Everyone I know secretly thinks they've started a trend. Or two. Or not so secretly.
One example: someone I once knew contended that the phrase "Too cute to shoot" was actually started by him back in the early '90s, or so. This is, of course, unverifiable, as neither myself nor anyone else I'm acquainted with has ever heard that phrase outside of the context of a conversation about catchphrases, but nevertheless this certain someone remains proud of this (dubious) achievement. (see FN)
I myself will never be convinced that it was not I that brought the word "hipster" back into wide usage. (All me, people.)
Also, in seventh grade, I started wearing Birkenstocks, for which I was widely derided as being "too hippieish", or alternatively, for "thinking I was Jesus or something". By ninth grade the entire population of Clinton High School had at least one pair of Birkenstocks, and I had moved on to Gene Simmons-style platform boots and thick black eyeliner. A trend in a microcosm, but a trend nonetheless...a sad trend featuring ugly (if comfortable) shoes, but...
So- I've decided to try and start a new one. GREEN FINGERNAIL POLISH. It's the next big thing, people. I'm telling you. Right now all the starlets are wearing BLACK fingernail polish, which seems just a tad Cure fan circa 1991 to me, (not that there's anything wrong with that), so I took it a step to the left and went green. Green! Like Sally Bowles! Cabaret! "Start by admitting from cradle to tomb, it isn't that long a stay: life IS a Cabaret, old chum, if you have a little green nail polish on!" All y'all just wait and see. I say give it a month, and then pick up a copy of Vogue.
Footnote: "Too cute to shoot" may actually deserve a, shall we say, "surgance", (as there is no record of the phrase having made much headway in it's original go round, I think "resurgance" may be too strong a term). Think about it. I hearby submit a short play to demonstrate usage:
TCTS
by J.S.
Man: Darling!
Woman: What?
Man: You look marvelous in that gren nail polish! You're too cute to shoot!
FIN
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
Star Cookies Are Here
At this time of year, in this part of Brooklyn, signs start going up: "Star Cookies". What are these cookies? They are simple, unremarkable, COMPLETELY ADDICTING little cookies shaped like stars- natch. There are boxes of said cookies piled to the ceilings of most stores in my neighborhood, honest to god.
I suspect that these cookies may have magical powers.
I was feeling a little blue today: it was 2 in the afternoon, and I hadn't left my apartment yet, and I decided to head out for a stroll. A store was selling star cookies in smaller boxes for (sic:) "ONLY 1 DOLAR" so I bought a box. Got a cup of coffee, went home, ate half the box of cookies AND IMMEDIATELY FELT GREAT.
I discovered today what native Brooklynites have appartently known for years: star cookies are the answer for the wintertime blues.
I suspect that these cookies may have magical powers.
I was feeling a little blue today: it was 2 in the afternoon, and I hadn't left my apartment yet, and I decided to head out for a stroll. A store was selling star cookies in smaller boxes for (sic:) "ONLY 1 DOLAR" so I bought a box. Got a cup of coffee, went home, ate half the box of cookies AND IMMEDIATELY FELT GREAT.
I discovered today what native Brooklynites have appartently known for years: star cookies are the answer for the wintertime blues.
Friday, December 01, 2006
Nothing to say
Now I have a forum. Somewhere to write, and you know, MAYBE someone might read it, SOMETIME...and I have nothing to say.
I was going to write something about ambition and how it's ruining these United States, and I was maybe going to write something about Robert E. Lee and U.S. Grant (Grant had panic attacks!) and maybe something about the Maury Povich show, which I seem to be viewing on a daily basis, but I don't really have it in me.
Blah blah blah.
I was going to write something about ambition and how it's ruining these United States, and I was maybe going to write something about Robert E. Lee and U.S. Grant (Grant had panic attacks!) and maybe something about the Maury Povich show, which I seem to be viewing on a daily basis, but I don't really have it in me.
Blah blah blah.
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Postmodern Poetry
Okay.
Is it just me, or is junk email starting to get really...beautiful?
From an item in my junk mail the other day, attached to an advertisment for various penis-enhancing drugs:
"Then he slowly rolled over on his side and began the terrible job of getting to his knees again.
The next clipping was from page one of the Bakersfield Journal.
Or at the end of Chapter 9, Fiery Doom, he'd be tied to a chair in a burning warehouse."
What?
Sort of awesome and evocative, right?
Now, I know that they just have to attach text to get through junk filters, but that's really pretty.
