I needed something to read on the kindle while doing cardio. Y'know, something to distract me, at least until the endorphins kick in. And so, having enjoyed Keith Richard's autobiography immensely last year, I thought I would take a chance on the reminiscences of another drugged-out rock star, and I downloaded Steven Tyler's book.
Well. All I can say is, where was the editor? Was there an editor? Did the editor make the editorial decision that Mr Tyler's charm would be, like on American Idol, in his nonsensical and out-of-context babbling? Because, if so, wrong decision. What works as comic relief on a TV talent show doesn't hold up as, y'know, literature. I am only 7% through and we are still in Steven's childhood. Except not really in chronological order. Now Steven's 14! Now he's nine again! It's as if every time a train of thought led him to another memory, he just threw it in there. I am not sure I am going to be able to finish this. I may just have to skip ahead to the drugs, groupies, and dramatic fights with Joe Perry. (Speaking of which, Steven's already mentioned that later he would meet Joe as the best fry cook in NH and Joe would be at his fryolater with his glasses mended with tape. Much like Keith with Mick, I suppose there's no sense in writing a rock n' roll autobiography without taking the opportunity to make subtle, or not so subtle, digs at your bandmates.)
The only other thing I have unread on my kindle at the moment is an anthology of Lovecraft-inspired short stories, and I've already read the one by Neil Gaiman. So I am sure it's all downhill from there. Anyone read anything good lately? Gimme a rec, please.
xoxo
Showing posts with label books. Show all posts
Showing posts with label books. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Monday, October 3, 2011
poser
Oh hai, kids. Happy October. Want to talk about a book I'm reading? Too bad.
It's called Poser: My Life in Twenty-three Yoga Poses by Claire Dederer. Yes, it's a yoga memoir, much like that book I hated. Apparently after Eat, Pray, Love made a gazillion dollars, this has become a genre, marketed to 30- to 50-something, middle class, liberal women like myself. Unlike that book I hated, Poser does not suck, mainly because the author is apparently an intelligent woman with some degree of self-awareness and the ability to reflect on her own actions and choices and explain them to an audience. One of the things she learns about herself in the course of the book is that because she had an unconventional childhood--her hippie mom left her dad for a younger man, but stayed married to him, and all three of them (her mom, her mom's boyfriend, and her dad) came to the same events even though her parents were legally still together--she as an adult is highly invested in creating a "perfect" nuclear family and thus denies the elephants in the living room, like her husband's severe depression or the fact that she is boiling over with resentment about how her parents and in-laws are always popping in and out of her house.
I find it kind of interesting that she was apparently so scarred by her parents' unconventional relationship. It's funny, because my good high school friend LL, who's been referenced here before, had a very similar situation in her life, though it occurred at a much older age than Ms Dederer's. Sometime when we were either towards the end of high school or the beginning of college (I can't remember, yo) LL's mother Diane, who was still married to and living with LL's dad, got herself a boyfriend, and they all apparently got along fine. I clearly remember attending LL's college graduation party with all three of them there. We, LL's friends, kinda thought, eh, that's a bit weird, but Diane's cool, we all love Diane, and just accepted it. If LL was embarrassed in any way, she never seemed it. She vaguely suggested that the reason her parents stayed legally married and living together was all financial, and that was that.
I guess my point in all this is, as a parent, you never know what you're going to do that'll screw your kids up. Or not screw your kids up. It's all a big mystery. I mean, I myself would think that your parents not legally divorcing even though they're living separate lives, and continuing to get along together wouldn't mess a person up, but apparently I'd be wrong in at least one case, right?
Eh. We gotta keep the therapists of the world employed. So there is that.
xoxo
It's called Poser: My Life in Twenty-three Yoga Poses by Claire Dederer. Yes, it's a yoga memoir, much like that book I hated. Apparently after Eat, Pray, Love made a gazillion dollars, this has become a genre, marketed to 30- to 50-something, middle class, liberal women like myself. Unlike that book I hated, Poser does not suck, mainly because the author is apparently an intelligent woman with some degree of self-awareness and the ability to reflect on her own actions and choices and explain them to an audience. One of the things she learns about herself in the course of the book is that because she had an unconventional childhood--her hippie mom left her dad for a younger man, but stayed married to him, and all three of them (her mom, her mom's boyfriend, and her dad) came to the same events even though her parents were legally still together--she as an adult is highly invested in creating a "perfect" nuclear family and thus denies the elephants in the living room, like her husband's severe depression or the fact that she is boiling over with resentment about how her parents and in-laws are always popping in and out of her house.
I find it kind of interesting that she was apparently so scarred by her parents' unconventional relationship. It's funny, because my good high school friend LL, who's been referenced here before, had a very similar situation in her life, though it occurred at a much older age than Ms Dederer's. Sometime when we were either towards the end of high school or the beginning of college (I can't remember, yo) LL's mother Diane, who was still married to and living with LL's dad, got herself a boyfriend, and they all apparently got along fine. I clearly remember attending LL's college graduation party with all three of them there. We, LL's friends, kinda thought, eh, that's a bit weird, but Diane's cool, we all love Diane, and just accepted it. If LL was embarrassed in any way, she never seemed it. She vaguely suggested that the reason her parents stayed legally married and living together was all financial, and that was that.
I guess my point in all this is, as a parent, you never know what you're going to do that'll screw your kids up. Or not screw your kids up. It's all a big mystery. I mean, I myself would think that your parents not legally divorcing even though they're living separate lives, and continuing to get along together wouldn't mess a person up, but apparently I'd be wrong in at least one case, right?
Eh. We gotta keep the therapists of the world employed. So there is that.
xoxo
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
the stand
I remembered the other continuance, though in retrospect, I'm not sure it's a continuance. Did I tell you I was going to reread The Stand? If so, well, continuance! Bingo! If not, pretend I did, and still bingo!
I read this book when it first came out, which wikipedia tells me was 1978. I wasn't of the financial means to buy hardcover books in 1978 and I believe my branch library was temporarily (though later permanently) shuttered then, so I must have read it when it came out in paperback. So we'll say 1979. Sounds about right. I also watched the miniseries based on it, which wikipedia tells me was aired in 1994. Let us just say that I was going to be fine in rereading it, because I only had a very vague recollection of any plot details. In fact, I will tell you that while rereading it, there was one character I was absolutely sure I remembered as being the ultimate hero in the book, and he was killed off well before the denouement. So, yeah! Just like reading a book I'd never read before.
And actually, in truth, it *was* a book I'd never read before, because the only version available for the kindle was the 1990 author's edition, in which, because Mr King was now so rich and famous he could do what the fuck he wanted, massive amounts of material that were cut from the original edition (because the bean counters thought the book was too long) were restored. The beauty of the kindle (besides being able to read "erotica" without public embarrassment and avoiding tendinitis) is that you can't really see how long these tendinitis-inducing books are, and thus are not daunted. No page numbers. No visual cue of a hardcover book that'd take up three inches on the ol' bookcase. Just a line on your home page that's longer than the lines for some of your other books. If this restored version is actually 1300 pages, you can't prove it by me. But it took me like a good ten days to read.
The Stand is considered by many people to be Stephen King's best book and/or an enduring classic. He mentions this in his foreword to the author's edition and says that, y'know, it's not his favorite book that he's written. I gotta agree with him. It certainly isn't the scariest of all his books, nor is it the best plotted. What surprised me reading it this time around is how good it is in certain key areas that apparently he got worse in as his writing career progressed. For instance, I always say that one of my major problems with his work is that his female characters suck. They tend to be far more one dimensional than his male characters and, as a chick, often read to me as if *he* thinks he understands how women think and react, which 1.) we don't all think and react the same way and 2.) he doesn't. He also tends to write women as victims of physical or sexual abuse and furthermore as abuse victims whose abuse colors their entire lives and psychology. I find it somewhat annoying. For just as, say, male combat victims don't all respond to the trauma they've sustained in the same way, female rape victims don't either. So it was with great pleasure that I found in The Stand several better rounded female characters, including two major ones, who had histories of (relatively, at least) healthy family and romantic relationships. It brings up the question of why an author's characterizations would get worse instead of better, and I can only attribute it to getting stuck in the mode of writing the same character over and over again.
