I slay me

I woke up laughing at 4am from what was apparently a hilarious dream that involved rather a lot of singing. Then the very fact that I had awakened myself with laughter cracked me up, so I just lay there chuckling (and humming the hilarious song which I have since forgotten) for about five minutes before closing my eyes and getting back to the richly rewarding work of sleeping.

Idolotry

It is, we are told, forbidden to worship false gods. But surely it's just as sinful to fail to recognize the real ones when you see them. What if you should happen to find yourself in the enviable position of sitting at your kitchen table with two as yet unopened books--one by Peter Carey and one by Billy Collins? And what if, within minutes, it is clear to you that worship is really the only appropriate verb to apply to the situation? That were you to begin at the beginning: to admire, to appreciate, to applaud...you would find most verbs simply inadequate to the task. You might as well skip ahead to "w" perhaps pausing at "v" to venerate.

Maybe there is a simple way out of the theological quagmire. Maybe they are the one true God--two parts of the Trinity. Billy, the Son, making it look human scale and decidedly easy (which Jesus would be the first to tell you, it is not) and Peter, the Father, making it look magnificently impossible. Perhaps the Holy Spirit just moves between the two of them. Or maybe I am the Holy Spirit. And you. And every reader who finds, bounding from phrase to delightful phrase, that it is suddenly 4pm and she is still in her nightgown.

From Parrot & Olivier in America by Peter Carey

"[It] was one of those dazzling machines that are initially mocked for their impracticality until, all in a great rush, like an Italian footman falling down a staircase, they arrive in front of us, unavoidably real and extraordinarily useful."

From horoscopes for the dead by Billy Collins

Feedback

The woman who wrote from Phoenix
after my reading there

to tell me they were still talking about it

just wrote again
to tell me that they had stopped.

Mysterious

Outside, on the landing, are two small boxes that have been left neither in front of my door, nor my neighbors' door, but snugly against the door of the third apartment, which has been vacant since January. They have been there since I left for work yesterday morning. One box contains the unabridged audio recording of Brideshead Revisited and the other the unabridged audio recording of Pride and Prejudice. Both sets are recorded on cassette. There is no note.

My neighbors and I have now passed these tapes several times and neither household has claimed them. My confusion is increased by the fact that I have a great fondness for both of these books (while also harboring enough general snobbery and specific hostility toward my clattery neighbors [who fill the shared recycling bin to the brim with their uncollapsed boxes each week] to believe that a similar appreciation cannot be attributed to them). Yet, I do not know of anyone who would sneak up the stairs in the late night or early morning to leave recordings for me.

Perhaps most vexingly of all, even if these are a gift just for me from the patron saint of dead English writers, I no longer own a tape player.

John Hughes, eat your heart out.

Tonight at the school's spring concert:

A boy who two years ago was challenged by simply sitting in a chair (seriously, I saw him fall off a chair. Twice.) sang a rip roaring jazz solo accompanied by a full jazz band in front of hundreds of people.

A handsome, polished boy with a perfect suit and a shiny trumpet was the featured soloist on the next piece, after which he called a fellow musician onstage and formally asked her to be his prom date. (She said yes [who on earth would have said no?] and then went to get her bass for the next song.)

Another natty lad thanked his teacher, the band leader. "Scott," he said, "I wanted to say something, particularly on behalf of the seniors. For the past two or three years, you've guided us through the jazz desert. [Pause] We would have gotten you some flowers. Only they don't grow in the jazz desert. But I do offer my thanks."

If I could find a man of 40 with as much panache as the majority of jazz band seniors, I would marry him.

Happy V Day

Some students are producing Eve Ensler's seminal work this spring and they want to make sure we all know.

Of course, there's nothing profane about calling things by their anatomically correct names. And I am certain that if there were signs everywhere that said ARM or KNEE or even LARGE INTESTINE, I'd be just fine. Nevertheless, I do find it a bit disconcerting to have flyers all over the school screaming VAGINA in 200pt bright red caps. Apparently, I'm not all that mature.

Still, I guess it doesn't hurt to have a reminder posted every few feet. I wouldn't want to absent-mindedly leave my vagina in the lunchroom or something. Now I'm prompted constantly to just make sure I still have it with me.