I sort of half-remember a story from the '30s or so, maybe even earlier, when "Modern" poetry was starting to be a real movement, and there was this whole debate amongst the critics about whether or not some of these poets were expressing themselves legitimately and artistically, or if the whole movement was more or less a gimmick, and just crap. Some critic wrote a poem with words pulled at random out of the dictionary, and submitted it anonymously to a literary journal that specialized in modern poetry- it was, of course, accepted and published and recieved quite a warm review, and then the critic who submitted the poem unveiled his trick and then there was more debate, etc...
Well, what if there is a poet somewhere out in the world who is in an opposite position: a legitimate poet who is sending out junk emails to pay the bills, but in place of the gibberish that usually is tacked on to those things, he or she is putting exquisite little poems into the emails, in the hope that someone out there actually reads them?
I've also noticed that all of these drug-related junk emails I get have the words "Tora! Tora! Tora!" across the top of the page, which is kind of weird, too.
Is it all some big literary conspiracy? Are there poets and history buffs in Asia trying to improve our sex lives through illegal Viagra? What's up with that?
Is it just me, or is junk email starting to get really...beautiful?
From an item in my junk mail the other day, attached to an advertisment for various penis-enhancing drugs:
"Then he slowly rolled over on his side and began the terrible job of getting to his knees again.
The next clipping was from page one of the Bakersfield Journal.
Or at the end of Chapter 9, Fiery Doom, he'd be tied to a chair in a burning warehouse."
What?
Sort of awesome and evocative, right?
Now, I know that they just have to attach text to get through junk filters, but that's really pretty.
I sort of half-remember a story from the '30s or so, maybe even earlier, when "Modern" poetry was starting to be a real movement, and there was this whole debate amongst the critics about whether or not some of these poets were expressing themselves legitimately and artistically, or if the whole movement was more or less a gimmick, and just crap. Some critic wrote a poem with words pulled at random out of the dictionary, and submitted it anonymously to a literary journal that specialized in modern poetry- it was, of course, accepted and published and recieved quite a warm review, and then the critic who submitted the poem unveiled his trick and then there was more debate, etc...
Well, what if there is a poet somewhere out in the world who is in an opposite position: a legitimate poet who is sending out junk emails to pay the bills, but in place of the gibberish that usually is tacked on to those things, he or she is putting exquisite little poems into the emails, in the hope that someone out there actually reads them?
I've also noticed that all of these drug-related junk emails I get have the words "Tora! Tora! Tora!" across the top of the page, which is kind of weird, too.
Is it all some big literary conspiracy? Are there poets and history buffs in Asia trying to improve our sex lives through illegal Viagra? What's up with that?
Monday, November 20, 2006
Navel-gazing
I've been spending a lot of time on my computer recently: I finally got a MySpace account, (for reasons much too pathetic to get into), have been emailing like a motherfucker for my day job, and dealing with evites, and this and that and whatever, and blah blah blah in cyberland, and I don't think, despite my definite web presence, that I have really joined the e-revolution.
Here's the problem: I don't understand the acronyms, I can't type incomplete sentences, I can't even send a text message without proper grammar and punctuation. I tend to get really wordy. If brevity is the soul of wit, I have neither. Or am neither. Whatever.
But is it just me? Doesn't anyone else write too much? (Women Who Write Too Much?) Am I an email email laughingstock?
When I write people, I just get carried away. And I sometimes get a little annoyed with people who dash off cryptic, one-line replies to my carefully thought-out missives. I like to write. I do. I like to write TO people. And I want to engage in some kind of thoughtful/funny/sentimental exchange with people. Think of those hard covers in the New Yorker book reviews: "The Letters of Satre and Camus". "The Correspondence of Henry Miller and Anais Nin." What will the boutique presses publish in the next century? The email exchanges of me and some guy?
Despite my Freinsdter, MySpace, Evite, and Blogger accounts, I'm a Luddite at heart. And a little pretentious. Let's be honest.
Here's the problem: I don't understand the acronyms, I can't type incomplete sentences, I can't even send a text message without proper grammar and punctuation. I tend to get really wordy. If brevity is the soul of wit, I have neither. Or am neither. Whatever.
But is it just me? Doesn't anyone else write too much? (Women Who Write Too Much?) Am I an email email laughingstock?
When I write people, I just get carried away. And I sometimes get a little annoyed with people who dash off cryptic, one-line replies to my carefully thought-out missives. I like to write. I do. I like to write TO people. And I want to engage in some kind of thoughtful/funny/sentimental exchange with people. Think of those hard covers in the New Yorker book reviews: "The Letters of Satre and Camus". "The Correspondence of Henry Miller and Anais Nin." What will the boutique presses publish in the next century? The email exchanges of me and some guy?