N E Way, I was glad to reread this book, because the postapocalypic "disease has wiped out almost everyone and the survivors are fighting for their lives" genre is very big in books and movies now, though these days the virus generally turns you into a zombie of some sort, since zombies are big now. Nice to read one of the original bestsellers in the genre and see how it's influenced what came after.
xoxo
I read this book when it first came out, which wikipedia tells me was 1978. I wasn't of the financial means to buy hardcover books in 1978 and I believe my branch library was temporarily (though later permanently) shuttered then, so I must have read it when it came out in paperback. So we'll say 1979. Sounds about right. I also watched the miniseries based on it, which wikipedia tells me was aired in 1994. Let us just say that I was going to be fine in rereading it, because I only had a very vague recollection of any plot details. In fact, I will tell you that while rereading it, there was one character I was absolutely sure I remembered as being the ultimate hero in the book, and he was killed off well before the denouement. So, yeah! Just like reading a book I'd never read before.
And actually, in truth, it *was* a book I'd never read before, because the only version available for the kindle was the 1990 author's edition, in which, because Mr King was now so rich and famous he could do what the fuck he wanted, massive amounts of material that were cut from the original edition (because the bean counters thought the book was too long) were restored. The beauty of the kindle (besides being able to read "erotica" without public embarrassment and avoiding tendinitis) is that you can't really see how long these tendinitis-inducing books are, and thus are not daunted. No page numbers. No visual cue of a hardcover book that'd take up three inches on the ol' bookcase. Just a line on your home page that's longer than the lines for some of your other books. If this restored version is actually 1300 pages, you can't prove it by me. But it took me like a good ten days to read.
The Stand is considered by many people to be Stephen King's best book and/or an enduring classic. He mentions this in his foreword to the author's edition and says that, y'know, it's not his favorite book that he's written. I gotta agree with him. It certainly isn't the scariest of all his books, nor is it the best plotted. What surprised me reading it this time around is how good it is in certain key areas that apparently he got worse in as his writing career progressed. For instance, I always say that one of my major problems with his work is that his female characters suck. They tend to be far more one dimensional than his male characters and, as a chick, often read to me as if *he* thinks he understands how women think and react, which 1.) we don't all think and react the same way and 2.) he doesn't. He also tends to write women as victims of physical or sexual abuse and furthermore as abuse victims whose abuse colors their entire lives and psychology. I find it somewhat annoying. For just as, say, male combat victims don't all respond to the trauma they've sustained in the same way, female rape victims don't either. So it was with great pleasure that I found in The Stand several better rounded female characters, including two major ones, who had histories of (relatively, at least) healthy family and romantic relationships. It brings up the question of why an author's characterizations would get worse instead of better, and I can only attribute it to getting stuck in the mode of writing the same character over and over again.
N E Way, I was glad to reread this book, because the postapocalypic "disease has wiped out almost everyone and the survivors are fighting for their lives" genre is very big in books and movies now, though these days the virus generally turns you into a zombie of some sort, since zombies are big now. Nice to read one of the original bestsellers in the genre and see how it's influenced what came after.
xoxo
Sunday, July 17, 2011
and breaking news
Mr Indemnity is texting me from readercon where he just encountered my literary crush Neil Gaiman and that slutty second wife of his. Mr Gaiman, like your majority of MLB players and Hollywood actors, is apparently shorter in person. I said I would still do him and Mr Indemnity said I am predictable.
That is true.
xoxo
That is true.
xoxo
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
tiny little dewdrops of annoyance
Having complained to you all about my real problems earlier, let's now tackle the less serious ones.
1.) They have apparently discontinued making my favorite eyeliner. I looked for it in 3 different CVSes and Tarzhay, and it is no longer on the Revlon shelves. So in the past two weeks or so, I have bought(as of today) four other replacement eyeliners, the first three of which were not an adequate replacement for the one I like. Let's hope #4 is the charm. Number 4, however, came from Sephora and cost $22, so even if it turns out to be the perfect color and formula, it will still be inferior to the $10 one I can no longer get. Grrr. Also, I have probably spent close to, if not more than, $50 on eyeliner in the last two weeks in my futile search. You men have no idea how hard it is to be a woman. Thank god I haven't had my period in like three months and thus am saving on tampon money.
2.) I am reading this book on my kindle called The Passage. It's kind of a mashup of The Stand and 28 Days Later and The Walking Dead, etc: you know, virus wiping out Life as We Know It, people turning into vampire/zombie/inhuman killing machines, little girl who is probably the savior of humanity, blah blah. Not the most original concept, is what I'm saying, but well done and a good read and you know I like that shiz anyway. And I'm glad I've got it on the kindle, 'cause I've been reading and reading and reading, and I'm only 36% done, so obviously in hardcover this is one of those tendinitis books. My problem with it is in the beginning section of the book there are so many characters, most of whom are referred to only by their last name--scientists and feds and army guys--that it was impossible to remember who most of them are. So I had to just give up and keep reading and just roll with their deaths (spoiler! heh), not knowing who was who. Would it be so hard in a book with that many people in it to give them names that were distinctive enough to help differentiate them? You wouldn't think so. A colorful nickname or two wouldn't hurt. God.
3.) I was almost hit by cars twice today, crossing in the crosswalk with a walk light. Once in Salem, once in Back Bay. The first one, I was crossing and these two teenage kids were also crossing at the same time. They were on the outside and I was on the inside. We were directly in the middle of the street and the SUV that had rolled up to the red light...kept rolling. Into the crosswalk. Like two inches from the right side of my body. I smacked its hood with my hand and said, "WTF?" The two kids, who I suspect were probably stoned to judge from their previous walking-down-the-street conversation, started yelling at the SUV, "What the shit? I saw that! You hit her! It's okay, she's only paralyzed on one side!" and other such hilarity. Then later, I was crossing Dartmouth street in Copley, again, in the crosswalk with a walk light, behind a bunch of other people and a car *came around* the other driver who was waiting for the pedestrians to finish crossing to make the left from Boylston--and he wasn't slowly rolling, this one--and had to slam his breaks on to keep from hitting me. This one was too much. "Do you see the fucking walk light?" I yelled at his stupid face. "Do you?" he yelled back, totally nonsensically. "Yeah, I do, AND I HAVE ONE." What is wrong with people? Seriously. What is wrong with them?
Ponder these things and get back to me. Muah.
xoxo
Saturday, June 18, 2011
go the @!!&!#@%! to sleep
All of us who have been parents of infants and small children--hell, all of us who have even watched other people's infants and small children--know the incredible frustration engendered when, OMFG, you are so tired and they are wide awake. It is a nearly universal experience in child-raising, I think, unknown only to people with freakishly well-sleeping kids and women in those hunter-gatherer tribes where the baby is wrapped to the mother 24/7. (And even some of those hunter-gatherer chicks must occasionally think, "Can I not take this goddamned sling off and have a moment's peace to myself?")
In the spirit of this, a gentleman named Adam Mansbach has written a fairly brilliant takeoff on the "Goodnight, Moon" genre of children's books. You know, those books in which the storybook child says goodnight to various things and people until they are asleep at the end of the story and, theoretically, if you read it to your little cherub, they should be too. Well, Mr Mansbach is apparently aware of the gap between theory and real life.
I was apprised of his literary work some time ago, and I thought it was an amusing concept, but it was not until today when I heard, via someone else's blog, the book being read aloud by Samuel L Jackson, that I grasped its true brilliance. By which I mean to say, I laughed my fucking ass off. Listen for yourself.
This is particularly piquant to me because of what I do for a living. I may have mentioned, I need my little patients to sleep while I am testing. This has led to many many occasions where I am sitting at my computer, looking at a toddler three hours past their regular naptime or a preschooler who's been up since 4 am doing everything in their power to not give in and to indeed stay awake. And often in this situation, what is running through my mind like a mantra is, "Jesus Christ, will you please please PLEASE just go.the.fuck.to.sleep." I do not expect that to change anytime soon.
Now, however, the voice in my head will be Samuel L Jackson's.
Goodnight, moon! Goodnight, bitches!
xoxo
In the spirit of this, a gentleman named Adam Mansbach has written a fairly brilliant takeoff on the "Goodnight, Moon" genre of children's books. You know, those books in which the storybook child says goodnight to various things and people until they are asleep at the end of the story and, theoretically, if you read it to your little cherub, they should be too. Well, Mr Mansbach is apparently aware of the gap between theory and real life.