Directions

Last week I was very aware of how all the cool people were at SxSW and how, if I had made some different choices, say, ten years ago, I might have been one of those people. But I did not and, thus, am not. To wit:

1. I am not altogether clear on what SxSW even is. I mean, yes, there is a lot of music. A great, great deal of music. But how is it also a technological extravaganza? I know nothing. I just joined Facebook for goodness sake.

2. Today, looking over the SxSW musical highlights on NPR, I find I have heard of exactly one of the performers. I am not familiar with his work, mind you, but I have heard of him,

I do have the DVD of North by Northwest, however, if you want to come over.

Only 6 Days!

Confession: I would not have known about this were it not for Facebook despite knowing Rob Reich and Circus Bella up close and personal. Fine. Whatever, Facebook. You're the big winner. Now pipe down.

The Circus Bella Allstars are so, so close to meeting the necessary goal to have their CD project funded. Let's see if we can get them there. Hooray for live, local music. Hooray for homegrown circuses. Hooray for friends who are far more talented than I.

Words, words, words

Recently I was informed by someone of higher authority in these matters than myself that if I continued to recoil in horror every time someone said "social media," I would render myself unemployable. I do not wish to be unemployable. However, I have never been a great one for adopting, "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em." I have chosen instead to live by the lesser-known maxim, "if you can't beat 'em, continue to carry bitterness in your heart and hostility towards 'em forevermore." Employers are probably not really looking for that, but, to be fair, it's not on my resume; it's secreted in my black soul.

But, fine. I'm 40. My life is passing me by. Time for a bright new tomorrow, etc. So, as informed I must, I joined Facebook. The world did not grind to a halt, though my friends did express astonishment. I think a pretty good indication that you are out of step with the normative culture is when you say to your friend, "So...I joined Facebook." and she replies with genuine concern, "Oh my god. Are you all right?" And the answer is: yes. I am all right. As a Facebook novice, I just have a very short list of "friends" who are actually friends. There is some satisfaction to seeing them all there in a safe little bundle. In some instances, seeing even three words from their keyboards represents more than I've heard from them in years. It's nice.

However, I am unsure what I'm supposed to do now. "What are you thinking about?" Facebook inquires. Well, Facebook, lots of things, but do I need to keep the world updated on all of them? And if I think of anything particularly droll, shouldn't I put it in my oft-neglected blog? How many platforms does one girl really need?

Heaven forfend I join Twitter, as well. Twitter & Facebook together would surely be the death of Cereal for Dinner, or, if not, my thoughts on crumbs and toenail clippings will soon be mined to the fullest.

Interestingly, running out of things to say never used to be a concern of mine. Welcome to the brave new world.

Snapshot

Stopped at a red light, I check out the prices of the tulips and daffodils outside the corner store (incidentally, it must be spring because they are a crazy bargain). Then, from just beyond the cheerful flower cart, a single soap bubble appeared and drifted languidly across the street.

That all seems awfully whimsical for the average traffic signal. Amelie? Are you in the neighborhood?

O! The humanity

I spent much of the day weeping over how I think cell phones are ruining the culture and how it breaks my heart that I will probably have to join Facebook in order to be employable. Weeping. Over Facebook. That's the sort of thing I do. And yet, despite all my nuanced feelings about how communication should be more personal, less general than Facebook status updates, I feel compelled to write about it on my blog. To....no one. To everyone. So, that makes sense. But there I was, in an existential tailspin, bemoaning the fractured nature of human connection.

Then I dried my eyes, powdered my nose, and went downstairs to see the winter production, which was Charles Mee's bobrauschenbergamerica. And guess what it was about? Human connection. Maybe the play I most needed to see at 4:30 today.

Art wins again. Thanks, art.

Colloquialism

Last Friday, my friends took me out to dinner. Wasn't that nice of them? I thought so.

At one point, Jon leans over to me and says, "You can't look when I say this, okay?" I agree. "There's a movie star sitting at that table. Um...I can't think of his name. Did you see that movie Closer? With Julia Roberts...."

