"Go on and treat me like a jerk, well when he comes to play, girl if I'm so bad why don't you go his way? Aw, but there's nothin' like your lovin', I can't wait to hear you say..," baby, you skank like none other.
17.5.10
Happy Birthday, Dad. Thank you for coming to every practice I ever had, even those times that I had to drive you home. And thank you for being such a sharp dresser.
And you know how you like to tell the story of when you and some friends got hammered one night, and you all decided to get tattoos of the Playboy bunny, so you drove to Venice Beach but you were third in line and by the time the first two got their tattoos you had sobered up to the point of knowing better? Thanks for not getting that tattoo, Dad. That would have changed everything.
And you know how you like to tell the story of when you and some friends got hammered one night, and you all decided to get tattoos of the Playboy bunny, so you drove to Venice Beach but you were third in line and by the time the first two got their tattoos you had sobered up to the point of knowing better? Thanks for not getting that tattoo, Dad. That would have changed everything.
9.5.10
I remember it being my father who did most of the cooking. I know that this isn't true, I know that it was my mother that was day to day preparing breakfasts, lunches for school (she made my little sister and I lunch every day), dinner to have waiting when my father would return with one of us from practice. But Dad had the signature dishes: Chinese Roasted Pork and Chile con Queso on Sundays with the football game; Steak Oscar on New Year's Eve; and for some reason his French Toast always had a bit of fried egg on the edge, which my sister and I found delightful. Mom was American Gourmet 101. Mom would make Pot Roast, and Chicken with Cheese and a can of Campbell's Cream of Mushroom Soup. Mom would make Meat Loaf. But I don't associate any of these dishes with my Mom. This is terrible to admit, but I can't imagine sitting at another's table and thinking that Mom could make it better; not unless, that is, the menu features Fried Hamburger Tacos and "Any Pudding" Desert.
But Mom was better. She did not miss a day, did not take a day off, even when it seemed as though the pressures of holding my family together would tear her apart. She was the fucking dark matter, the only one who possessed the strength and fortitude to keep in harmonious orbit a family predisposed to wandering. And her lack of originality in the kitchen notwithstanding, Mom always seemed just a little sharper, a bit more sophisticated, more independent, more of an able woman than the other Moms. I know that she thought we took her for granted. Maybe we did...I'm certain we did. But I was always proud of her.
But Mom has changed in recent years. She is not longer the confident, assertive, force she once was. There now are times when I doubt my mother, doubt her ability, doubt that she is able. I know that she has doubts about herself. So there is just the one thing I would like her to know on this Mother's Day: her children know that she has poured her everything into them, and they know that whatever successes they achieve are reflections of her effort, her patience, her determination. And her children will be there for her, will support her with the power of their self-confidence, their strength of character. Because even if the nourishment we received in the kitchen was largely utilitarian, the lasting example of my Mom is a figure of superabundance.
But Mom was better. She did not miss a day, did not take a day off, even when it seemed as though the pressures of holding my family together would tear her apart. She was the fucking dark matter, the only one who possessed the strength and fortitude to keep in harmonious orbit a family predisposed to wandering. And her lack of originality in the kitchen notwithstanding, Mom always seemed just a little sharper, a bit more sophisticated, more independent, more of an able woman than the other Moms. I know that she thought we took her for granted. Maybe we did...I'm certain we did. But I was always proud of her.
But Mom has changed in recent years. She is not longer the confident, assertive, force she once was. There now are times when I doubt my mother, doubt her ability, doubt that she is able. I know that she has doubts about herself. So there is just the one thing I would like her to know on this Mother's Day: her children know that she has poured her everything into them, and they know that whatever successes they achieve are reflections of her effort, her patience, her determination. And her children will be there for her, will support her with the power of their self-confidence, their strength of character. Because even if the nourishment we received in the kitchen was largely utilitarian, the lasting example of my Mom is a figure of superabundance.
28.4.10
There's no question that some of the today's very best writing is to be found in the pages of The New Yorker.