I was apprised of his literary work some time ago, and I thought it was an amusing concept, but it was not until today when I heard, via someone else's blog, the book being read aloud by Samuel L Jackson, that I grasped its true brilliance. By which I mean to say, I laughed my fucking ass off. Listen for yourself.
This is particularly piquant to me because of what I do for a living. I may have mentioned, I need my little patients to sleep while I am testing. This has led to many many occasions where I am sitting at my computer, looking at a toddler three hours past their regular naptime or a preschooler who's been up since 4 am doing everything in their power to not give in and to indeed stay awake. And often in this situation, what is running through my mind like a mantra is, "Jesus Christ, will you please please PLEASE just go.the.fuck.to.sleep." I do not expect that to change anytime soon.
Now, however, the voice in my head will be Samuel L Jackson's.
Goodnight, moon! Goodnight, bitches!
xoxo
Thursday, December 30, 2010
no no nicky
I mentioned our old (both in the senses of previous and elderly) cat Nicky in yesterday's comments. And it occurred to me that I should explain that the reason our very female cat had a boy's name (unisex naming being a topic that seems to be in the air this week!) was because my then two year old son named her such. Why? Because his very very favorite book at the time was No No Nicky, the story of a cute little kitteh who gets in trouble for all the things a toddler might be told "no" about. Going too close to the stove: "No, no, Nicky! Hot!" Getting into things that don't belong to him: "No, no, Nicky! That's not yours!" It was adorable, and D loved it. (And so naturally, Nicky was what you should call a cat who doesn't have another name.)
I was wondering if it were still in print, hence my trip to amazon, but alas, no. If you click on the link however, you'll see I could get a used copy for $33. Which is, coincidentally, how much it costs for a cat cremation. Huh. Anyway, my nostalgia for 1988 and my child's preschool days isn't strong enough to consider that. But the editorial review on amazon from the School Library Journal? Did you read that?
Parents may be troubled by how the concepts of friendship and safety are explored in these full-color board books for very young children. The cat Nicky has friends that include a baby, other kittens, two children, a man on a park bench, an elderly woman who feeds him from her porch, and a puppy. Although each character falls under the umbrella of friend, the relationships are not clearly defined, and the book will not hold children's interest. In No, No Nicky, the cat is pictured near a hot stove, an electrical outlet, spilled paint, and a cupboard full of cleaning supplies, but there are no clues as to why the situation is dangerous. Much adult interpretation will be required to help children understand the dangerous scenarios. The book itself fails to help children discern what is safe.
Are you fucking kidding me? I thought that in 1987 our society hadn't yet devolved into the over-protective hand-wringing idiocy that parenting is today, but apparently I remember wrongly! I will not buy a $33 copy of this book, but that doesn't mean I want my fond memories of it shit all over. Fucking children's librarians from Newark. God. (Plus? It held my kid's interest, bitch. So what do you know?)
xoxo
I was wondering if it were still in print, hence my trip to amazon, but alas, no. If you click on the link however, you'll see I could get a used copy for $33. Which is, coincidentally, how much it costs for a cat cremation. Huh. Anyway, my nostalgia for 1988 and my child's preschool days isn't strong enough to consider that. But the editorial review on amazon from the School Library Journal? Did you read that?
Parents may be troubled by how the concepts of friendship and safety are explored in these full-color board books for very young children. The cat Nicky has friends that include a baby, other kittens, two children, a man on a park bench, an elderly woman who feeds him from her porch, and a puppy. Although each character falls under the umbrella of friend, the relationships are not clearly defined, and the book will not hold children's interest. In No, No Nicky, the cat is pictured near a hot stove, an electrical outlet, spilled paint, and a cupboard full of cleaning supplies, but there are no clues as to why the situation is dangerous. Much adult interpretation will be required to help children understand the dangerous scenarios. The book itself fails to help children discern what is safe.
Are you fucking kidding me? I thought that in 1987 our society hadn't yet devolved into the over-protective hand-wringing idiocy that parenting is today, but apparently I remember wrongly! I will not buy a $33 copy of this book, but that doesn't mean I want my fond memories of it shit all over. Fucking children's librarians from Newark. God. (Plus? It held my kid's interest, bitch. So what do you know?)
xoxo
Saturday, December 18, 2010
i'll take potpourri for 400, alex
I would love to tell you all about the horrible, horrible mistake I made in a.) going to the mall today b.) by way of public transportation when c.) I didn't really have to, but suffering builds character. Or something like that.
Isn't that amazingly accurate? Besides the whole taking the play out of a player, Lothario business, that is. But nothing says "epitome of femininity" and "quiet beauty" like a woman who ends a sentence with the word mofo. Amirite? You know I am.
I will just say that my trip home was like the prison bus to the 18th power. There was a pack of guys who I could only charitably characterize as an entire halfway house given a pass to go Christmas shop(lift)ing. There was also a woman who was a friend of at least some of them, with her two children. With my earbuds in and my iPod set to "cochlea damage", I could still hear her children screaming. Not screaming with crankiness. That would be understandable, given that, judging from facial expression, 80% of the adults on the bus would have indulged in such if it were socially acceptable for persons over the age of five. No, these children were just being loud. I wanted to turn around and suggest to the mother that she teach them about the concept of indoor voices, but god knows you don't want to mess with people who are buddies with a good quarter of a work release program. Oh! On the way *to* the mall, there was a guy smoking on the fucking bus. He claimed he didn't know any better because he is from South Carolina and he couldn't read the no smoking signs 'cause he's "50% legally blind." Whatever that means. Seriously, you cannot make this shit up.
But while I was in Macys evilly-lit dressing room, trying things on I had absolutely no intention of buying once again, I examined my thighs closely in the nasty mirror to see how my cellulite is doing. (Shut up.) I must say, I am very pleased with my right thigh progress. The left is lagging. And neither could be characterized as "20 year old girl thigh" of course. But I am far more pleased than I have any right to be. Plus, even with my clothes on, you can see my quads are just popping. There's my effin' genetic endowment colliding with the leg press machine. You comin' home, you gonna have to slide, mofo. Ha!
In totally unrelated matters, I took an online quiz which purported to tell me which Jane Austin character I am. Here are the results:
42-50 points: Jane Fairfax (EMMA)
A sweet and trusting nature is both the making and the undoing of Jane Fairfax. She is the epitome of femininity and demure countenance, matched with an intelligent brain and an artistic though understated flair. All good, right? Except that this creature attracts and is attracted to the kind of man who falls wildly in love, almost in spite of himself, and perhaps before he is ready. Jane's open nature is far too trusting and she might not notice that she's falling in love with a Lothario until it is too late. That said, her strength of character and her many allures might be just the thing to take the "play" out of a "player", but at what cost to her happiness?
Best matched with an outgoing, friendly, center-of-attention type who will balance her quiet beauty, like Frank Churchill, Henry Crawford or Mr. Bingley.
A sweet and trusting nature is both the making and the undoing of Jane Fairfax. She is the epitome of femininity and demure countenance, matched with an intelligent brain and an artistic though understated flair. All good, right? Except that this creature attracts and is attracted to the kind of man who falls wildly in love, almost in spite of himself, and perhaps before he is ready. Jane's open nature is far too trusting and she might not notice that she's falling in love with a Lothario until it is too late. That said, her strength of character and her many allures might be just the thing to take the "play" out of a "player", but at what cost to her happiness?
Best matched with an outgoing, friendly, center-of-attention type who will balance her quiet beauty, like Frank Churchill, Henry Crawford or Mr. Bingley.
Isn't that amazingly accurate? Besides the whole taking the play out of a player, Lothario business, that is. But nothing says "epitome of femininity" and "quiet beauty" like a woman who ends a sentence with the word mofo. Amirite? You know I am.
Oh, and I would like to tell you about the last half of that awful movie, because again, suffering builds character. Let's just say Naveen Andrews soon enough becomes a deranged opium addict which kills his pretty, so even the eye candy fails, and that there's an obligatory, dreary girl-on-girl scene when Maya and Tara make up, plus further totally unbelievable plot points, only a tiny bit redeemed by the death-by-elephant execution. If you ever get the urge to rent this mess, hit yourself in the head with a brick instead. It will be less agonizing.
