday dress. A thick nylon coat and a lifejacket covering her torso. She must have gone down at the same time as us. Three weeks and her body was still as fresh as the day the ship sank. Frozen solid. Nothing thaws in that water, so nothing rots. Her face was like a porceline doll's. Pale alabaster and serene. Only the eyes betrayed the fear she must have felt when she first touched the water. The knowledge she wouldn't make it. I ran my fingers down her face from her forehead and closed her eyes.
Andrei smiled at me. He told me this was a good sign. All this drift from the wreck meant we were on a current. Probably a strong one. The rescue ships would know to follow it. They'd find us. And anyway, we had food now.
I shook my head at him. Three weeks on our little island, while the provisions in the life raft ran dry. I didn't have Andrei's sense of hope.
I abandoned the shore for the camp—our life raft upturned over a pit we'd scraped in the ground—and hid from the wind and the cold as best I could. No food. No trees, so no wood for a fire. Just Andrei and I and the girl and the cold. Waiting for the moment we'd both know we wouldn't make it.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Vonnegut
I don't usually mourn the deaths of famous people, even the ones whose work I really enjoy, simply because I don't know them. I always figure I'll miss their work in the world, but leave the mourning for their friends and family. I think I might rescind that policy temporarily for Kurt Vonnegut. Vonnegut, to me, was more than just a writer who I liked. The first book I ever read on my own, without anyone prompting me, was Cat's Cradle, after which I read almost nothing but Vonnegut for about two years. At a time in my life when I was still forming a lot of my ideas about politics and humanity, his books gave me a great deal to chew on. I'm genuinely sad to have read that he's gone.
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
Technical Difficulties
The company I had hosting my homepage seems to have been bought up recently by some other company. As a result, their usually spotty customer service has stopped being spotty and become uniformly nonexistant. I rerouted my homepage here for the time being, at least until the problem is fixed.
But I might just leave it here, to be honest. As pretty as my homepage was, I never used it as much as I ought to have. In the next couple of weeks, I might rework my whole site a bit to make it more functional for you, my readers.
All that will have to happen after Toy Chest opens. Come join us.
But I might just leave it here, to be honest. As pretty as my homepage was, I never used it as much as I ought to have. In the next couple of weeks, I might rework my whole site a bit to make it more functional for you, my readers.
All that will have to happen after Toy Chest opens. Come join us.
Thursday, March 01, 2007
Neat Little Piles
Sometimes it astounds me the way life answers all your questions for you. Twenty minutes ago, my office was called into a meeting in which we were told that our office was to close and we were going to either lose our jobs or be sent elsewhere to other jobs.
Two days ago, I found out that Columbia University accepted my application.
That bullet I dodged? Didn't even graze me.
Two days ago, I found out that Columbia University accepted my application.
That bullet I dodged? Didn't even graze me.
Friday, February 23, 2007
Gay Marriage
While we're still touching on the subject of things we don't like to explain to our kids, Louis CK has this bit on gay marriage. I wouldn't call myself a fan of Louis CK, but I have to admit, the man is funny. Which is most of what I like in a comedian.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
"You won’t find men’s genitalia in quality literature."
This is my favorite quote of the day. It comes from a from the NY Times a couple of days ago in an article about school librarians who are up in arms about a recent Newberry award winner's use of the word scrotum in her book, The Higher Power of Lucky.
“I think it’s a good case of an author not realizing her audience,” said Frederick Muller, a librarian at Halsted Middle School in Newton, N.J. “If I were a third- or fourth-grade teacher, I wouldn’t want to have to explain that."
I can't help but wonder what it is about the technical terms for body parts that makes people so squeamish. We're fine with our kids referring to their wee-wees and their bajingos, but God forbid they should know the medical terms for their bodies. That's crossing the line. This isn't an isolated affair, either. This follows directly on the heels of a recent incident in which a theater performing The Vagina Monologues renamed it The Hoohah Monologues because a passing driver said she was upset her niece saw the word vagina. Her niece, who, incidentally, has one.
