The white haired man in the coffee shop hung his head a little.
"I just don't think I can do it anymore."
The man sitting next to him seemed concerned and shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
"You can't give up."
"No, no. I'm too old anyway. What's the use? I keep telling Carla that it's not going to work."
"You need to stay positive."
"No, I'm tired of it. I keep trying to use it and it won't work right. I type and the damn thing just turns off. I just need to face facts, I'll never be able to use a computer."
"Never say never."
"I guess I'm back at square one." Sighs. "I hate square one."
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Auburn Road, the reading material
Three signs lined the property's snowy curb:
1. "Future home of The Haunted Castle"
2. "St. Vincent Scout Lodge"
3. "Christmas Trees"
1. "Future home of The Haunted Castle"
2. "St. Vincent Scout Lodge"
3. "Christmas Trees"
Monday, December 28, 2009
On culinary arts
"Not that I'm bragging or anything, but the last time I made this, I got mad bitches."
-M.Z.
-M.Z.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Excerpt
"I've always been good at making money," he said, "but I never learned how to save shit. I drink too much wine... I can be antisocial and temperamental and defensive. I am a man of routine, which means I'm boring. I have very little patience with idiots." He smiled and tried to leaven up the moment. "Also, I can't look at you without wanting to have sex with you."
"I can work with that," I said.
- From "Committed" by Elizabeth Gilbert
"I can work with that," I said.
- From "Committed" by Elizabeth Gilbert
The Lynching of Lamby-Pie: A Christmas Story
I had a white blanket trimmed in lace and a plush army of bunnies, kitties and bears – each with a name, gender and day of the week to sleep under my arm. (Apparently, I was the leader of my own polygamist stuffed animal sect.) My brother had a small quilt that he drug around Linus-style. My uncle had Lamby-Pie.
The small lamb was toted everywhere, according to my Grams, who, out of dutiful cleanliness, would lamb-nap when a proper bath was needed. One summer, after one such regular scrub, Lamby-Pie was left to air dry outside in the breeze. A simple shoestring hung from a small branch would do just fine, Grams thought.
As Lamby-Pie’s four-year-old companion came hunting, he took one look at the lamb – hung by his neck from a tree – and rushed screaming into the house. “You hung my Wamby-Pie!”
The small lamb was toted everywhere, according to my Grams, who, out of dutiful cleanliness, would lamb-nap when a proper bath was needed. One summer, after one such regular scrub, Lamby-Pie was left to air dry outside in the breeze. A simple shoestring hung from a small branch would do just fine, Grams thought.
As Lamby-Pie’s four-year-old companion came hunting, he took one look at the lamb – hung by his neck from a tree – and rushed screaming into the house. “You hung my Wamby-Pie!”
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
In transit
The delayed train means invisible scenic route due to that pesky type of nighttime that comes with being in the middle of who-the-hell-knows-where.
Traveling at night requires much more self-entertainment focus. For example: Your book choice cannot just be that one you’ve been meaning to flip through, you know, the I-hope-this-is-impressive one you bought while out with your friend the philosophy student. It must be one you’ve been plotting your attack on for weeks. Nothing slows time like disinterest.
I can only mark our trip’s progress based on a few smatterings of light – mostly orange-hued street lamps and Christmas displays shining from yards and roofs and windows. I notice something: There is a varying gap in holiday light displays that can instantly speak to the income of the family behind them. The biggest homes, inset high on hills or protected by gated communities seem to hold a chic standard for Christmas lights: white only, with the occasional use of yellow or blue when appropriate. But my favorites, they twinkle out of the small yards that mark their boundaries with chain links. I am always thankful to the family who can somehow evoke the Vegas strip in a nativity scene, with recycled reindeer replacing lowing cattle.
And when reading or counting light displays in lieu sheep gets old, take advantage of your surroundings (i.e. eavesdrop). I'm always amused and amazed by the lack of shame people have in public. Truthfully, it delights me. So did she:
The voice from behind belonged to an ex-prostitute traveling home from the South. She spent her trip on the phone with a voiceless man who had, obviously, crossed the wrong lady. (Please note: There was nothing left to do but write down the highlights.)
- I need to know what I can do to keep your cock from running wild.
- I was a hot mess when I came to Atlanta. I was looking to get fucked - might as well get paid.
- That's the difference between a nasty trick and a trick. A trick would put a rubber on you. I would know. And she fucked you without a condom? Nasty trick.
- She a trick. She a trick. She a trick. Even worse, she a dumb trick. She ain't even getting no money.
- I should call you when I get home. I'm on a train full of people and I've been loud and cussing and carrying on.
- And her ribs be good as hell.
- You know when you, me, and Boo-Boo, when we went?
- I might piss you off. I ain't gonna never hurt you.
I love the holidays.