Despite my Freinsdter, MySpace, Evite, and Blogger accounts, I'm a Luddite at heart. And a little pretentious. Let's be honest.
Sunday, November 19, 2006
No, Really.
Okay.
No one will believe me, but this is absolutely a true anecdote:
My friend Todd and I were walking from the Lower East Side to West 4th Street the other night, and when we approached 7th Ave, we saw a cavalcade of emergency vehicles blocking the street and an army of cops- some of them in riot gear, with body armor and the works. They'd blocked off the Christopher station of the 1/9, and there was a big crowd of people around. Todd and I kind of sidled into the crowd to see what was going on, and a woman next to us tapped a cop on the shoulder and asked what was going on. "Alligator.", he said. "No, really.", the woman said. "Alligator in the subway.", the cop said again.
What's next? The proverbial 300 lb goldfish in the sewer?
Only in New York, kids.
No one will believe me, but this is absolutely a true anecdote:
My friend Todd and I were walking from the Lower East Side to West 4th Street the other night, and when we approached 7th Ave, we saw a cavalcade of emergency vehicles blocking the street and an army of cops- some of them in riot gear, with body armor and the works. They'd blocked off the Christopher station of the 1/9, and there was a big crowd of people around. Todd and I kind of sidled into the crowd to see what was going on, and a woman next to us tapped a cop on the shoulder and asked what was going on. "Alligator.", he said. "No, really.", the woman said. "Alligator in the subway.", the cop said again.
What's next? The proverbial 300 lb goldfish in the sewer?
Only in New York, kids.
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Tonight: 1st Avenue and 4th Street
A Youngish Woman walks down the street. She is carrying several bags, at least one of which seems really heavy. Light, misty rain.
A VERY OLD WOMAN: HHHHHAAAAAAAA-aaaaaaaaAAAAAAYYYYYY!!!!!!
(She is leaning heavily against a fence. She has a cane.)
Youngish Woman: (stops; looks around) Yes?
Very Old Woman: Excuse me, could you help me cross the street?
Youngish Woman: (This is really too cliched for words.) Sure. Yeah, of course. (Not knowing what, precisely, to do.)
Very Old Woman: C'mere. (Gestures with cane, rather awkwardly.)
Youngish Woman: Um...kay. (Walks towards her.)
Very Old Woman: You'll have to put your bags on that side, so I can hold on.
Youngish Woman: Oh, yeah, okay. (Painfully shifts bags.) How's that?
Very Old Woman: Hold your arm stiffer, so's I can hold on. C'mon.
Youngish Woman: Oh. Like this?
(The Youngish Woman has to hunch over a bit- the Very Old Woman is much smaller than she is. This hunching, coupled with the very heavy bags gives her a curious, shuffling gait much closer to that of the Very Old Woman. They walk.)
Very Old Woman: Great. I have to go to seventh street.
(This is bad news. The Youngish Woman was only in this for the street crossing, and now she's committed to several blocks with this aged stranger leaning on her arm.)
VOW: Do you live in the neighborhood?
YW: No, I, uh, live in Brooklyn.
VOW: Oh. Which train do you take?
YW: The L. At fourteenth street.
VOW: Oh. Where do you live in Brooklyn?
YW: In Williamsburg.
VOW: That's a Polish neighborhood.
YW: Parts, yes.
VOW: Well, that's nice. Polish. Safe, huh? And you like it?
YW: I do.
VOW: Lots of Polish.
YW: And pierogis.
VOW: Oh! Yes. You like those too.
YW: Yeah...
VOW: Where are you from?
YW: Iowa.
VOW: Ireland?
YW: No...IOWA. Although, well, kind of Ireland. A few generations ago. (lame joke.)
VOW: Oh. The sweaters. They make beautiful sweaters.
YW: They do. The Aran sweaters. That's...do you knit?
VOW: The cables.
YW: Yeah.
VOW: I...I have a balcony. I live over there on fourth. I used to live on St. Marks, after I got married, in '47...we had a room, and do you know how much we paid for rent?
YW: Oh, don't...
VOW:(Stops. Looks at YW.) Seventeen dollars.
YW: OH. Wow. That's amazing.
VOW: Yes. We were on the top floor. I made sure to carry things down or up when I went, you know, so's I wasn't going up and down all day...
YW: Yeah.
VOW: And we shared a bathroom down the hall with the neighbors. But then the law changed. And you had to have your own bathroom.