My best guess is that this discomfort in talking about body parts has something to do with adults wanting to preserve their kids' innocence. That somehow they assume that by teaching kids how to talk about sex organs, they'll be that much closer to thinking about sex itself. Which will lead, naturally, into a life of S&M, homosexuality, and, of course, necrophilia.
That's the best explanation I can come up with, because, frankly, the idea of not teaching a kid the proper terms for their body parts is unbelievably foreign to me. When I was a kid, neither of my parents ever felt the need to couch discussions of our bodies in kushy euphemisms. That's not to say I never used little-kid slang for my penis. I did, but it was self-imposed. (I can even remember an incident in which I asked my mother how a doctor knows if a baby is a boy or a girl. Mom casually responded, "If it has a penis, it's a boy; if it has a vagina, it's a girl," which made me go "Mom!" as kids do when their parents shock them.)
What gets me most about the book banning is that it's a book written for kids age ten to twelve. Librarians are saying that younger kids--even kids as young as eight--will probably be more likely to read it, but still...adults need to grow up a bit and remember that kids aren't blind or stupid. By the time I was eight, I knew damn well what a scrotum was and so did every kid in my class. As soon as kids realize their genitals exist, they start talking about them. Parents might as well teach them the right way to do so.
Of course, if they're still dead set on talking to their kids in euphemisms, they might as well use some new terms. Like these, if you have a son. Or these, if you have a daughter.
Other news...
Speaking of childhood, there's an interesting game hovering around on the net called "Alter Ego," which is part choose your own adventure, part personality test. Basically, the game asks you questions and offers you choices. Based on your answers, it develops a life for your alternate personality (the one in the game...not the one you have in real life). Theoretically, assuming you don't kill yourself, you can live out an entirely separate life. The game is less fun than interesting, but it's worth playing through a few times. Oh, and one bit of advice...when the man in the car comes up and asks you questions, run away as soon as possible.
Also, speaking of hoohahs, I'll be attending the Belmont Burlesque this coming Saturday, cohosted by the imaginary Mr. B. Come out and join me for seminudity and crass comedy. It's a lot of fun.
“I think it’s a good case of an author not realizing her audience,” said Frederick Muller, a librarian at Halsted Middle School in Newton, N.J. “If I were a third- or fourth-grade teacher, I wouldn’t want to have to explain that."
I can't help but wonder what it is about the technical terms for body parts that makes people so squeamish. We're fine with our kids referring to their wee-wees and their bajingos, but God forbid they should know the medical terms for their bodies. That's crossing the line. This isn't an isolated affair, either. This follows directly on the heels of a recent incident in which a theater performing The Vagina Monologues renamed it The Hoohah Monologues because a passing driver said she was upset her niece saw the word vagina. Her niece, who, incidentally, has one.
My best guess is that this discomfort in talking about body parts has something to do with adults wanting to preserve their kids' innocence. That somehow they assume that by teaching kids how to talk about sex organs, they'll be that much closer to thinking about sex itself. Which will lead, naturally, into a life of S&M, homosexuality, and, of course, necrophilia.
That's the best explanation I can come up with, because, frankly, the idea of not teaching a kid the proper terms for their body parts is unbelievably foreign to me. When I was a kid, neither of my parents ever felt the need to couch discussions of our bodies in kushy euphemisms. That's not to say I never used little-kid slang for my penis. I did, but it was self-imposed. (I can even remember an incident in which I asked my mother how a doctor knows if a baby is a boy or a girl. Mom casually responded, "If it has a penis, it's a boy; if it has a vagina, it's a girl," which made me go "Mom!" as kids do when their parents shock them.)