Traveling at night requires much more self-entertainment focus. For example: Your book choice cannot just be that one you’ve been meaning to flip through, you know, the I-hope-this-is-impressive one you bought while out with your friend the philosophy student. It must be one you’ve been plotting your attack on for weeks. Nothing slows time like disinterest.
I can only mark our trip’s progress based on a few smatterings of light – mostly orange-hued street lamps and Christmas displays shining from yards and roofs and windows. I notice something: There is a varying gap in holiday light displays that can instantly speak to the income of the family behind them. The biggest homes, inset high on hills or protected by gated communities seem to hold a chic standard for Christmas lights: white only, with the occasional use of yellow or blue when appropriate. But my favorites, they twinkle out of the small yards that mark their boundaries with chain links. I am always thankful to the family who can somehow evoke the Vegas strip in a nativity scene, with recycled reindeer replacing lowing cattle.
And when reading or counting light displays in lieu sheep gets old, take advantage of your surroundings (i.e. eavesdrop). I'm always amused and amazed by the lack of shame people have in public. Truthfully, it delights me. So did she:
The voice from behind belonged to an ex-prostitute traveling home from the South. She spent her trip on the phone with a voiceless man who had, obviously, crossed the wrong lady. (Please note: There was nothing left to do but write down the highlights.)
- I need to know what I can do to keep your cock from running wild.
- I was a hot mess when I came to Atlanta. I was looking to get fucked - might as well get paid.
- That's the difference between a nasty trick and a trick. A trick would put a rubber on you. I would know. And she fucked you without a condom? Nasty trick.
- She a trick. She a trick. She a trick. Even worse, she a dumb trick. She ain't even getting no money.
- I should call you when I get home. I'm on a train full of people and I've been loud and cussing and carrying on.
- And her ribs be good as hell.
- You know when you, me, and Boo-Boo, when we went?
- I might piss you off. I ain't gonna never hurt you.
I love the holidays.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Blizzard, oh baby.
Nothing brings out community duty like the first winter storm. Brooklyn was cloaked in snow and slush and an army of shovels dug in a line. More than one welcome mat was swept up on the curb, crumpled and frozen. Shop keepers enlisted those brave enough to march out for coffee or bagels to help lift their security gates from the snow drifts. A street worker helped a couple push their car and the little boy with all the curls threw snow balls at unsuspecting pedestrians.
Precipitation is good for the soul.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
On rules to live by
"Never wear lip gloss onstage. Your hair will stick to it when you head-bang."
-Taylor Swift
Friday, December 18, 2009
Movie Review: A context-free highlight
"Paul does manage to wheedle one dinner date, but their evening ends,
as so many Manhattan nights do, with a dead body falling from a
terrace."
as so many Manhattan nights do, with a dead body falling from a
terrace."
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Excerpt
"Legos used to be jumbled batches of bright bricks with the occasional wheel or axle. Now you can buy the Star Wars Venator-Class Republic Attack Cruiser kit, 1,170 pieces with instructions longer than The Brothers Karamazov. You build a cool spaceship, so long as you follow the directions – a useful skill, but no the same as constructing a cathedral out of nothing but cubes and confidence."
-Nancy Gibbs in "The Power of Play-Doh"
Monday, December 14, 2009
Friday, December 11, 2009
Thursday, December 10, 2009
On zinging
“Bring it on, William. I’m reasonably confident you’ll be adding revenge to the long list of things you’re no good at. Next to being married, running a high school glee club, and finding a hairstyle that doesn’t make you look like a lesbian.”
- The amazing Jane Lynch on "Glee"
- The amazing Jane Lynch on "Glee"
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Excerpt
"I don't think New York City is like other cities. It does not have character like Los Angeles or New Orleans. It is all characters – in fact, it is everything. It can destroy a man, but if his eyes are open it cannot bore him.
New York is an ugly city, a dirty city. Its climate is a scandal, its politics are used to frighten children, its traffic is madness, its competition is murderous. But there is one thing about it – once you have lived in New York and it has become your home, no place else is good enough."
- "The Making of a New Yorker" by John Steinbeck
Monday, December 7, 2009
Sounds of a Brooklyn Christmas
1. Christmas carols through my headphones
2. Barking dogs
3. Car alarms
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Song of the day
"Don't Worry About Tomorrow" by Van Morrison
My Choice VM:
1. Madame Joy
2. Into The Mystic
3. T.B. Sheets
4. Don't Worry About Tomorrow
5. Stepping Out Queen, Part Two
6. Slim Slow Slider
7. Wild Night
8. Joyous Sound
9. I'll Be Your Lover, Too
10. Contemplation Rose
Friday, a list
1. A man on the train is hunched in the corner playing a hand-held video game. I should know the name, but don't. He wears that wilted look that children get while they watch TV. Every few minutes you can see a bit of muscle movement in his face which I interpret in the way I see fit. I can't tell if he wins after my view is obstructed by the pretty girl in the gold dress.