Just this last weekend, I paid to see a film on the power of The New Yorker review alone. The film, as the review had argued, was terrible, a supreme exercise in cynicism, "violence's answer to kiddie porn." But the review was so well written, the critic so clearly animated in his reaction to the film, his argument so cogent, that I was drawn to experience the film for myself.
Even among the uncredited capsules in "Going on About Town" there are jewels to be unearthed. Consider this endorsement of a exhibition of Old Masters at the Frick:
Just this last weekend, I paid to see a film on the power of The New Yorker review alone. The film, as the review had argued, was terrible, a supreme exercise in cynicism, "violence's answer to kiddie porn." But the review was so well written, the critic so clearly animated in his reaction to the film, his argument so cogent, that I was drawn to experience the film for myself.
Even among the uncredited capsules in "Going on About Town" there are jewels to be unearthed. Consider this endorsement of a exhibition of Old Masters at the Frick:
"Savor eight of the nine visiting Old Masters, then pour yourself into Rembrandt's 'Girl at a Window', which will use you up. The unremarkably pretty subject, in an open blouse, leans forward on a stone sill and gazes slightly past us. Rosy-cheeked, against a black ground, she steams with vitality. Is she chld or woman, serene or anxious, innocent or cunning? She is all those things, but not at once. Her aspects flicker in the mind. One hand oddly raised to her throat becomes as tormentingly enigmatic as Mona Lisa's smile. Your response to her induces a responsibility. She has become a person in your life. Your life is different."
Whoa!
I am lucky enough to find myself surrounded by people whose intelligence and facility with words I admire. This is a situation that I do not take for granted; a situation, in fact, which I actively sought to put myself. I have friends who have written for The Times, and friends who have been invited to read at philosophical symposium. I have friends who nosh with famous authors, and others whose work has been lauded and published by prestigious journals. I find their success tremendously satisfying, and share in their glory as a wanderer takes share in the bounty of a desert oasis. Graduate school was my reason for moving to New York, but my motivation was to meet a girl and maybe someday get a piece into The New Yorker. Maybe someday I'll accomplish one or both of those goals, but until then I'll continue to take joy in the intelligence and wit of my friends.
I am lucky enough to find myself surrounded by people whose intelligence and facility with words I admire. This is a situation that I do not take for granted; a situation, in fact, which I actively sought to put myself. I have friends who have written for The Times, and friends who have been invited to read at philosophical symposium. I have friends who nosh with famous authors, and others whose work has been lauded and published by prestigious journals. I find their success tremendously satisfying, and share in their glory as a wanderer takes share in the bounty of a desert oasis. Graduate school was my reason for moving to New York, but my motivation was to meet a girl and maybe someday get a piece into The New Yorker. Maybe someday I'll accomplish one or both of those goals, but until then I'll continue to take joy in the intelligence and wit of my friends.
24.4.10
Six months ago I would have told you that I dreaded going to the Dentist, and hated getting my hair cut. Hell, six weeks ago I would have said that.
Well, I had to go in for a root canal about a month ago, and I approached the procedure with a healthy amount of trepidation. To my lasting surprise the procedure was quick and completely painless. It was so fast, in fact, that I can't even justify complaining about the discomfort. And to make matters worse, or better, I suppose, the dentist and his assistant enjoyed an easy and remarkably high-brow banter, intelligently bullshitting about the political and cultural history of Kyrgyzstan and the fraught relationship between the Persians and the Afghans while they drilled my tooth with a drill that didn't even make any fucking noise!
I walked out of that Dentist's office smarter and better looking than when I walked in.
So maybe I was primed for a revolutionary trip to the Barber Shop. I got wise, this time, and when the young Russian woman who greeted me at the door asked if I'd like to have my hair washed, I said yes, please. Never say no to a girl asking to wash your hair, that's what I say. And as I lay my head back and let her fingers do their thing, I allowed myself to wash into the conversations flowing around me.