What gets me most about the book banning is that it's a book written for kids age ten to twelve. Librarians are saying that younger kids--even kids as young as eight--will probably be more likely to read it, but still...adults need to grow up a bit and remember that kids aren't blind or stupid. By the time I was eight, I knew damn well what a scrotum was and so did every kid in my class. As soon as kids realize their genitals exist, they start talking about them. Parents might as well teach them the right way to do so.
Of course, if they're still dead set on talking to their kids in euphemisms, they might as well use some new terms. Like these, if you have a son. Or these, if you have a daughter.
Other news...
Speaking of childhood, there's an interesting game hovering around on the net called "Alter Ego," which is part choose your own adventure, part personality test. Basically, the game asks you questions and offers you choices. Based on your answers, it develops a life for your alternate personality (the one in the game...not the one you have in real life). Theoretically, assuming you don't kill yourself, you can live out an entirely separate life. The game is less fun than interesting, but it's worth playing through a few times. Oh, and one bit of advice...when the man in the car comes up and asks you questions, run away as soon as possible.
Also, speaking of hoohahs, I'll be attending the Belmont Burlesque this coming Saturday, cohosted by the imaginary Mr. B. Come out and join me for seminudity and crass comedy. It's a lot of fun.
Friday, February 16, 2007
The Lillith Affair
In the summer after I graduated college, I had a brief friendship with a girl I never met. Her name was Lily and we met on a message board that I had joined with my best friend, Holly, and her boyfriend at the time, Chris. I had joined the board that summer because of an incident in which the moderator--an exgirlfriend of Chris's--had half-read something Holly wrote and then attacked her viciously in sight of all. I was in the mood for a good fight most of that summer, and that wasn't a good fight--it was petty and juvenile and shouldn't have been worth my time--but it was the best I had around.
I stuck around the board for a while afterward. Long enough to get used to and disgusted with message board politics and have a little fun. At one point, I developed an alter ego for myself using an invented e-mail address and a name that clearly pointed to the fact that he was a fictional character (his name was Jimminy C and his screen name was Harvey Eightfoot). He disagreed with everything I wrote and was a lot of fun to combat.
Mostly I spent my time on the board continuing and supplementing debates between me and Chris. Chris loved to argue and so did I, so when we hung out, most of our time was spent debating some idea or other. Free will. Blake. Politics. You name it. And we carried our debates onto the board, filling out points too complicated and long-winded to make properly in face-to-face conversation.
The first time I spoke with Lily on the board was in the middle of a thread on politics, using the screen name Lillith Affair. It's been long enough that I forget the exact conversation we had, but I remember that in the course of it, I got the impression from her that she had lived a hard life. Homeless for a a lot of it and living in the back room of a bookstore where she worked two towns over. I liked her a lot. She was a little flaky, but she was clever and interesting and a tenacious debater, unwilling to let go of a point until it had been discussed away to her satisfaction. I remember some great conversations with her.
The way I finally got my chance to meet her began like this. I had told the board, in some thread or other, that I believed people who turn their heads away from an injustice are responsible for it themselves. That we are all responsible for the consequences of our actions, even if our actions are inactions. She asked where my responsibility was, knowing she was living in the back of a bookstore and not doing anything about it. And I had to admit, she had me there. So I told her I couldn't think of anything I could do for her, if she had anything she needed, I'd help out. A couple of days later, she told me to get in touch if I meant what I said, and since I did mean it, I e-mailed her.
In telling this story, it's hard not to sound like I was an idiot. Looking back on it, there's a thousand bits of better judgement screaming in my head and pointing at the enormous red flags raised around the situation. Which is more or less what my friends did at the time. Chris especially found the whole thing ridiculous. He and I would sit at coffee and when I brought up the situation, he would point out that she could be a serial killer, a robber, or even a forty-year-old man who pretends to be twenty-something women for kicks. And he was right, of course. The only thing I can say in my defense is that my mistake was that of a young man still willing to make himself believe that the person on the other side of the screen was exactly as funny and interesting and likeable as the impression she gave online. That she was who she said she was. That his cynical better judgement was wrong. It was the last bit of my childhood credulity hanging on for dear life.