2. The cashier in the cafeteria is singing Nat King Cole's 'Unforgettable' to herself. It's nice.
3. Sickness gives me the right to buy expensive juices guiltlessly. Sadly, this rule does not apply to bad hair days.
4. Russian woman with the largest diamond I've ever seen. I always imagined that I'd be slightly delighted and beguiled during an encounter with a small fortune perched on a finger, but I only felt disgusted and suspicious. Purse says PRADA. Looks real. Case closed.
5. Little girl dressed in varying shades of pink is wearing a Ring Pop which keeps getting stuck in her hair. A ring of this size is much more flattering on her, I decide.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Excerpt
"When people start flipping out in the library, a special thing happens—patrons get interested; suddenly the porn on their screen isn't as interesting as the fight that may be taking place just a few feet away. They don't leave their Internet terminals to help out because they're afraid they'll lose their time (libraries learned this months ago during a rather sizable earthquake, when patrons were more concerned about getting their Internet time back when the library was being evacuated, than whether or not the light panel dangling above their head might fall on top of them), they simply turn their chairs and stare."
- McSweeney's "Dispatches from a Public Librarian" By Scott Douglas
(A favorite)
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
J-School: How To Learn Nothing
Oh, what I wished I would have known when I needed to know it. A journalism education is acquired entirely outside of a classroom, yes. I should have majored in ANYTHING else, yes. A majority of universities with journalism programs are so out of touch with the working world it's hilarious? Yes.
Am I bitter? You betcha. I was duped. Slate, where were you when I needed you the most?
Highlights of Jack Shafer's 'Can J-School Be Saved?' below:
(PREACH!)
"I'm convinced that if all the programs in journalism—undergrad and graduate—disappeared tomorrow, America's newspapers, magazines, and broadcasters wouldn't miss a beat of the news cycle. Our culture produces news junkies, English majors, aspiring novelists, sports nuts, failed lawyers, and student journalists in such profusion that we'll never run out of the green material from which to build excellent reporters and editors.
In fact, a J-school degree means so little to me that I don't hold it against its holder.
Some wonderful people teach journalism, but let's acknowledge that most J-schools stock their faculties with aging journalists who bailed from the news business because they 1) got lazy or 2) wanted another gig after missing their paper's assistant-managing-editor track or 3) burned out and sought a place to relight or 4) fell in love with the academic life.
Non-journalists don't know that the greatest single impediment to becoming a reporter is overcoming the basic human aversion to getting in strangers' faces and asking nosey questions. With the exception of a few psychopaths, nobody in the business ever triumphs over this aversion.
All departments of journalism should divest themselves of advertising and public-relations tracks for the obvious reasons of cross-contamination. In general, PR people are journalists' enemies, except when they work for your publication, when they're enemies in specific.
Easterbrook remembers his one year at Medill as "one year of practice in writing simple declarative sentences."
I'd encourage J-school students to overload with courses outside their department, partly because those classes are more demanding, but mostly because it builds a journalist's character to skip classes and work on the school publication instead."
Am I bitter? You betcha. I was duped. Slate, where were you when I needed you the most?
Highlights of Jack Shafer's 'Can J-School Be Saved?' below:
(PREACH!)
"I'm convinced that if all the programs in journalism—undergrad and graduate—disappeared tomorrow, America's newspapers, magazines, and broadcasters wouldn't miss a beat of the news cycle. Our culture produces news junkies, English majors, aspiring novelists, sports nuts, failed lawyers, and student journalists in such profusion that we'll never run out of the green material from which to build excellent reporters and editors.
In fact, a J-school degree means so little to me that I don't hold it against its holder.
Some wonderful people teach journalism, but let's acknowledge that most J-schools stock their faculties with aging journalists who bailed from the news business because they 1) got lazy or 2) wanted another gig after missing their paper's assistant-managing-editor track or 3) burned out and sought a place to relight or 4) fell in love with the academic life.
Non-journalists don't know that the greatest single impediment to becoming a reporter is overcoming the basic human aversion to getting in strangers' faces and asking nosey questions. With the exception of a few psychopaths, nobody in the business ever triumphs over this aversion.
All departments of journalism should divest themselves of advertising and public-relations tracks for the obvious reasons of cross-contamination. In general, PR people are journalists' enemies, except when they work for your publication, when they're enemies in specific.
Easterbrook remembers his one year at Medill as "one year of practice in writing simple declarative sentences."
I'd encourage J-school students to overload with courses outside their department, partly because those classes are more demanding, but mostly because it builds a journalist's character to skip classes and work on the school publication instead."
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Excerpt
"In a neighborhood of stay-at-home moms, Shaun's mother worked. A public-health nurse, she was the one you went to if you woke up with yellow eyes or jammed a piece of caramel corn too far into your ear."
- From David Sedaris' "Loggerheads" in this week's New Yorker
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