(Get your minds out of the gutter. Not that Johnson.)
Okay, since I ran out of alphabet, here's a different approach.
My very first blog used Samuel Johnson's first essay, mostly because I figure he was essentially blogging twice a week back then, merely with different technology (and, of course, remuneration). Since he moralizes quite a bit in the essays, I thought I might use him as a starting block or stepping stone or some other metaphor for a mental crutch. Here goes:
No. 1 (Tuesday, 20 March 1750)
“… it is more pleasing to see smoke brightening into flame, than flame sinking into smoke.”
The Smoke and the Flame got stuck, stage right.
Said the Smoke, “No, no. After you. You are the one they want to see, all action, light, and heat.”
To which the Flame replied, “No, no. After you. They truly adore your mystery; the way you keep them guessing is more delightful than an actual fact.”
“Or a factual act.”
“What?”
“You don’t think much, do you?”
“No, but I do much.”
“You think?”
“What?”
“Nothing. Are you going on first or what?”
“Oh, I don’t know…”
Meanwhile, center stage, the Pile of Sticks was taking another bow in front of a slowly exiting audience.
Friday, March 23, 2007
Thursday, March 22, 2007
subbing today
In one of the classes a girl asked me, without irony, I swear, "Hey, mistah, c'n I axe you a question?"
"Sure."
"You like WHAM?"
I have no idea how to take that question. Little does she know that I followed them around when they were still playing small clubs, before they got a big contract and "sold out."
(Also, what's a band like WHAM to kids born in the nineties?)
"Sure."
"You like WHAM?"
I have no idea how to take that question. Little does she know that I followed them around when they were still playing small clubs, before they got a big contract and "sold out."
(Also, what's a band like WHAM to kids born in the nineties?)
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Les Miz in da house
Want to know what's slightly disconcerting?
Having a seven-and-a-half-year old singing, in her brashest Broadway voice,
"DON'T they KNOW they're MAking LOVE to ONE alREAdy DEEEEEEEEAAAAAAD?"
Having a seven-and-a-half-year old singing, in her brashest Broadway voice,
"DON'T they KNOW they're MAking LOVE to ONE alREAdy DEEEEEEEEAAAAAAD?"
Me and Ogden Nash
That darn interview is still bugging me. The line about Ogden Nash was supposed to be self-deprecating, but she cut that part. Let's see what you think.
I remember saying, "I'd like to be the next Ogden Nash, but the Saturday Evening Post isn't around any more."
I was trying to be cute along the lines of "..., but I never get any responses from The Saturday Evening Post or Colliers." But it was off the top of my head, and those lines tend to be incomplete.
Anyway, so you know it's not an idle threat, here's something I wrote a long time ago, prompted by a Nash anniversary piece by Roger Angell in the New Yorker.
“Readers […] - this one, at least – still instinctively look for the restorative Nashian couplet or clarifying stanza about today’s water-quaffers, navel-piercers, abs-flaunters, and cell-gabblers, not to mention the assertive S.U.V., the forty-room beach cottage, and ‘could care less.’” --Roger Angell, The New Yorker, Aug. 5, 2002.
Uh-Eau
The consumption of vast amounts of eau
Results in a release of the same, beleau.
Water’s crest in popularity arises, as I figure it,
From the newfound necessity to take breaks from work far more often than one did for a cigurit.
Water, Water Everywhere,
And Not a Bite to Eat
For your figure no matter will be quite as drastic
As drinking water endlessly from bottles made of clear and shapely iconoplastic.
But hydration has less impact on your general fitness
Than an unwanted side-effect to which I now bear witness:
Water-quaffers
Have no money left in their household coffers.
If you wonder why those carrying the plastic flasks are so lissome and lithe,
‘tis because they must fast assiduously to choke up the health-religious tithe.
In other words, once you’ve paid the siphoners and distillers and bottlers and transporters and marketers and sellers for the amounts of water that the Monsoon season of South-east Asia can hardly compete with,
There’s nothing left for you to eat with.
To the Abdominatrix
I don’t know what I ever did with
My gaze
In the days
Before the bared mid-riff.
Abominable Abdominals
I
Son, you may have seen how female body parts that function digestively
Are of late exposed quite suggestively.
Teens today their mid-sections like to flaunt,
Testing categories famously postulated by Kant.
For they arrest a passing glance in a moment of embarrassing pausality
And temporarily wipe out any ab priori knowledge of space and time and causality.
As for fab posteriori knowledge,
Well,
For that you’d best wait until you’re old enough for college.
II
Daughter, why this metallic severance to our connection that was so quaintly umbilical?
It distorts the cute fleshy spiral that had grown faintly hilical.
Your navel that resembled the bread roll affectionately christened the “Kaiser”
Is now pierced by studs and bars that invoke the artillery shells of the invading forces of World War I which ought to have been behaving much naiser.
I’ve not forgot,
When you were a tot,
How my lips and a plosive fricative on the jiggly folds in your belly would boost your mood enormously and how your bubbly giggles made for a satisfying designator.