She didn't need much from me. She was leaving the town where she lived and heading off to Atlanta or some such place where friends and a proper apartment awaited her. Along the way, she would have to stop off in Asheville and needed a place to sleep for the night. Did I have a sofa I could offer her? I did, so we made arrangements and a few afternoons later, I walked to Pack Square at the center of town and sat down to wait for her. I had been there about five minutes when Christopher walked up and sat down next to me. He told me Holly had sent him to wait with me and suggested the four of us get dinner after Lily got there.
While we waited, he pointed out a big balding man and said that could be her. I told him sure, but she could just as easily be that attractive redhead sauntering by. You just never know.
We sat in the square for a half hour, waiting, until Chris looked at me and said, "Matt, she's not coming."
"Probably not," I said, "but what if we leave and then she shows up?"
He said, and I will always remember this, "She won't. I'm Lily."
Chris was Lily. Holly confirmed it. He had created her as an alter ego to debate a point on Taoism with me through a kind of dialectic. He hadn't known or realized that I really liked her, but when I told her I was willing to help her, he decided to see if that was really true.
I should have been mad at Christopher for playing with my emotions like that, but I wasn't. The end of the whole thing was so strange and cathartic that I couldn't muster up any anger for it. Just a sense of release and longing for someone I never met.
I stuck around the board for a while afterward. Long enough to get used to and disgusted with message board politics and have a little fun. At one point, I developed an alter ego for myself using an invented e-mail address and a name that clearly pointed to the fact that he was a fictional character (his name was Jimminy C and his screen name was Harvey Eightfoot). He disagreed with everything I wrote and was a lot of fun to combat.
Mostly I spent my time on the board continuing and supplementing debates between me and Chris. Chris loved to argue and so did I, so when we hung out, most of our time was spent debating some idea or other. Free will. Blake. Politics. You name it. And we carried our debates onto the board, filling out points too complicated and long-winded to make properly in face-to-face conversation.
The first time I spoke with Lily on the board was in the middle of a thread on politics, using the screen name Lillith Affair. It's been long enough that I forget the exact conversation we had, but I remember that in the course of it, I got the impression from her that she had lived a hard life. Homeless for a a lot of it and living in the back room of a bookstore where she worked two towns over. I liked her a lot. She was a little flaky, but she was clever and interesting and a tenacious debater, unwilling to let go of a point until it had been discussed away to her satisfaction. I remember some great conversations with her.
The way I finally got my chance to meet her began like this. I had told the board, in some thread or other, that I believed people who turn their heads away from an injustice are responsible for it themselves. That we are all responsible for the consequences of our actions, even if our actions are inactions. She asked where my responsibility was, knowing she was living in the back of a bookstore and not doing anything about it. And I had to admit, she had me there. So I told her I couldn't think of anything I could do for her, if she had anything she needed, I'd help out. A couple of days later, she told me to get in touch if I meant what I said, and since I did mean it, I e-mailed her.
In telling this story, it's hard not to sound like I was an idiot. Looking back on it, there's a thousand bits of better judgement screaming in my head and pointing at the enormous red flags raised around the situation. Which is more or less what my friends did at the time. Chris especially found the whole thing ridiculous. He and I would sit at coffee and when I brought up the situation, he would point out that she could be a serial killer, a robber, or even a forty-year-old man who pretends to be twenty-something women for kicks. And he was right, of course. The only thing I can say in my defense is that my mistake was that of a young man still willing to make himself believe that the person on the other side of the screen was exactly as funny and interesting and likeable as the impression she gave online. That she was who she said she was. That his cynical better judgement was wrong. It was the last bit of my childhood credulity hanging on for dear life.