Finally, M2 passed along this link, which I hope works after the last miserable FAIL. Very clever. Though I do feel a little guilty about the lulz, considering I am the woman who used to bring manuscripts to writing group with such scintillating titles as "Yeah, Like I Know What to Call This Thing." Which, honestly? I'd pick that up at Borders and at least read the back cover.
I'm tired. Over n' out.
xoxo
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
december misc, procrastination issue
I need to watch the DVD before tomorrow's meeting of the Everybody Must Get Stoned committee, plus I need to make up some Merry Xmas arnica for M2 and G, but whilst I screw around on the internet instead, let me tell you a few things.
1.) I am getting callouses on both hands right where my middle finger meets the palm. This is not good for performing massage therapy. My hands are supposed to be as soft as the proverbial baby's bottom, yo. You know what this means, don't you? It means I have to get weightlifting gloves and then look like a douchebag wearing them at the gym lifting my weeny little weights. The affronts to my dignity never end. Sigh.
2.) I am reading Keith Richard's autobiography (on the Kindle--no tendinitis, baby!) and quite enjoying it. Keef says when he became a songwriter, something changed in him. He became more detached, more of an observer, always watching people and listening to what they said, because any little action, any little snatch of conversation could be the genesis of a song. See? Me n' Keef are kindred spirits. If only he rode the Prison Bus, just imagine how much career success the boy coulda had.
3.) I know I promised pictures of Kitschmas at Andrea's (which is like Breakfast at Tiffany's, only with less Audrey Hepburn) but I'm not *quite* done.
4.) But speaking of Christmas decorating abominations--I've got a lot to say. Remember how when people used to go bananas and over-decorate, it made people drive by their houses to gawk and maybe netted a puff piece in the local newspaper? To judge from my neighborhood, those days are gone. Now the house covered in 200,000 lights with 43 different glowing statues in the front yard seems to be the norm, not the exception. I could walk around here for a mere five minutes with the video camera on my new iPod and document ten of them. And if I wasn't so damn lazy, plus technically unsure of how to use that video function, I just might! Really, somehow over the past ten years, the concepts of "restraint" and "good taste" seem to have vanished. (Though, honestly? This *is* the lower North Shore. Our major highway landmarks are a giant orange dinosaur, a field of fake cows, and a humongous tiki hut. Good taste and restraint are relative here.)
5.) My tongue hurts.
xoxo
1.) I am getting callouses on both hands right where my middle finger meets the palm. This is not good for performing massage therapy. My hands are supposed to be as soft as the proverbial baby's bottom, yo. You know what this means, don't you? It means I have to get weightlifting gloves and then look like a douchebag wearing them at the gym lifting my weeny little weights. The affronts to my dignity never end. Sigh.
2.) I am reading Keith Richard's autobiography (on the Kindle--no tendinitis, baby!) and quite enjoying it. Keef says when he became a songwriter, something changed in him. He became more detached, more of an observer, always watching people and listening to what they said, because any little action, any little snatch of conversation could be the genesis of a song. See? Me n' Keef are kindred spirits. If only he rode the Prison Bus, just imagine how much career success the boy coulda had.
3.) I know I promised pictures of Kitschmas at Andrea's (which is like Breakfast at Tiffany's, only with less Audrey Hepburn) but I'm not *quite* done.
4.) But speaking of Christmas decorating abominations--I've got a lot to say. Remember how when people used to go bananas and over-decorate, it made people drive by their houses to gawk and maybe netted a puff piece in the local newspaper? To judge from my neighborhood, those days are gone. Now the house covered in 200,000 lights with 43 different glowing statues in the front yard seems to be the norm, not the exception. I could walk around here for a mere five minutes with the video camera on my new iPod and document ten of them. And if I wasn't so damn lazy, plus technically unsure of how to use that video function, I just might! Really, somehow over the past ten years, the concepts of "restraint" and "good taste" seem to have vanished. (Though, honestly? This *is* the lower North Shore. Our major highway landmarks are a giant orange dinosaur, a field of fake cows, and a humongous tiki hut. Good taste and restraint are relative here.)
5.) My tongue hurts.
xoxo
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Thursday, September 2, 2010
sex for buddhists, as promised
Okay, I finished the book. Lemme tell you first of all that I was quite disappointed in it. Much of it was stuff I already knew from all those other Buddhism books I read: that the main Buddhist principle is "do no harm" and because they are not so much into the rules and regulations and the whole authority thang, it is up to *you* to decide whether any of your sexual expression is hurting you or anyone else. If so, knock it the fuck off. And then there's a whole long chapter and part of another that is basically a transcript of a long interview he did with Nina Hartley (i.e. big ol' pr0n star who was actually raised as a Zen Buddhist by her hippie parents). She's not as interesting as she thinks she is.
And the author, Mr Warner? Well, he's a punk rock guitarist turned Zen Buddhist monk turned writer, and frankly, he comes off as kind of a douche. He's quite dismissive of other forms of Buddhism, maybe unconsciously. He actually even makes a bit of a flip and disrespectful comment towards the Dalai Lama, which c'mon now. He's the Dalai Lama, the spiritual (and political) leader of millions of people, and I've never heard anything about him that suggests he is not worthy of a modicum of respect. He also takes a dig or two towards Thich Nhat Hahn and though he doesn't mention Sharon Salzberg by name, he definitely sneers at the popularity of the metta meditation (you know, that loving-kindness thing I do?) in the West. In fact, he mocks Western "Buddhists" like me, who like the parts of Buddhism they've read about but who aren't actually practitioners, which fair enough. I am certainly ripe for the mocking. And he also mocks The Secret, which, yeah, +10 for that.
But the worst part of this book? Apparently no one copyedited it. There were at least three or four instances of words omitted or added to sentences, or a verb in the wrong tense--the kind of thing that happens when you go back and rewrite a sentence to make it sound better but you botch the edit, and then *you* can't see the mistake till you've reread the paragraph fifty times, if then, because you know what it's supposed to say. That's the kind of thing that happens in, y'know, a blog. I would NOT expect that kind of thing in a professionally published book I paid $14.95 for at the Borders. Give an unemployed editor a job, yo!
I did read one thing in the book that fascinated me in that he was looking at a concept from one direction and I myself have noticed the exact same thing in the opposite direction. It's interesting enough to me that I'm tempted to look at his blog and see if it has contact info, then email him about it. But besides that, there were some random things in the book I did not know. Did you know that in 13th century Cambodia, daughters of wealthy families were deflowered between the age of seven and nine by a Buddhist priest? Did you know that in modern Japan there is a bodhisattva called Jizo who is considered the guardian of "water children"--that is, children who were stillborn, miscarried, or aborted--and little statues of him are decorated with red bibs and offerings of flowers and little toys by parents who have lost or, especially, aborted a pregnancy? You know I like knowing these little crosscultural facts!
So, anyway, I can't really recommend you spend your $14.95 on this book, but I did read it in about three days and it did not give me tendinitis. So there is that.
And on another note, and speaking of crosscultural facts, my secret sources (okay, Mr Indemnity) tell me that our friend Man-well is already making trouble in Chicago, including pretending he doesn't speak English and demanding to do an interview in Spanish with an interpreter. Oh, Manuel Aristides. Part of me will always love you.
xoxo
And the author, Mr Warner? Well, he's a punk rock guitarist turned Zen Buddhist monk turned writer, and frankly, he comes off as kind of a douche. He's quite dismissive of other forms of Buddhism, maybe unconsciously. He actually even makes a bit of a flip and disrespectful comment towards the Dalai Lama, which c'mon now. He's the Dalai Lama, the spiritual (and political) leader of millions of people, and I've never heard anything about him that suggests he is not worthy of a modicum of respect. He also takes a dig or two towards Thich Nhat Hahn and though he doesn't mention Sharon Salzberg by name, he definitely sneers at the popularity of the metta meditation (you know, that loving-kindness thing I do?) in the West. In fact, he mocks Western "Buddhists" like me, who like the parts of Buddhism they've read about but who aren't actually practitioners, which fair enough. I am certainly ripe for the mocking. And he also mocks The Secret, which, yeah, +10 for that.