But wait. Come here. Maybe the metal adds buzz to your resonator.
Ears Everywhere, But Where Are Your Eyes?
O, Masters of cellular communications,
Why must you invade all of life’s quotidian situations?
At the grocery store, doing some shopping,
You grab someone else’s cart and fill it with sausage and bacon because your broker tells you that pork-belly futures are dropping.
At school, because your mother says that the nation’s transportation system is on the skids,
You pick up the wrong kids.
At a wedding ceremony,
The guests of the groom are unable to catch the bride’s name because they’re listening to the logistical details of your alimony.
You never ever cease to drone
In that annoying little phone.
And all the while your immediate surroundings bear the brunt of you
Because you don’t pay attention to what’s in front of you.
Hark, Now. Wassup?
I think Shakespeare would condone
The use of a cellular phone.
For a vanquished king could easily receive a page
And be informed of all the juicy deaths that have just occurred off-stage.
The Plight of Gaia Iulia Soccermom
Another hedgerow’s bent, and who’s the perpetrator?
Oh gosh, that was me, in my V8 Overcompensator.
It Takes a Villa
For friends and guests, my wife presumes,
Our beach cottage has forty rooms.
They all fit; that’s the pity.
I think I’ll just stay in the city.
Oh, Could You?
Could care less.
“Could care less” might want to sting, but makes a mess.
The effort to express disdain
Through lack of n’t gets said in vain.
The speaker tries to sound above-it-all and haughty
But gets dragged down by of the omission of a little-bitty nottie.
For caring only cuts the auditor wide
When coulding is denied.
Could care less.
“Could care less” denudes its sense and needs redress.
To remain aloof, care less you couldn’t.
There, now, ain’t that understoodn’t?
I remember saying, "I'd like to be the next Ogden Nash, but the Saturday Evening Post isn't around any more."
I was trying to be cute along the lines of "..., but I never get any responses from The Saturday Evening Post or Colliers." But it was off the top of my head, and those lines tend to be incomplete.
Anyway, so you know it's not an idle threat, here's something I wrote a long time ago, prompted by a Nash anniversary piece by Roger Angell in the New Yorker.
“Readers […] - this one, at least – still instinctively look for the restorative Nashian couplet or clarifying stanza about today’s water-quaffers, navel-piercers, abs-flaunters, and cell-gabblers, not to mention the assertive S.U.V., the forty-room beach cottage, and ‘could care less.’” --Roger Angell, The New Yorker, Aug. 5, 2002.
Uh-Eau
The consumption of vast amounts of eau
Results in a release of the same, beleau.
Water’s crest in popularity arises, as I figure it,
From the newfound necessity to take breaks from work far more often than one did for a cigurit.
Water, Water Everywhere,
And Not a Bite to Eat
For your figure no matter will be quite as drastic
As drinking water endlessly from bottles made of clear and shapely iconoplastic.
But hydration has less impact on your general fitness
Than an unwanted side-effect to which I now bear witness:
Water-quaffers
Have no money left in their household coffers.
If you wonder why those carrying the plastic flasks are so lissome and lithe,
‘tis because they must fast assiduously to choke up the health-religious tithe.
In other words, once you’ve paid the siphoners and distillers and bottlers and transporters and marketers and sellers for the amounts of water that the Monsoon season of South-east Asia can hardly compete with,
There’s nothing left for you to eat with.
To the Abdominatrix
I don’t know what I ever did with
My gaze
In the days
Before the bared mid-riff.
Abominable Abdominals
I
Son, you may have seen how female body parts that function digestively
Are of late exposed quite suggestively.
Teens today their mid-sections like to flaunt,
Testing categories famously postulated by Kant.
For they arrest a passing glance in a moment of embarrassing pausality
And temporarily wipe out any ab priori knowledge of space and time and causality.
As for fab posteriori knowledge,
Well,
For that you’d best wait until you’re old enough for college.
II
Daughter, why this metallic severance to our connection that was so quaintly umbilical?
It distorts the cute fleshy spiral that had grown faintly hilical.
Your navel that resembled the bread roll affectionately christened the “Kaiser”
Is now pierced by studs and bars that invoke the artillery shells of the invading forces of World War I which ought to have been behaving much naiser.
I’ve not forgot,
When you were a tot,
How my lips and a plosive fricative on the jiggly folds in your belly would boost your mood enormously and how your bubbly giggles made for a satisfying designator.
But wait. Come here. Maybe the metal adds buzz to your resonator.
Ears Everywhere, But Where Are Your Eyes?
O, Masters of cellular communications,
Why must you invade all of life’s quotidian situations?
At the grocery store, doing some shopping,
You grab someone else’s cart and fill it with sausage and bacon because your broker tells you that pork-belly futures are dropping.
At school, because your mother says that the nation’s transportation system is on the skids,
You pick up the wrong kids.
At a wedding ceremony,
The guests of the groom are unable to catch the bride’s name because they’re listening to the logistical details of your alimony.
You never ever cease to drone
In that annoying little phone.
And all the while your immediate surroundings bear the brunt of you
Because you don’t pay attention to what’s in front of you.