She didn't need much from me. She was leaving the town where she lived and heading off to Atlanta or some such place where friends and a proper apartment awaited her. Along the way, she would have to stop off in Asheville and needed a place to sleep for the night. Did I have a sofa I could offer her? I did, so we made arrangements and a few afternoons later, I walked to Pack Square at the center of town and sat down to wait for her. I had been there about five minutes when Christopher walked up and sat down next to me. He told me Holly had sent him to wait with me and suggested the four of us get dinner after Lily got there.
While we waited, he pointed out a big balding man and said that could be her. I told him sure, but she could just as easily be that attractive redhead sauntering by. You just never know.
We sat in the square for a half hour, waiting, until Chris looked at me and said, "Matt, she's not coming."
"Probably not," I said, "but what if we leave and then she shows up?"
He said, and I will always remember this, "She won't. I'm Lily."
Chris was Lily. Holly confirmed it. He had created her as an alter ego to debate a point on Taoism with me through a kind of dialectic. He hadn't known or realized that I really liked her, but when I told her I was willing to help her, he decided to see if that was really true.
I should have been mad at Christopher for playing with my emotions like that, but I wasn't. The end of the whole thing was so strange and cathartic that I couldn't muster up any anger for it. Just a sense of release and longing for someone I never met.
Friday, February 09, 2007
The Technophobe Comes Around
I was about to post an entry talking about how I've recently discovered podcasts and how much I love new technology, when I realized that podcasting has been around for several years now. Long enough to no longer qualify as a new technology. Which puts me pretty firmly at the back of the technological trend, where I tend to be most comfortable. I tend to be the last to try out any new technology. I managed to avoid MP3s until they'd been around so long I couldn't turn the corner without one appearing in front of me. Had I been around when the hammer was invented, I probably would have kept using my rock.
Suffice to say, I like being able to download This American Life and listen to it at my leisure every week.
New Blogger
For a long time, I've been saying that there are only two people in the world who read this blog (you know who you are), and to tell the truth, it's only half joking. I recently added a site tracker to my blog (you can see it at the bottom of the page), which required me to update my version of Blogger to the New Blogger. I can't tell exactly what's new about it, but I like it. Aside from it being just plain easier to use, it actually tells me how many posts I made per month in my archive section. Which has shown me that I wasn't significantly less prolific this year than any other year. Good to know.
The site tracker is also neat. I added it on recommendation from Mr. B. (who doesn't actually exist, by the way...he's just a figment of my imagination, like Mr. Snuffalupagus, who periodically gives me good advice about aspects of my life. When he and I get together, people on the street stop and stare at me sitting around talking to my hand and laughing, laughing, laughing...), and it really is eye opening. It turns out more people than two visit this site. Many of whom are international. Wow.
Number 1
Finally, I recently googled myself and found that I am the number one Matthew Rossi. That puts me right ahead of the Other Matthew Rossi. I can't say I've won the war, but I'm definitely pulling ahead in the battle.
Suffice to say, I like being able to download This American Life and listen to it at my leisure every week.
New Blogger
For a long time, I've been saying that there are only two people in the world who read this blog (you know who you are), and to tell the truth, it's only half joking. I recently added a site tracker to my blog (you can see it at the bottom of the page), which required me to update my version of Blogger to the New Blogger. I can't tell exactly what's new about it, but I like it. Aside from it being just plain easier to use, it actually tells me how many posts I made per month in my archive section. Which has shown me that I wasn't significantly less prolific this year than any other year. Good to know.
The site tracker is also neat. I added it on recommendation from Mr. B. (who doesn't actually exist, by the way...he's just a figment of my imagination, like Mr. Snuffalupagus, who periodically gives me good advice about aspects of my life. When he and I get together, people on the street stop and stare at me sitting around talking to my hand and laughing, laughing, laughing...), and it really is eye opening. It turns out more people than two visit this site. Many of whom are international. Wow.