YW: Hmmm....I...(Thinking of a place she looked at in the East Village not too long ago..)
VOW: Now I have a balcony. AND THE PIGEONS.
YW: Pigeons?
VOW: (in a whisper.) They SHIT all over the balcony.
YW: Oh?
VOW: All over. (Nods, bangs her cane on sidewalk for emphasis.)
YW: Are they noisy?
VOW: Yes. Very annoying. I filled a bucket the other day with water and Clor-Ax, and I scrubbed so hard at all of their SHIT. Some of the water got on the neighbor's balcony. She's Chinese. Her balcony is covered in shit, too. But now mine's clean. Hers is covered in SHIT. (Gives the YW a meaningful look which the YW cannot decipher.)
YW: Oh.
VOW: I scrubbed and scrubbed.
YW: Uh-huh.
VOW: I'm going to meet my friend at MacDonald's. I heard it was supposed to rain later.
YW: I heard that too. It's getting...
VOW: I'm Rose, by the way.
YW: Oh. Nice to meet you Rose. I'm Jordan.
Rose: Nice to meet you too. Thanks for helping me. I shout and yell, and so many people just run away.
Jordan: Oh...
Rose: It's like they think they'll never get old.
Jordan: (forced laugh, thinking of mortality.)
Rose: (stops. Another meaningful look.) I'm eighty-four.
Jordan: Well, you....
Rose: Maaaaaaaarrrrrriiiiieeeeeeee! There's my friend. Maaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrriiiiiiiieeeeeee!!!!
Jordan: Oh...
Rose: Where are you going?
Woman across the street: (Unintelligible)
Rose: Hang on! (to jordan) That's my friend. She's a holy-roller. You can't imagine. Maaarrriiiieee! Stay there! We're coming over!
(The two women shuffle across the street to meet Marie and another woman.)
Marie: Oh, God bless you, young lady.
Jordan: Oh, it's fine- no problem...
Other woman: God bless, God bless...
Rose: (gives another meaningful look to Jordan) Thank you, very much. No one else stopped...
Jordan: (shifting bags off of her very sore shoulder) It's fine. Really, no problem. Have a good night....
(Jordan walks away amidst repeated thank you and God blesses, feeling proud of herself.)
A VERY OLD WOMAN: HHHHHAAAAAAAA-aaaaaaaaAAAAAAYYYYYY!!!!!!
(She is leaning heavily against a fence. She has a cane.)
Youngish Woman: (stops; looks around) Yes?
Very Old Woman: Excuse me, could you help me cross the street?
Youngish Woman: (This is really too cliched for words.) Sure. Yeah, of course. (Not knowing what, precisely, to do.)
Very Old Woman: C'mere. (Gestures with cane, rather awkwardly.)
Youngish Woman: Um...kay. (Walks towards her.)
Very Old Woman: You'll have to put your bags on that side, so I can hold on.
Youngish Woman: Oh, yeah, okay. (Painfully shifts bags.) How's that?
Very Old Woman: Hold your arm stiffer, so's I can hold on. C'mon.
Youngish Woman: Oh. Like this?
(The Youngish Woman has to hunch over a bit- the Very Old Woman is much smaller than she is. This hunching, coupled with the very heavy bags gives her a curious, shuffling gait much closer to that of the Very Old Woman. They walk.)
Very Old Woman: Great. I have to go to seventh street.
(This is bad news. The Youngish Woman was only in this for the street crossing, and now she's committed to several blocks with this aged stranger leaning on her arm.)
VOW: Do you live in the neighborhood?
YW: No, I, uh, live in Brooklyn.
VOW: Oh. Which train do you take?
YW: The L. At fourteenth street.
VOW: Oh. Where do you live in Brooklyn?
YW: In Williamsburg.
VOW: That's a Polish neighborhood.
YW: Parts, yes.
VOW: Well, that's nice. Polish. Safe, huh? And you like it?
YW: I do.
VOW: Lots of Polish.
YW: And pierogis.
VOW: Oh! Yes. You like those too.
YW: Yeah...
VOW: Where are you from?
YW: Iowa.
VOW: Ireland?
YW: No...IOWA. Although, well, kind of Ireland. A few generations ago. (lame joke.)
VOW: Oh. The sweaters. They make beautiful sweaters.
YW: They do. The Aran sweaters. That's...do you knit?
VOW: The cables.
YW: Yeah.
VOW: I...I have a balcony. I live over there on fourth. I used to live on St. Marks, after I got married, in '47...we had a room, and do you know how much we paid for rent?