Now. I did see Closer. I saw it more than once, in fact. And there are only four characters in it. Two of them are men. Those two men were played by Clive Owen and Jude Law. I figure that Jon would probably be able to come up with Jude Law's name, which can mean only one thing: Clive Owen is sitting mere feet away from me. I do not react to this certainty with dignified calm. Indeed, I get all giddy and flushed. My intention is to cut Jon off with some expression that means, "I am astonished and excited by this thing you are telling me. In fact, I can barely believe it's true." There are various expressions in the lexicon that, while perhaps inelegant, might have been appropriate. Among them, "Get out!" "Shut up!" "No way!"

Among the expressions that does not mean this at all is "F**k you!" And yet, that is exactly what I said. Specifically, I said,
"F**K you!! Clive Owen is NOT in this restaurant."

I realize that this is not the sort of thing that would horrify many people, but it definitely horrified me, as I generally make it through meals without hurling abuse at my companions, particularly when they are also my hosts. It also definitely, albeit very briefly, horrified Jon (he said nothing, but I saw it flicker in his eyes). I was too embarrassed to apologize. I'm so sorry about that Jon. I didn't mean it.

Also, f**k you, Clive Owen. You totally made me lose my cool. And then you didn't even come home with me.

Taking the broad view

My mother is horrified to learn that I have yet to buy a pad for the rug I've had for a year. Apparently, with every padless step I take upon the rug, I am shortening its life exponentially. I don't really see why this makes sense, but I am willing to accept it. After all, she is my mother.

I've done a little internet shopping for a pad and still haven't purchased one since they are more expensive than I want them to be (i.e. more than $20). It occurred to me that perhaps a likely place for bargain rug pads would be the same place I purchased the bargain rug in the first place.

I go to the website. I type in "rug pad" to the search window.

In reply, I get this message: "Couldn't find results for 'rug pad,' searching 'rug' instead."

You know what? There were plenty of results for rug. Probably because it is a rug store.

Thanks, technology!

Niagara

I watched Niagara last night, which, strangely, I'd never seen. Among other things, it made me pleased that I was not around in 1953. It certainly seems as though it was a very tiresome time to be anyone's wife.

It did raise some interesting questions though.

1. How did Marilyn Monroe wear that much glossy lipstick in bed without getting it on the sheets?





















2. How did 1953 fashions make women look so fantastic while making men look so extremely silly?

3. Why is wearing a rented raincoat and galoshes and being hit in the face with waterfall spray romantic?


But mostly, 4. How are we to believe that this lovely, good natured, sensible woman

(Sadly, I can't figure out how to get the full picture to show up, but if you click on it, you may gaze upon her whole face.)



would ever be married to this dull-witted, big toothed, braying oaf? (Here is a little montage courtesy of AndiBGoode of his idiotic mug. Look at him closely and Imagine him talking too loud, telling his wife to stick her tits out, chortling with his boss, or getting all excited about the Shredded Wheat company where he works. Because he is good at all those things.)

Bilingual

On "Fresh Air" Javier Bardem was asked what it was like to act in English and he said [this is the part where we pretend this is an actual quote when really it's just what I more or less remember. However, I don't think Javier reads this, so we're probably safe]:

"Even right now, as I'm trying to talk to you and express my opinions and thoughts and be relaxed, there is a very busy office full of people in my brain. They are working to make sure I get the right intonation, the right word.... It's exhausting.

When I speak Spanish, that office is closed."

I love that. As my French is used more and more seldom, the people in my office do not maintain any sort of regular schedule. Sometimes they're called in so unexpectedly that they are obliged to show up in their pajamas and then, man, do they have to scramble. That's probably why they can't guarantee the accuracy of the verb tenses.

Sweet

Walking back from the post office, I see a young woman approaching from the opposite direction. She, like 90% of San Franciscans, is holding a black square object in her hand. She is gazing at it as she walks and smiling sweetly, fondly. She has clearly gotten a text from someone she loves.

She then raises the object to her mouth and takes a large bite out of it.
Oh. Um, so not a phone then.

No, what we have here is a woman who has a tender affection for brownies. Long may she reign.