Number 1
Finally, I recently googled myself and found that I am the number one Matthew Rossi. That puts me right ahead of the Other Matthew Rossi. I can't say I've won the war, but I'm definitely pulling ahead in the battle.
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
From the Files
One of the joys of finally having my mind on something other than writing essays for future schools is that I finally have a chance to catch up on the blogs that I've ignored for a while. Blogs of people I don't know, like Neil Gaiman and Jonathan Carroll. Blogs of people I do know, like Mr. B and Ian (who mercifully updates with even less frequency than I do, making catching up fairly easy). I've been amazed to realize how many of them update daily and how good so many of the daily updates are. I tend to take a stance that I only blog when I feel like I have something to say, because I know that if I updated daily, this blog would become a daily weather report (it's cold today, snowing, chance that the temperature will dip down into the negative digits). So I'm impressed when people set themselves to write every day and then still fill their blogs with substance and intellect and wit. It goes to show you, worrying about every word might make a great sentence, but it doesn't get the novel written.
Anyway, it made me realize there's a great deal I could have written about, but haven't for whatever reason. So here they are. A few from the files.
Tantalus
Since November, I've been working with Tantalus, first in workshop and now in rehearsal, for our new show, Toy Chest. Initially, I wasn't going to try to be involved with the show on the creative end, but as the concept for the show began to develop, it drew me in.
It's probably the tightest show Tantalus has developed to date--we had a fully realized script in hand before auditions--and I think it's going to show. As with all Tantalus shows, there's an element of chaos in it that makes it impossible to completely prepare, but we at least have those parts of the show we can control. Which gives us time to experiment with the parts we can't.
The rehearsals have posed an interesting challenge to me. My character is a hobby horse, which means that I'm basically a giant horse head puppet. My costume engulfs my arms, and a mask hides my face, leaving me with only my legs and torso to articulate the character (since I'm a horse, I can't talk much...no one can talk to a horse, of course). To top it, with this horse head, I have a really complicated and nuanced emotion that I have to convey. It's Tantalus and no emotion is simple with Tantalus. Everything has to have layers. So, at times, I feel like I've been asked to work a boulder into a finely engraved relief of Romeo and Juliet with only a sledgehammer as my tool. It's been a genuine challenge, more intrigue than frustration, and I've been thankful for the opportunity.
Like My Literary Forefathers
I've been drinking a lot lately. A lot. Beyond where I simply wake up a bit groggy and take two Advil and call it a morning. Beyond where I just make an ass of myself in public. I've been drinking to the point where, weekend after weekend, I stumble home and climb into the bathtub, because I know with certainty that I'm going to pass out cold and if I do, I'll probably die from drowning in my vomit. I don't know why it's been. I have speculations that it's just because I've been stressed or that I have been just not exhibiting the self control I ought. But for a month and a half or so, from before New Year's until just recently, I spent at least one day each weekend hanging over the toilet.
Not healthy.
Then a couple of weekends ago, I did something at a party that I thought would hurt a friend of mine. I didn't do it maliciously, but I did it with the conscious thought that it would hurt my friend's feelings if she knew. I just didn't care, because I was drunk enough to not care. The next morning I woke up, feeling like someone had used me as a punching bag the night before and feeling guilty about what I had done. I slid over to my computer, put my headphones on, turned on Johnny Cash's "Hurt" and listened to it in a loop for an hour.
And I cried. Big, hot, loud cry that, if you'd heard it, you'd think my mother had died. You'd think I was tearing out hair and cutting flesh that's how loud and agonized I cried. Everything, every whatever it's been sitting on my heart dragging me down with it for longest time, came up in those tears for the next hour. When they stopped on their own, I played Johnny again. And again and again and again. Like I was wringing out a sopping rag. Until it was all gone and I felt better and I called my friend and she told me it was OK. I hadn't done anything. And she was wrong--I had done something, even if it didn't hurt her--but I was thankful to be forgiven.
And then I went to rehearsal and set my feet toward something healthier.