I say that I find people fascinating, but really rarely am I able to really take the pleasure of being an anonymous witness. Sitting in the Dentist's chair, I am an anonymous witness because to the Dentist and his assistant I am no longer a person but something to be worked on. To the Barbers and their customers I disappear the moment my head dips and Olga begins to soak my hair. So I listen and find that most people are smarter, funnier, more human than I generally judge them to be. They have something to say.
I don't know why it took me so long to discover that these places have their subtle pleasures, but everybody can expect a better coif and brighter smile going forward.
Well, I had to go in for a root canal about a month ago, and I approached the procedure with a healthy amount of trepidation. To my lasting surprise the procedure was quick and completely painless. It was so fast, in fact, that I can't even justify complaining about the discomfort. And to make matters worse, or better, I suppose, the dentist and his assistant enjoyed an easy and remarkably high-brow banter, intelligently bullshitting about the political and cultural history of Kyrgyzstan and the fraught relationship between the Persians and the Afghans while they drilled my tooth with a drill that didn't even make any fucking noise!
I walked out of that Dentist's office smarter and better looking than when I walked in.
So maybe I was primed for a revolutionary trip to the Barber Shop. I got wise, this time, and when the young Russian woman who greeted me at the door asked if I'd like to have my hair washed, I said yes, please. Never say no to a girl asking to wash your hair, that's what I say. And as I lay my head back and let her fingers do their thing, I allowed myself to wash into the conversations flowing around me.
I say that I find people fascinating, but really rarely am I able to really take the pleasure of being an anonymous witness. Sitting in the Dentist's chair, I am an anonymous witness because to the Dentist and his assistant I am no longer a person but something to be worked on. To the Barbers and their customers I disappear the moment my head dips and Olga begins to soak my hair. So I listen and find that most people are smarter, funnier, more human than I generally judge them to be. They have something to say.
I don't know why it took me so long to discover that these places have their subtle pleasures, but everybody can expect a better coif and brighter smile going forward.
Jeff is the baddest dude I know, and one of the best friends I've ever had. His whole existence has been preeminately at odds. We were introduced by a mutual friend after Jeff had returned from a bit at a labor camp in the Cascades. From birth, this guy had total disregard for everything decent. And it wasn't a put on, and it wasn't a show. It was the sincere expression of his being, and making it work in this world, being appropriate to this world, seemed to require more than he was capable of giving. He was born in the desert.
Jeff was a living, breathing archetype. The great outsiders of film only mimic Jeff, and great works of literature have been written about him. He menaced the highways of California in an XL Ford Bronco, mad, Dean Moriarty mad:
He was, is, the perfect expression of the Western spirit, the kind of man that can only be nourished in the vast landscape of North America. He is not cowed, will not be infringed upon. The man follows a code. Merle knows the man I'm talking about:
Jeff was a living, breathing archetype. The great outsiders of film only mimic Jeff, and great works of literature have been written about him. He menaced the highways of California in an XL Ford Bronco, mad, Dean Moriarty mad:
"Suddenly I had a vision of Dean, a burning shuddering frightful Angel, palpitating toward me across the road, approaching like a cloud, with enormous speed, pursuing me like the Shrouded Traveler on the plain, bearing down on me. I saw his huge face over the plains with the mad, bony purpose and the gleaming eyes; I saw his wings; I saw his old jalopy chariot with thousands of sparkling flames shooting out from it; I saw the path it burned over the road; it even made its own road and went over the corn, through cities, destroying bridges, drying rivers. It came like wrath to the West. I knew Dean had gone mad again."
He was, is, the perfect expression of the Western spirit, the kind of man that can only be nourished in the vast landscape of North America. He is not cowed, will not be infringed upon. The man follows a code. Merle knows the man I'm talking about:
22.4.10
Well, I missed wishing everybody a happy 4/20 by a couple of days. Huh. Can't say I have any memorable 4/20s in my past, but being a pretty typical Northern Californian(er), I'm certain I've enjoyed a few.