But the worst part of this book? Apparently no one copyedited it. There were at least three or four instances of words omitted or added to sentences, or a verb in the wrong tense--the kind of thing that happens when you go back and rewrite a sentence to make it sound better but you botch the edit, and then *you* can't see the mistake till you've reread the paragraph fifty times, if then, because you know what it's supposed to say. That's the kind of thing that happens in, y'know, a blog. I would NOT expect that kind of thing in a professionally published book I paid $14.95 for at the Borders. Give an unemployed editor a job, yo!
I did read one thing in the book that fascinated me in that he was looking at a concept from one direction and I myself have noticed the exact same thing in the opposite direction. It's interesting enough to me that I'm tempted to look at his blog and see if it has contact info, then email him about it. But besides that, there were some random things in the book I did not know. Did you know that in 13th century Cambodia, daughters of wealthy families were deflowered between the age of seven and nine by a Buddhist priest? Did you know that in modern Japan there is a bodhisattva called Jizo who is considered the guardian of "water children"--that is, children who were stillborn, miscarried, or aborted--and little statues of him are decorated with red bibs and offerings of flowers and little toys by parents who have lost or, especially, aborted a pregnancy? You know I like knowing these little crosscultural facts!
So, anyway, I can't really recommend you spend your $14.95 on this book, but I did read it in about three days and it did not give me tendinitis. So there is that.
And on another note, and speaking of crosscultural facts, my secret sources (okay, Mr Indemnity) tell me that our friend Man-well is already making trouble in Chicago, including pretending he doesn't speak English and demanding to do an interview in Spanish with an interpreter. Oh, Manuel Aristides. Part of me will always love you.
xoxo
Monday, August 30, 2010
news, views, and reviews, 'scuse
Have we had a numbered list in the last week or two? I dunno. I'll be arsed if I'ma go back and look. So we shall press on! Royal we, bitches.
1.) I met The Babies this weekend, finally, which is awesome and about time, since they just turned 3 months old. If you do not know of which babies I speak, it'll take too long to explain, but just roll with me...babies! Adorable redheaded twin girl babies! There is no drawback to anything in that sentence, yo. I got to hold and I got to feed and I got to talk absolute nonsense for ten straight minutes to a baby sitting in her swing, raptly looking at my face and smiling and cooing back at me, telling me an extremely long and involved story in Baby Language. If you think my poor almost-dried-up ovaries weren't twinging, you ain't been paying attention.
2.) I also bought this book: "Sex, Sin, and Zen: a Buddhist Exploration of Sex from Celibacy to Polyamory and Everything in Between," by Brad Warner. (Yes, that *does* mean I finally finished that Stephen King book that was giving me tendinitis.) I only read a tiny bit of it in bed last night, but so far, so interesting.
3.) I also bought Nike Free 3.0 shoes, which are those super-flexible, super-lightweight newfangled running shoes that are supposed to bridge the gap between regular running shoes and the whole "barefoot" movement. And they are supposed to be especially good for people like me who have high arches and supinate; we need flexible shoes. I cannot review them, because I haven't actually worn them yet, but I stuck them in my gym bag and brought them to work, and they're light enough to make a noticeable difference from my old shoes. Which is good, because that Stephen King book gave me tendinitis. Ha!
4.) I measured myself. I've very recently lost at least half an inch in my hips. This would explain my pants-fit problem that's been going on. NOT THAT I AM COMPLAINING AND THANK YOU, YMCA.
5.) My free lunch is not here yet but my 12:30 patient is. Goddamn it.
xoxo
1.) I met The Babies this weekend, finally, which is awesome and about time, since they just turned 3 months old. If you do not know of which babies I speak, it'll take too long to explain, but just roll with me...babies! Adorable redheaded twin girl babies! There is no drawback to anything in that sentence, yo. I got to hold and I got to feed and I got to talk absolute nonsense for ten straight minutes to a baby sitting in her swing, raptly looking at my face and smiling and cooing back at me, telling me an extremely long and involved story in Baby Language. If you think my poor almost-dried-up ovaries weren't twinging, you ain't been paying attention.
2.) I also bought this book: "Sex, Sin, and Zen: a Buddhist Exploration of Sex from Celibacy to Polyamory and Everything in Between," by Brad Warner. (Yes, that *does* mean I finally finished that Stephen King book that was giving me tendinitis.) I only read a tiny bit of it in bed last night, but so far, so interesting.
3.) I also bought Nike Free 3.0 shoes, which are those super-flexible, super-lightweight newfangled running shoes that are supposed to bridge the gap between regular running shoes and the whole "barefoot" movement. And they are supposed to be especially good for people like me who have high arches and supinate; we need flexible shoes. I cannot review them, because I haven't actually worn them yet, but I stuck them in my gym bag and brought them to work, and they're light enough to make a noticeable difference from my old shoes. Which is good, because that Stephen King book gave me tendinitis. Ha!
4.) I measured myself. I've very recently lost at least half an inch in my hips. This would explain my pants-fit problem that's been going on. NOT THAT I AM COMPLAINING AND THANK YOU, YMCA.
5.) My free lunch is not here yet but my 12:30 patient is. Goddamn it.
xoxo
Friday, June 18, 2010
if it's friday, it must be random
1.) First of all, lemme just tell you or remind you that Ubaldo won another game yesterday. I am hoping the rotation works out such that he will pitch against the Sox when they are in Colorado next week, but I haven't stopped and figured it out yet. It has been suggested to me that I price plane tickets to Denver, but alas, I have neither the budget nor the lifestyle to consider such things. More's the pity. Also, I need to register a complaint. When Ubaldo was 12-1, I read some list of pitchers who had started out their seasons thusly. The one that stuck in my mind was Roger Clemens 1986 (and as Mr Barma said to me, "And look how that turned out." Ha!) Then when Ubaldo won number trece yesterday, I read that Roger Clemens started the 1986 season 14-0. Both of these facts cannot be correct, and one would think online sports news sources would have better fact-checking. Boo! I wish I knew off the top of my head, but at the beginning of the 1986 Sox season I had a newborn baby and was getting approximately three hours sleep a night. That fucks with one's ability to form long term memories. (Except I know Chernobyl was in the spring of '86 because I was home on maternity leave following it. Did Roger Clemens's stellar pitching help those poor Ukrainians? NO.)
2.) What else happened in the spring of 1986? Celtics won an NBA championship. Unlike last night. And that's all I have to say about that, except to note that it will have made both my son and Our Lil MILF very sad. Which, y'know, I think is a good thing overall. These kids these days have become too used to the Pats and the Sox and even the Celtics winning stuff like playoff games and championships. They need to learn the heartbreak of a crushing loss like we Boston sports fans of old. It's character-building!
3.) I read an article yesterday about "disposable clothing" and the environmental and social impact of that, the moral being buy less and if you do buy, buy this fairly expensive and pretty damn ugly clothing made by these few designers who are actually "green" and socially responsible. Can I just say, I am sick of feeling guilty about everything I do. Every action that we do has far-reaching consequences, and thinking that if I do x which is a good thing without considering that also means y which negatively impacts something else is stoopid. Like, yeah, I've bought some of my new work clothes from the Gap recently. Yes, they were probably made in sweatshops. Yes, the textile factories that produced the cotton they are made of use lots of energy and pollute the water. If I and people like me didn't buy them, however, probably those sweatshops slaves would lose their jobs and a crappy, crappy abusive job is preferable to STARVING. Plus the college kids who sell me those Gap clothes would lose their jobs, and where would their beer money come from then? And if the college kids don't have beer money, the local drinking establishments tank, which means more job loss. And if there are no bars and clubs, where do the up-and-coming musicians play? Do I want to be responsible for the death of live music because I didn't buy a cheap cardigan to cover up my cleavage? I mean, hopefully I don't need to give you all an irony alert tag, but you see my point. The economic, social, and environmental impact of everything we do is so complex, it's impossible to do some mythical "right thing." Also, let me say this: yes, I wouldn't have to have bought all these new work clothes if the ones I bought 3 years ago hadn't fallen apart, but I cannot help that either. I didn't save all my well-made clothes from 1980 which didn't fall apart when you washed them 20 times and my workplace probably frowns on me showing up in garments with visible holes in them. It's not in the dress code but I think it is implied. (Side point: in the comments on this article, a bunch of women suggested the green answer to all this is buying vintage. I can only assume they are all college students, because as much as I love vintage, you cannot wear it to a regular job. Vintage looks vintage. Okay, if you're a hairdresser or a record store clerk or that extremely adorable waitress at the Gulu that I have a girl crush on, but most professional people can't dress like that at work. Real life slaps your idealism upside the head once again.)