YW: Oh, don't...
VOW:(Stops. Looks at YW.) Seventeen dollars.
YW: OH. Wow. That's amazing.
VOW: Yes. We were on the top floor. I made sure to carry things down or up when I went, you know, so's I wasn't going up and down all day...
YW: Yeah.
VOW: And we shared a bathroom down the hall with the neighbors. But then the law changed. And you had to have your own bathroom.
YW: Hmmm....I...(Thinking of a place she looked at in the East Village not too long ago..)
VOW: Now I have a balcony. AND THE PIGEONS.
YW: Pigeons?
VOW: (in a whisper.) They SHIT all over the balcony.
YW: Oh?
VOW: All over. (Nods, bangs her cane on sidewalk for emphasis.)
YW: Are they noisy?
VOW: Yes. Very annoying. I filled a bucket the other day with water and Clor-Ax, and I scrubbed so hard at all of their SHIT. Some of the water got on the neighbor's balcony. She's Chinese. Her balcony is covered in shit, too. But now mine's clean. Hers is covered in SHIT. (Gives the YW a meaningful look which the YW cannot decipher.)
YW: Oh.
VOW: I scrubbed and scrubbed.
YW: Uh-huh.
VOW: I'm going to meet my friend at MacDonald's. I heard it was supposed to rain later.
YW: I heard that too. It's getting...
VOW: I'm Rose, by the way.
YW: Oh. Nice to meet you Rose. I'm Jordan.
Rose: Nice to meet you too. Thanks for helping me. I shout and yell, and so many people just run away.
Jordan: Oh...
Rose: It's like they think they'll never get old.
Jordan: (forced laugh, thinking of mortality.)
Rose: (stops. Another meaningful look.) I'm eighty-four.
Jordan: Well, you....
Rose: Maaaaaaaarrrrrriiiiieeeeeeee! There's my friend. Maaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrriiiiiiiieeeeeee!!!!
Jordan: Oh...
Rose: Where are you going?
Woman across the street: (Unintelligible)
Rose: Hang on! (to jordan) That's my friend. She's a holy-roller. You can't imagine. Maaarrriiiieee! Stay there! We're coming over!
(The two women shuffle across the street to meet Marie and another woman.)
Marie: Oh, God bless you, young lady.
Jordan: Oh, it's fine- no problem...
Other woman: God bless, God bless...
Rose: (gives another meaningful look to Jordan) Thank you, very much. No one else stopped...
Jordan: (shifting bags off of her very sore shoulder) It's fine. Really, no problem. Have a good night....
(Jordan walks away amidst repeated thank you and God blesses, feeling proud of herself.)
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Blog Blog Blog
So. I guess I need a mission-statement of sorts. Why a blog? I make fun of people who have blogs. Blogs seem to me to be both the height of narcissism and the natural extention of 21st Century life, (which may or may not fold narcissism into it's definition)...Of course people put their most private thoughts and feelings out into the world while at the same time they feel unable to interact with actual human beings. I feel the same way.
I've also been reading a lot of Johnathan Franzen and Montaigne recently though, and there's something about the ESSAY that I'm intereted in. The Essay. That bane of high-school seniors, the refuge of the high-falutin'...I want to write essays. Weird, huh? ...And one would think that I could do so, write an essay, and keep it to myself- just write it down and put it in a drawer...but that seems dumb. Writing is communication, right? Why write except to communicate something TO someone...(Frankly, I've never been good at journaling- it seemed so POINTLESS to me, which probably points to a basic flaw in my psyche, I know.)
So. I'm sure my hero Franzen would think less of me, (not that he knows me from Adam anyway), but nevertheless, here's MY BLOG. My way of putting something out into the world. Some communication. Some insight. Some bitching. Here goes.
I've also been reading a lot of Johnathan Franzen and Montaigne recently though, and there's something about the ESSAY that I'm intereted in. The Essay. That bane of high-school seniors, the refuge of the high-falutin'...I want to write essays. Weird, huh? ...And one would think that I could do so, write an essay, and keep it to myself- just write it down and put it in a drawer...but that seems dumb. Writing is communication, right? Why write except to communicate something TO someone...(Frankly, I've never been good at journaling- it seemed so POINTLESS to me, which probably points to a basic flaw in my psyche, I know.)
So. I'm sure my hero Franzen would think less of me, (not that he knows me from Adam anyway), but nevertheless, here's MY BLOG. My way of putting something out into the world. Some communication. Some insight. Some bitching. Here goes.
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