If I had been around a computer last night, I would have wished everybody a happy 4/21. There's no significance to 4/21 that I'm aware of, but last night I was thinking about how when I was a kid, probably bout 8, I rode with my friends through the early morning of July 5th and collected the previous night's used fireworks. We weren't looking for the accidentally discarded live bomb. We were collecting the material evidence of the previous nights revelry, each of us emptying our backpacks onto the grass and separating the common fireworks from the exploded firecrackers that somebody had smuggled out of the Indian Reservation or across the border from Tijuana. It was awesome, and that memory of 7/5 is more palpable than any of the many 7/4s.
If I had been around a computer last night, I would have wished everybody a happy 4/21. There's no significance to 4/21 that I'm aware of, but last night I was thinking about how when I was a kid, probably bout 8, I rode with my friends through the early morning of July 5th and collected the previous night's used fireworks. We weren't looking for the accidentally discarded live bomb. We were collecting the material evidence of the previous nights revelry, each of us emptying our backpacks onto the grass and separating the common fireworks from the exploded firecrackers that somebody had smuggled out of the Indian Reservation or across the border from Tijuana. It was awesome, and that memory of 7/5 is more palpable than any of the many 7/4s.
19.4.10
Is there anything worse for a man than to be called sweet?
A man doesn't want to be known as sweet. A man takes sweetness as a reproach. The word is bitter on a man's tongue. Sweetness doesn't win pennants. Sweetness doesn't discover new worlds, break the sound barrier, or close the deal. Sweetness gets men killed in war.
John Wayne was not sweet. Ernest Hemingway was not sweet. Don Draper is certainly not sweet. Aren't these the kinds of men women want? Isn't the strong and silent type desirable once again? My father is not sweet, but in him I've always considered this a defect, an accident of excess aloofness rather than a positive characteristic, the consequence of a strong willed masculinity.
Sweet is the ideal of bourgeois domesticity. Sweet mows the lawn but does not chop wood. Sweet makes love, but never, ever fucks.
Sweet is, above all, appropriate. I want to be appropriate, I want to fit in, but I also want to stand out. I want affairs, fucking free of sentimentality, but I want a lover even more. This is the conflict that I can't seem to resolve.
A man doesn't want to be known as sweet. A man takes sweetness as a reproach. The word is bitter on a man's tongue. Sweetness doesn't win pennants. Sweetness doesn't discover new worlds, break the sound barrier, or close the deal. Sweetness gets men killed in war.
John Wayne was not sweet. Ernest Hemingway was not sweet. Don Draper is certainly not sweet. Aren't these the kinds of men women want? Isn't the strong and silent type desirable once again? My father is not sweet, but in him I've always considered this a defect, an accident of excess aloofness rather than a positive characteristic, the consequence of a strong willed masculinity.
Sweet is the ideal of bourgeois domesticity. Sweet mows the lawn but does not chop wood. Sweet makes love, but never, ever fucks.
Sweet is, above all, appropriate. I want to be appropriate, I want to fit in, but I also want to stand out. I want affairs, fucking free of sentimentality, but I want a lover even more. This is the conflict that I can't seem to resolve.
18.4.10
My roommate has beaten me three times in a row, in chess.
Victories in the previous 434 matches had caused me to become accustomed. I considered the outcome certain, predestined in fact, and attributable to the possession of what I gladly reasoned was an ineliminable mental advantage. The matches themselves could be delicate and ornate explorations of the possibilities for dismantling your opponent. They were almost ritualistic. I tremendously enjoyed this state of affairs.
The losses of this weekend, well, they've got me a bit concerned. Early onset Alzheimer's? Mercury poisoning? Sex addiction? There must be some fucking explanation. This shit does not just happen!
...
Victories in the previous 434 matches had caused me to become accustomed. I considered the outcome certain, predestined in fact, and attributable to the possession of what I gladly reasoned was an ineliminable mental advantage. The matches themselves could be delicate and ornate explorations of the possibilities for dismantling your opponent. They were almost ritualistic. I tremendously enjoyed this state of affairs.
The losses of this weekend, well, they've got me a bit concerned. Early onset Alzheimer's? Mercury poisoning? Sex addiction? There must be some fucking explanation. This shit does not just happen!
...
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