4.) Remember how I bitched in here about that Tom Myers fascia film commentary/lecture that cost $50 to attend? Well, I saw M2 this week and while she did not attend either, some other friends of ours did. One of them left her a message about it afterwards, which I will paraphrase. "He said everything we know and everything that he was about to tell us is wrong or will be wrong in five years, which made me wonder why I was sitting there listening to it." Ha! Glad I saved my fifty bucks.
5.) Read "Good Calories, Bad Calories" by Gary Taubes. Then report back. (Maybe the science in that will all be proven wrong in another ten years, but for now it's pretty compelling.)
6.) Have a great weekend. It's gonna be hot, hot, hot. I would like to go to the beach, but I cannot eat potato chips. How can I reconcile those two things?
xoxo
2.) What else happened in the spring of 1986? Celtics won an NBA championship. Unlike last night. And that's all I have to say about that, except to note that it will have made both my son and Our Lil MILF very sad. Which, y'know, I think is a good thing overall. These kids these days have become too used to the Pats and the Sox and even the Celtics winning stuff like playoff games and championships. They need to learn the heartbreak of a crushing loss like we Boston sports fans of old. It's character-building!
3.) I read an article yesterday about "disposable clothing" and the environmental and social impact of that, the moral being buy less and if you do buy, buy this fairly expensive and pretty damn ugly clothing made by these few designers who are actually "green" and socially responsible. Can I just say, I am sick of feeling guilty about everything I do. Every action that we do has far-reaching consequences, and thinking that if I do x which is a good thing without considering that also means y which negatively impacts something else is stoopid. Like, yeah, I've bought some of my new work clothes from the Gap recently. Yes, they were probably made in sweatshops. Yes, the textile factories that produced the cotton they are made of use lots of energy and pollute the water. If I and people like me didn't buy them, however, probably those sweatshops slaves would lose their jobs and a crappy, crappy abusive job is preferable to STARVING. Plus the college kids who sell me those Gap clothes would lose their jobs, and where would their beer money come from then? And if the college kids don't have beer money, the local drinking establishments tank, which means more job loss. And if there are no bars and clubs, where do the up-and-coming musicians play? Do I want to be responsible for the death of live music because I didn't buy a cheap cardigan to cover up my cleavage? I mean, hopefully I don't need to give you all an irony alert tag, but you see my point. The economic, social, and environmental impact of everything we do is so complex, it's impossible to do some mythical "right thing." Also, let me say this: yes, I wouldn't have to have bought all these new work clothes if the ones I bought 3 years ago hadn't fallen apart, but I cannot help that either. I didn't save all my well-made clothes from 1980 which didn't fall apart when you washed them 20 times and my workplace probably frowns on me showing up in garments with visible holes in them. It's not in the dress code but I think it is implied. (Side point: in the comments on this article, a bunch of women suggested the green answer to all this is buying vintage. I can only assume they are all college students, because as much as I love vintage, you cannot wear it to a regular job. Vintage looks vintage. Okay, if you're a hairdresser or a record store clerk or that extremely adorable waitress at the Gulu that I have a girl crush on, but most professional people can't dress like that at work. Real life slaps your idealism upside the head once again.)
4.) Remember how I bitched in here about that Tom Myers fascia film commentary/lecture that cost $50 to attend? Well, I saw M2 this week and while she did not attend either, some other friends of ours did. One of them left her a message about it afterwards, which I will paraphrase. "He said everything we know and everything that he was about to tell us is wrong or will be wrong in five years, which made me wonder why I was sitting there listening to it." Ha! Glad I saved my fifty bucks.
5.) Read "Good Calories, Bad Calories" by Gary Taubes. Then report back. (Maybe the science in that will all be proven wrong in another ten years, but for now it's pretty compelling.)
6.) Have a great weekend. It's gonna be hot, hot, hot. I would like to go to the beach, but I cannot eat potato chips. How can I reconcile those two things?
xoxo
Friday, May 14, 2010
and speaking of civility
So, I told you I'm reading Julie and Julia. I looked at the reviews on amazon now that I am halfway through, and they are almost equally divided between people who love the book and people who hate the book and the author. These people hate the book and author because she uses too much profanity (oops, there goes *my* book deal), because she makes fun of Republicans, and because, well, they think she sounds like a not-very-nice person even when she's the one doing the writing about herself. They think she is whiny. They think she is mean.
Oh, god. Again, there goes my book deal, 'cause I think what these readers are processing as "whiny" is very similar to my own writing style. She'll rant about how annoying something or someone is and her subsequent urges to punch them in the head, but in a humorous way, and in a way that suggests she knows she is complaining, knows that this problem *isn't* the most horrible thing that ever happened to anyone, has some self-awareness. It's just a description of her own crankiness, played for laughs. If the reading public considers that whining, well, they better not drop by this blog. Just sayin'.
On the other hand? I can see "mean." She really is not very nice to her long-suffering husband in the book, but her portrayal of marriage is unfortunately one I see every freaking day in real life. People *are* mean as shit to their spouses. People speak to their husbands and wives in ways they would never speak to a friend or a stranger. People belittle their spouses to, and in front of, other people constantly. The lack of basic respect many married people treat each other with is stunning. (If you are me, and have tried hard for the past fifteen years to not be that person.) So while I'm reading her book and noticing she is kinda mean to her husband in it, it doesn't strike me as terribly out of the ordinary.
But then, while I am on amazon, I decide to see what else she's written. The second book is also autobiographical. It's all about how she cheats on her husband. Oh. I guess there was trouble in paradise after all!
xoxo
Oh, god. Again, there goes my book deal, 'cause I think what these readers are processing as "whiny" is very similar to my own writing style. She'll rant about how annoying something or someone is and her subsequent urges to punch them in the head, but in a humorous way, and in a way that suggests she knows she is complaining, knows that this problem *isn't* the most horrible thing that ever happened to anyone, has some self-awareness. It's just a description of her own crankiness, played for laughs. If the reading public considers that whining, well, they better not drop by this blog. Just sayin'.
On the other hand? I can see "mean." She really is not very nice to her long-suffering husband in the book, but her portrayal of marriage is unfortunately one I see every freaking day in real life. People *are* mean as shit to their spouses. People speak to their husbands and wives in ways they would never speak to a friend or a stranger. People belittle their spouses to, and in front of, other people constantly. The lack of basic respect many married people treat each other with is stunning. (If you are me, and have tried hard for the past fifteen years to not be that person.) So while I'm reading her book and noticing she is kinda mean to her husband in it, it doesn't strike me as terribly out of the ordinary.
But then, while I am on amazon, I decide to see what else she's written. The second book is also autobiographical. It's all about how she cheats on her husband. Oh. I guess there was trouble in paradise after all!
xoxo
Thursday, May 13, 2010
que pasa, bitches?
Some day soon I will write a post of substance, a post of coherence, a post with a point that actually makes a point. Today, however, is not that day. Today you get, yet again, the random spewings of my brain. Though fear not! There will be no more links to vaguely upsetting pictures of anyone's senator. (You must admit, when you inflict that upon your reading public, there's nowhere to go but up. There's a plan in everything I do.)
First of all I want to tell you one more time how much I love google. Not an hour ago, Led Zep Girl and Townie Girl were having a discussion of MTV back in the day, and while Led Zep Girl could name most of the original VJs, she was stuck on one. "Tall goofy guy with spiky hair..." TG had no idea, and I'll be damned if I did either when they pulled me into this. But I googled and in ten seconds or less my amazing google-fu presented: Alan Hunter. Ten years ago this would have been one of those questions where your brain hurt and the answer popped randomly into your head at 3 am and you'd have to resist from calling the person you'd been debating it with and waking them up.