Chapters
Lately, chapters have been ending in my life, loose ends folding up as though life knew damn good and well it was time to move on. Relationships, both long standing and new have ended, clearing me of ties here and elsewhere, no longer making me choose between one life and another. Opportunities have opened up for me as a writer, and new connections with people have developed that will make that path easier.
My past is folding up behind me. It makes it easier for me to see the now.
Anyway, it made me realize there's a great deal I could have written about, but haven't for whatever reason. So here they are. A few from the files.
Tantalus
Since November, I've been working with Tantalus, first in workshop and now in rehearsal, for our new show, Toy Chest. Initially, I wasn't going to try to be involved with the show on the creative end, but as the concept for the show began to develop, it drew me in.
It's probably the tightest show Tantalus has developed to date--we had a fully realized script in hand before auditions--and I think it's going to show. As with all Tantalus shows, there's an element of chaos in it that makes it impossible to completely prepare, but we at least have those parts of the show we can control. Which gives us time to experiment with the parts we can't.
The rehearsals have posed an interesting challenge to me. My character is a hobby horse, which means that I'm basically a giant horse head puppet. My costume engulfs my arms, and a mask hides my face, leaving me with only my legs and torso to articulate the character (since I'm a horse, I can't talk much...no one can talk to a horse, of course). To top it, with this horse head, I have a really complicated and nuanced emotion that I have to convey. It's Tantalus and no emotion is simple with Tantalus. Everything has to have layers. So, at times, I feel like I've been asked to work a boulder into a finely engraved relief of Romeo and Juliet with only a sledgehammer as my tool. It's been a genuine challenge, more intrigue than frustration, and I've been thankful for the opportunity.
Like My Literary Forefathers
"I cried like a fool. Those deep, convulsive, wracking cries. Just horrible. But as bad as that was, it really helped me to work out some of this. And like throwing up, as soon as it was done, I felt better."That above quote is from a friend's blog. I include it because it pretty well describes what happened to me a couple of weekends ago.
I've been drinking a lot lately. A lot. Beyond where I simply wake up a bit groggy and take two Advil and call it a morning. Beyond where I just make an ass of myself in public. I've been drinking to the point where, weekend after weekend, I stumble home and climb into the bathtub, because I know with certainty that I'm going to pass out cold and if I do, I'll probably die from drowning in my vomit. I don't know why it's been. I have speculations that it's just because I've been stressed or that I have been just not exhibiting the self control I ought. But for a month and a half or so, from before New Year's until just recently, I spent at least one day each weekend hanging over the toilet.
Not healthy.
Then a couple of weekends ago, I did something at a party that I thought would hurt a friend of mine. I didn't do it maliciously, but I did it with the conscious thought that it would hurt my friend's feelings if she knew. I just didn't care, because I was drunk enough to not care. The next morning I woke up, feeling like someone had used me as a punching bag the night before and feeling guilty about what I had done. I slid over to my computer, put my headphones on, turned on Johnny Cash's "Hurt" and listened to it in a loop for an hour.
And I cried. Big, hot, loud cry that, if you'd heard it, you'd think my mother had died. You'd think I was tearing out hair and cutting flesh that's how loud and agonized I cried. Everything, every whatever it's been sitting on my heart dragging me down with it for longest time, came up in those tears for the next hour. When they stopped on their own, I played Johnny again. And again and again and again. Like I was wringing out a sopping rag. Until it was all gone and I felt better and I called my friend and she told me it was OK. I hadn't done anything. And she was wrong--I had done something, even if it didn't hurt her--but I was thankful to be forgiven.
And then I went to rehearsal and set my feet toward something healthier.
Chapters
Lately, chapters have been ending in my life, loose ends folding up as though life knew damn good and well it was time to move on. Relationships, both long standing and new have ended, clearing me of ties here and elsewhere, no longer making me choose between one life and another. Opportunities have opened up for me as a writer, and new connections with people have developed that will make that path easier.