Family tree

The girl in the hall is telling a long story that involved the phrase "my ex step grandfather." Wow. I don't even know how to punctuate that. I imagine there should be a hyphen or two, but I decided to just let it go.

My parents have been married for 43 years and therefore, while I have two deceased grandfathers, I have no ex grandfathers or step grandfathers. And frankly, I find that reassuring.

Thanks, parents.

Valencia

1.
I am walking down Valencia Street behind a mother and her two little girls. The older one is walking beside her mother asking, "What is 3 times 4?" while the younger one stomps ahead of them. Is she angry? Does she just like making noise? Is this a nonviolent protest against arithmetic? As I pass her, I see her checking her reflection out in the shop windows. Turns out, she's wearing shoes that are supposed to light up with every step, but she's not heavy enough to activate them if she walks normally.

Thus: Stomp, sparkle; stomp, sparkle; stomp, sparkle...all the way home.


2.
I pass a man who is talking on his cell phone (let's be clear, I pass scores of people talking on their cell phones. It would be more noteworthy to write about passing someone who was not talking on a cell phone. Ahem. Moving on.) he says:

"I would trust you more if I could hear from you while you're with him, is all I'm saying."

Huh. That seems like it will all work out well, no?

2011

Hello all.

It has been, as is not uncommon, a while.

Brief summary:

Made it to the finals of the Literary Death Match, wore impressive shoes, but was bested by a poet in the final round. I would argue that he had several unfair advantages, but we needn't discuss that now. Jane Smiley gave me the thumbs up, so that's pretty cool.

Had heart broken yet again. Several sad months. Blah, blah, blah.

Spent New Year's Eve on sofa with fever instead of drinking champagne in a fancy frock. Was displeased.

But, I'm back, people. I'm back.



I have recently received a request (by which I mean insistent begging) for the address of this blog from a new acquaintance. I felt it would be shameful to not write something new before pointing him this direction, so here I am: writing.

There is something about being identified as a writer by someone who doesn't actually know you. Something about having a veritable stranger say, essentially, "You're clearly a writer. What are you writing? You should be writing." that is helpful in a way that hearing that from, well, everyone else you know (especially your mom) is not. So, thanks, mister.

Also, at a recent concert by the slyly hilarious and excessively talented Miss Katy Stephan (whose new CD you should purchase at once. Buy the real one, not the online one. The real one has how-to guides for charming crafts. It will make you happy), she brought something up that I have been pondering ever since. She said that before her CD release concert she had been fretting--It is so much work. What if no one comes? Is it worth it?--and composer/musician Darren Johnston told her that no matter what happened, making live music for people in one's community is a form of activism.

I have never before identified with the word activism. It evokes for me images of big crowds, petitions, and yelling, all of which are things from which I habitually shy away. However, art as activism is an idea that resonates though me like a gong. Not art that is "activist art" by definition. Not art that is trying to be political. Art that is its own true self and that for that reason brings people together into a two-hour community called an audience. Art that simply affirms the experience of being alive, together, in person, right now. Having recently seen a kick-ass play at Shotgun Players that similarly made me reflect that theatre when it's done well is as powerful and and visceral and profoundly human as it ever has been, the importance of art, particularly performance, has been zinging around my brain for weeks.

So yes. If people can go through the rigorous labor to make and send out into the world something as complicated and beautiful and fleeting as a song or a play, I can, at least, update my silly blog. Writing for me is a practice of starting over. Again. And again. And again.

2011. Ready? Go.

Do you think it ever misses me?

Seeing your old apartment all spruced up with some stranger in the living room is like seeing your ex with his hot new girlfriend.

It made me strangely sad to see the newly painted building and the fancy new window shades although I live in a perfectly lovely new apartment myself. Still, thirteen years is a long time. Somewhere in my brain that apartment where some younger stranger lives is still what I think of as home.

Bring it, brother!

As I am getting my hair cut, another stylist comes up to my stylist and says:

"Is it heavy? Should I bring it?"

And, seriously, do those questions not suggest that he would imminently be rocking the mic, busting a move, or blowing our minds with a hella sweet riff? They do.


Did those two questions instead relate to a steam cleaner? They did. The disappointment was bitter indeed.