Second of all, I'd like to tell you the good, the bad, and the torture-Andrea points of trivia last night. I was a good little low carb girl and decided that I would allow myself one, and just one, beer. So I sipped my delicious IPA with very tiny little girly sips (and immense self-discipline) all night and made it last. On the bad side of the equation, the answer to the halftime question was the Red Hot Chili Peppers, and I did *not* get it on the first clue because I didn't know what their original band name was. (Anthony, I'm sorry, baby. I will study the facts of your life with more diligence and not get distracted by how much I would like to lick every one of your tattoos. Pinky swear.) Torture Andrea? The host played "No More No More" by Aerosmith and so I was moved to lip synch it, as you do, to Mr Barma, who then asked with amusement if I were wasted on the quarter of an IPA that I had consumed up until that point. I said NO, I just liked that album--Toys in the Attic, you philistines--and did he know how many times I listened to it in high school? To which he replied, "How many times on your back?" Oh, everyone is a comedian. You write one little tiny post about what music you used to have sex to as a teenager and you never hear the end of it. God.
Thirdly, I am finally reading "Julie and Julia" because I plan on renting the DVD of the movie and I always like to read the book first, so the movie will suck in comparison. I kid, I kid. But actually, I am on that kick again of reading people's humorous autobiographical opuses that started out as blogs and turned into a book deal, 'cause Jesus Christ, man, doesn't the whole world need to know what music I fucked to in high school in print? Keep hope alive n' all.
And last, what do we think of these sandals and similar styles? I find the whole ankle-cuff thing very fresh and kinda intriguing, but I fear I am too old and/or too short for that crap and that while Our Lil MILF could get away with such things, I would look ridic. (Plus I have to admit I don't need any more flat sandals. I'm supposed to be looking for shoes for work. This is the kind of thing that leads me to buy yet another pair of jeans when I go out looking for work clothes. Sigh. I want a lifestyle in which I can wear jeans and funky sandals every day. Like blogger-turned-highly-paid-author! That'd work.)
xoxo
First of all I want to tell you one more time how much I love google. Not an hour ago, Led Zep Girl and Townie Girl were having a discussion of MTV back in the day, and while Led Zep Girl could name most of the original VJs, she was stuck on one. "Tall goofy guy with spiky hair..." TG had no idea, and I'll be damned if I did either when they pulled me into this. But I googled and in ten seconds or less my amazing google-fu presented: Alan Hunter. Ten years ago this would have been one of those questions where your brain hurt and the answer popped randomly into your head at 3 am and you'd have to resist from calling the person you'd been debating it with and waking them up.
Second of all, I'd like to tell you the good, the bad, and the torture-Andrea points of trivia last night. I was a good little low carb girl and decided that I would allow myself one, and just one, beer. So I sipped my delicious IPA with very tiny little girly sips (and immense self-discipline) all night and made it last. On the bad side of the equation, the answer to the halftime question was the Red Hot Chili Peppers, and I did *not* get it on the first clue because I didn't know what their original band name was. (Anthony, I'm sorry, baby. I will study the facts of your life with more diligence and not get distracted by how much I would like to lick every one of your tattoos. Pinky swear.) Torture Andrea? The host played "No More No More" by Aerosmith and so I was moved to lip synch it, as you do, to Mr Barma, who then asked with amusement if I were wasted on the quarter of an IPA that I had consumed up until that point. I said NO, I just liked that album--Toys in the Attic, you philistines--and did he know how many times I listened to it in high school? To which he replied, "How many times on your back?" Oh, everyone is a comedian. You write one little tiny post about what music you used to have sex to as a teenager and you never hear the end of it. God.
Thirdly, I am finally reading "Julie and Julia" because I plan on renting the DVD of the movie and I always like to read the book first, so the movie will suck in comparison. I kid, I kid. But actually, I am on that kick again of reading people's humorous autobiographical opuses that started out as blogs and turned into a book deal, 'cause Jesus Christ, man, doesn't the whole world need to know what music I fucked to in high school in print? Keep hope alive n' all.
And last, what do we think of these sandals and similar styles? I find the whole ankle-cuff thing very fresh and kinda intriguing, but I fear I am too old and/or too short for that crap and that while Our Lil MILF could get away with such things, I would look ridic. (Plus I have to admit I don't need any more flat sandals. I'm supposed to be looking for shoes for work. This is the kind of thing that leads me to buy yet another pair of jeans when I go out looking for work clothes. Sigh. I want a lifestyle in which I can wear jeans and funky sandals every day. Like blogger-turned-highly-paid-author! That'd work.)
xoxo
Friday, April 30, 2010
lies, damn lies, and statistics
Or however that quote goes. If I really cared for the welfare of my blog readers, I'd have googled it, right?
I'm reading this book about the history of statistics in baseball and the controversies about and uses thereof (shoutout to Mr Indemnity: sound familiar, dude? it's your book. want it back when I'm done?) It's all much more fascinating than my poor description would probably lead you to believe. Do you know what the guy who invented rotisserie (i.e. fantasy) baseball said? Something along the lines of feeling like he's Robert Oppenheimer and has let loose a great evil upon the world unintentionally. Ha! He also said that people follow him into the men's room and try to regale him with stories of their teams and all the great decisions they've made when he's just trying to take a shit. So, yeah, I can see where that would get a wee bit annoying.
Anyway, the book also discusses how with the advent of computers, completely meaningless stats can be called up at a moment's notice and inserted into, say, the mouth of Tim McCarver. (The book doesn't *actually* mention Tim McCarver. That's editorializing on my part. Mea maxima culpa.) I am reminded of that by the blurb yahoo! sports has given me today on Miguel Olivo, who is both my catcher and, y'know, Ubaldo's. According to them, Mr Olivo now has 101 career HRs and 102 career walks, and no MLB player with at least 100 HRs has ever ended his career with more home runs than walks. To which I say: So? And also: Huh? What exactly is that supposed to tell me? That he never waits for a pitch?
I'll tell you a bit of news that tells me more about Mr Olivo. He passed a kidney stone in the middle of Wednesday's game and went right on playing. Would JD (Nancy) Drew do that? I think not.
xoxo
I'm reading this book about the history of statistics in baseball and the controversies about and uses thereof (shoutout to Mr Indemnity: sound familiar, dude? it's your book. want it back when I'm done?) It's all much more fascinating than my poor description would probably lead you to believe. Do you know what the guy who invented rotisserie (i.e. fantasy) baseball said? Something along the lines of feeling like he's Robert Oppenheimer and has let loose a great evil upon the world unintentionally. Ha! He also said that people follow him into the men's room and try to regale him with stories of their teams and all the great decisions they've made when he's just trying to take a shit. So, yeah, I can see where that would get a wee bit annoying.
Anyway, the book also discusses how with the advent of computers, completely meaningless stats can be called up at a moment's notice and inserted into, say, the mouth of Tim McCarver. (The book doesn't *actually* mention Tim McCarver. That's editorializing on my part. Mea maxima culpa.) I am reminded of that by the blurb yahoo! sports has given me today on Miguel Olivo, who is both my catcher and, y'know, Ubaldo's. According to them, Mr Olivo now has 101 career HRs and 102 career walks, and no MLB player with at least 100 HRs has ever ended his career with more home runs than walks. To which I say: So? And also: Huh? What exactly is that supposed to tell me? That he never waits for a pitch?
I'll tell you a bit of news that tells me more about Mr Olivo. He passed a kidney stone in the middle of Wednesday's game and went right on playing. Would JD (Nancy) Drew do that? I think not.
xoxo
Friday, January 29, 2010
the things they publish
Here's an excerpt from a dating self-help book. For women. Naturally.
Edna Pollin, the divorce attorney in Denver, told me that in her experience, many women who divorce their husbands because they "want something more" aren't going to find it. What often happens, she said, is that her ex-husband remarries (someone much younger), and the new wife gets all of his love, companionship, financial support, and caretaking, while the wife who left him ends up in a one-bedroom apartment with a Netflix subscription and no sign of Prince Charming. Then she finally appreciates what she had, but even if her ex-husband is still single, she's caused irreparable damage and he won't take her back.
The premise of this whole book is, apparently: settle. Settle, settle, settle, settle. You'd best marry the first guy who asks you and then hold onto him by any means possible, because you aren't gettin' any younger or prettier, you know. You may very well be getting smarter, more mature, or more accomplished, but none of that is any currency that counts when it comes to hooking a man. And of course you want to hook a man.
Sigh.
I honestly don't know were to start. The fact that there's a whole industry founded on "relationship" books that push similar messages (and remind me that, as a middle-aged woman, I am basically worthless, so I should just start hoarding cats now, kthxbye) is too depressing to even delve into.