My past is folding up behind me. It makes it easier for me to see the now.
Monday, February 05, 2007
Because How Often Does Neil Gaiman Ask a Favor of Me?
Penn Jillette
The explanation of what this means can be found here. Toward the bottom of the page.
Mars des pingouins
My best friend, Holly, just sent me this. I never realized what a strong visual connection there is between penguins and Napoleon. I'll be keeping a lookout for that in the future.
The explanation of what this means can be found here. Toward the bottom of the page.
Mars des pingouins
My best friend, Holly, just sent me this. I never realized what a strong visual connection there is between penguins and Napoleon. I'll be keeping a lookout for that in the future.
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Back to It
Now that my brain is cleared out a bit (a more apt way of putting it would be "now that my brain has recovered from being tenderized by an intellectual meat hammer for the past seven months), I can get back to filling it with things that actually interest me. Like photography.
I found this via Neil Gaiman (who found it via Jonathan Carroll), and I think it's absolutely gorgeous. It's the work of a photographer named Bobby Neel Adams, who spliced together photographs of people from different time periods in their lives. The end result is kind of creepy, but altogether really beautiful. He did the same thing with couples, the results of which are stunning.
Photography is my favorite artform, and one of the reasons is its ability to do this. To record pieces of a person's life and splice them together. We look out into the cosmos and the only way we have to relate to it is through the passage of light. A star we look at--that light is the remains of its life from millions of years ago. In this way, a photograph, which catches and holds the light we gave off at a certain age, is literally a piece of frozen time. Our lives caught in silver.
Marmaduke Explained
Marmaduke Explained, while less philosophically inspiring, is the other thing I've caught up on recently. It's not high brow, but it sure is gut-bustingly funny.
More later on the hobbies I've been catching up on.
I found this via Neil Gaiman (who found it via Jonathan Carroll), and I think it's absolutely gorgeous. It's the work of a photographer named Bobby Neel Adams, who spliced together photographs of people from different time periods in their lives. The end result is kind of creepy, but altogether really beautiful. He did the same thing with couples, the results of which are stunning.
Photography is my favorite artform, and one of the reasons is its ability to do this. To record pieces of a person's life and splice them together. We look out into the cosmos and the only way we have to relate to it is through the passage of light. A star we look at--that light is the remains of its life from millions of years ago. In this way, a photograph, which catches and holds the light we gave off at a certain age, is literally a piece of frozen time. Our lives caught in silver.
Marmaduke Explained
Marmaduke Explained, while less philosophically inspiring, is the other thing I've caught up on recently. It's not high brow, but it sure is gut-bustingly funny.
More later on the hobbies I've been catching up on.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Bad Blogger
I've felt lately like I'm travelling the line of a parabolic equation, in which infinity is the point at which I'm done applying to grad school. Which is a fancy way of saying I've had the feeling that the closer I get to finishing, the less likely it will become for me to actually finish.
Then I finished my application to Sarah Lawrence. Then I decided I'm not applying anywhere else. I'm done. I broke the asymptote.
My brain is a fucking pudding. I haven't thought of anything but working on graduate school since before this summer. Or I've thought of them, but haven't had the time or the energy to express them in words to anyone.
Sorry. I really have wanted to blog more often than this. And I will. Things to tell to all of you as soon as I've had a moment for my brain to coagulate a mite.
In the meantime, here's this.
Then I finished my application to Sarah Lawrence. Then I decided I'm not applying anywhere else. I'm done. I broke the asymptote.
My brain is a fucking pudding. I haven't thought of anything but working on graduate school since before this summer. Or I've thought of them, but haven't had the time or the energy to express them in words to anyone.
Sorry. I really have wanted to blog more often than this. And I will. Things to tell to all of you as soon as I've had a moment for my brain to coagulate a mite.
In the meantime, here's this.
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