Then I remember that in the very same Borders or Barnes & Noble that has a huge selection of this tripe, there's also sure to be a shelf or three of Buddhism books that talk about kindness, mindfulness, and equanimity. And I am slightly appeased. Don't look in the wrong section and all will be well. Namaste.
xoxo
Edna Pollin, the divorce attorney in Denver, told me that in her experience, many women who divorce their husbands because they "want something more" aren't going to find it. What often happens, she said, is that her ex-husband remarries (someone much younger), and the new wife gets all of his love, companionship, financial support, and caretaking, while the wife who left him ends up in a one-bedroom apartment with a Netflix subscription and no sign of Prince Charming. Then she finally appreciates what she had, but even if her ex-husband is still single, she's caused irreparable damage and he won't take her back.
The premise of this whole book is, apparently: settle. Settle, settle, settle, settle. You'd best marry the first guy who asks you and then hold onto him by any means possible, because you aren't gettin' any younger or prettier, you know. You may very well be getting smarter, more mature, or more accomplished, but none of that is any currency that counts when it comes to hooking a man. And of course you want to hook a man.
Sigh.
I honestly don't know were to start. The fact that there's a whole industry founded on "relationship" books that push similar messages (and remind me that, as a middle-aged woman, I am basically worthless, so I should just start hoarding cats now, kthxbye) is too depressing to even delve into.
Then I remember that in the very same Borders or Barnes & Noble that has a huge selection of this tripe, there's also sure to be a shelf or three of Buddhism books that talk about kindness, mindfulness, and equanimity. And I am slightly appeased. Don't look in the wrong section and all will be well. Namaste.
xoxo
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
and on a more serious (nonlinguistic) note
I just read a little blog/blurb about how parents in some Chicago suburb are protesting one of the books on their ninth graders' summer reading list because of strong language and sexual content. Commenters on the story were some for, some against, this censorship, but one comment in particular about whether or not a 14 year old could "handle" reading such a book got me thinking.
When I was in 8th grade, I read Lord of the Flies in school. Not a "vulgar" book and a classic, and I don't think the kind of book anyone objects to being taught to schoolchildren. But I could not "handle" it. It was so upsetting to me, because the message I took from it was that people, all people, are, at their core, bad. That was not a message I wanted to think about when I was 12 or 13. (D had to read it in school, too, though I think not till sophomore year, and I reread it when he had it in the house. Let me say, my reading was a bit more nuanced the second time around.) Reading something with sexual content or OMG bad words wouldn't have bothered me a bit as a young teenager--in fact, it was a plus--but something with an exceedingly dark view of human nature? No. I was a sensitive little girl, you know.
So then I was thinking about the two books I remember reading the summer after ninth grade when I was fourteen. It was a very tough summer for me, my first bout of real clinical depression, and I read *a lot*. And I read two books that were absolutely my favorites for years after: Dune and The Persian Boy. Both books I reread many years later in adulthood, and lemme say, Dune disappointed, The Persian Boy did not. But what was absolutely mindblowing when reading them as an adult was realizing how certain things in my psyche had to have been implanted there from those two books, and I never would have realized if I hadn't reread. I mean, The Persian Boy, besides being absolutely a classic historical novel, is also an extremely touching gay male love story, and you wouldn't have thought that would have shaped my romantic and psychosexual wiring in any way, but um, yeah. In retrospect, you betcha.
I guess my point being, yeah, what your kids read (or watch or listen to) as young teenagers probably *will* subconsciously influence them in certain ways, but those ways are totally unpredictable and idiosyncratic, and trying to shield them *or* shape them is probably doomed to failure. So feh on censorship.
Oh, yeah. The other book I clearly remember reading the summer I was 14? My Secret Garden. I'm guessing no one gets that one on their summer reading list.
xoxo
When I was in 8th grade, I read Lord of the Flies in school. Not a "vulgar" book and a classic, and I don't think the kind of book anyone objects to being taught to schoolchildren. But I could not "handle" it. It was so upsetting to me, because the message I took from it was that people, all people, are, at their core, bad. That was not a message I wanted to think about when I was 12 or 13. (D had to read it in school, too, though I think not till sophomore year, and I reread it when he had it in the house. Let me say, my reading was a bit more nuanced the second time around.) Reading something with sexual content or OMG bad words wouldn't have bothered me a bit as a young teenager--in fact, it was a plus--but something with an exceedingly dark view of human nature? No. I was a sensitive little girl, you know.
So then I was thinking about the two books I remember reading the summer after ninth grade when I was fourteen. It was a very tough summer for me, my first bout of real clinical depression, and I read *a lot*. And I read two books that were absolutely my favorites for years after: Dune and The Persian Boy. Both books I reread many years later in adulthood, and lemme say, Dune disappointed, The Persian Boy did not. But what was absolutely mindblowing when reading them as an adult was realizing how certain things in my psyche had to have been implanted there from those two books, and I never would have realized if I hadn't reread. I mean, The Persian Boy, besides being absolutely a classic historical novel, is also an extremely touching gay male love story, and you wouldn't have thought that would have shaped my romantic and psychosexual wiring in any way, but um, yeah. In retrospect, you betcha.
I guess my point being, yeah, what your kids read (or watch or listen to) as young teenagers probably *will* subconsciously influence them in certain ways, but those ways are totally unpredictable and idiosyncratic, and trying to shield them *or* shape them is probably doomed to failure. So feh on censorship.
Oh, yeah. The other book I clearly remember reading the summer I was 14? My Secret Garden. I'm guessing no one gets that one on their summer reading list.
xoxo
Friday, May 22, 2009
classic literature query
One of the side effects of going to high school in a fairly crappy school system and then cherry-picking one's way through college requirement classes (and then spending most of one's adult life shamefully reading only trash, nonfiction, and of course the interwebz) is that there are many famous writers one will have never attempted. Now, in my case, I am just fine with never having read any of those famous Russian novelists, James Joyce, Virginia Woolf, or Kerouac, among many many others. I can live out my life in blissful literary ignorance, emphasis on the blissful. But for a while, I have been tempted to want to read some F Scott Fitzgerald, especially Tender is the Night (because of its subject matter, naturally).
My question to you, dear blog readers, is this: will I enjoy this undertaking or will it make me want to stick pointy things into my eyeballs? Advise me before my next trip to the bookstore, por favor.
xoxo
My question to you, dear blog readers, is this: will I enjoy this undertaking or will it make me want to stick pointy things into my eyeballs? Advise me before my next trip to the bookstore, por favor.
xoxo
Thursday, April 23, 2009
quickie book review
Undress Me in the Temple of Heaven by Susan Jane Gilman.
You should read this book. In fact, if any of you all would like to borrow it, lemme know.
This is a memoir of a woman, more or less my age, who in 1986, freshly graduated from college, decides to take off on an ill-advised around-the-world backpacking trip with one of her Ivy League classmates. As a starting point, they go to communist China which has just been opened up (by some definition of "open") to Westerners. It's all very fascinating. And then the classmate begins showing signs of paranoia which eventually leads to a complete psychotic break. Holy crap. Depending on the kindness of strangers and newly-met friends, the author has to get the sick woman out of the country without alerting the officials how far gone she is. Their panic is buoyed by stories of, for example, a Belgian woman who was committed to an asylum in China for a year for hallucinating from a fever.
Extremely riveting story, so much so that while I was reading it at North Station yesterday, I barely heard them calling my train. It would make a great movie, so hopefully someone's on that.
xoxo
You should read this book. In fact, if any of you all would like to borrow it, lemme know.
This is a memoir of a woman, more or less my age, who in 1986, freshly graduated from college, decides to take off on an ill-advised around-the-world backpacking trip with one of her Ivy League classmates. As a starting point, they go to communist China which has just been opened up (by some definition of "open") to Westerners. It's all very fascinating. And then the classmate begins showing signs of paranoia which eventually leads to a complete psychotic break. Holy crap. Depending on the kindness of strangers and newly-met friends, the author has to get the sick woman out of the country without alerting the officials how far gone she is. Their panic is buoyed by stories of, for example, a Belgian woman who was committed to an asylum in China for a year for hallucinating from a fever.
Extremely riveting story, so much so that while I was reading it at North Station yesterday, I barely heard them calling my train. It would make a great movie, so hopefully someone's on that.
xoxo
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