Hark, Now. Wassup?
I think Shakespeare would condone
The use of a cellular phone.
For a vanquished king could easily receive a page
And be informed of all the juicy deaths that have just occurred off-stage.
The Plight of Gaia Iulia Soccermom
Another hedgerow’s bent, and who’s the perpetrator?
Oh gosh, that was me, in my V8 Overcompensator.
It Takes a Villa
For friends and guests, my wife presumes,
Our beach cottage has forty rooms.
They all fit; that’s the pity.
I think I’ll just stay in the city.
Oh, Could You?
Could care less.
“Could care less” might want to sting, but makes a mess.
The effort to express disdain
Through lack of n’t gets said in vain.
The speaker tries to sound above-it-all and haughty
But gets dragged down by of the omission of a little-bitty nottie.
For caring only cuts the auditor wide
When coulding is denied.
Could care less.
“Could care less” denudes its sense and needs redress.
To remain aloof, care less you couldn’t.
There, now, ain’t that understoodn’t?
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Coco Tuesday
Ack.
We had his four years or fifty-thousand miles checkup and oil change today, and the jury is still out as to which part he detested more, the measuring and probing or the shots (three of them).
Judging by the drama, it was the measurements that got him. We wound up showing up an hour before the actual appointment because I couldn’t take his anticipatory dread anymore. Once he realized he wasn’t going to school he started freaking out. He had been told about the visit, but conveniently forgot about it (“At last – memory yields”).
Madge, by the way, was insistent that we tell him about the shots. She has a need to know, at all times, about everything. Mystery and surprise are her primal foes. She can ruin many a movie with this need. But she can also wind up her little brother by telling him things he doesn’t want to hear. And, when he ignores her, she makes sure he doesn’t. Somehow, though, we managed to make her keep quiet about the shots. Good thing, too, I think.
It’s really odd, how he dislikes getting undressed in order to be measured. In his four years I think his blood pressure has only been accurately taken once, his height maybe three times, his weight, never.
Oh, well. He got his shots and a toy and the pleasure or Madge’s company because she only had a half-day today.
Which, I guess, means that I have double-overtime.
I smell a raise.
We had his four years or fifty-thousand miles checkup and oil change today, and the jury is still out as to which part he detested more, the measuring and probing or the shots (three of them).
Judging by the drama, it was the measurements that got him. We wound up showing up an hour before the actual appointment because I couldn’t take his anticipatory dread anymore. Once he realized he wasn’t going to school he started freaking out. He had been told about the visit, but conveniently forgot about it (“At last – memory yields”).
Madge, by the way, was insistent that we tell him about the shots. She has a need to know, at all times, about everything. Mystery and surprise are her primal foes. She can ruin many a movie with this need. But she can also wind up her little brother by telling him things he doesn’t want to hear. And, when he ignores her, she makes sure he doesn’t. Somehow, though, we managed to make her keep quiet about the shots. Good thing, too, I think.
It’s really odd, how he dislikes getting undressed in order to be measured. In his four years I think his blood pressure has only been accurately taken once, his height maybe three times, his weight, never.
Oh, well. He got his shots and a toy and the pleasure or Madge’s company because she only had a half-day today.
Which, I guess, means that I have double-overtime.
I smell a raise.
Monday, March 19, 2007
Winehouse, Back to Black
Lately, the fare on the NYTimes Popcast has been so-so, as far as I'm concerned. Some good interviews, but the albums reviewed weren't quite to my taste.
The coverage of the bland fare was good, of course, but...
This week, though, MAN!
Amy Winehouse, go check her out. http://www.amywinehouse.co.uk/
It's like the Shirelles, but with an alcohol problem.
["Rehab" and "You Know I'm No Good" are my favorites so far, but "Tears Dry On Their Own" (a translation of sorts of "Ain't No Mountain High Enough" - listen to it and you'll tell right away) is "fun," too.]
The coverage of the bland fare was good, of course, but...
This week, though, MAN!
Amy Winehouse, go check her out. http://www.amywinehouse.co.uk/
It's like the Shirelles, but with an alcohol problem.
["Rehab" and "You Know I'm No Good" are my favorites so far, but "Tears Dry On Their Own" (a translation of sorts of "Ain't No Mountain High Enough" - listen to it and you'll tell right away) is "fun," too.]
Response to Julie's Comment (in a way)
Julie noted that she didn't know about the interview and it unrepressed (EXpressed?) some old memories.
Namely:
It used to be that I wouldn't introduce Julie to people I knew. And she invariably got insulted and we had to (a) work things out, (b) process emotions and evaluate the relationship, (c) feel guilty for a while and use our verbal skills to get into some good graces again. (Take your pick.)
Every single time, however, the case was this: I didn't think the other people were worthy of meeting Julie. Julie was none of their business. And, the sooner I got away from these people, the better.
But Julie, then as now, was/is way more social than I and felt somehow slighted.
She was nice enough to say that she may have just forgotten about the article, but, really, I'm not as happy with it as I wished I were, based on the actual phone conversation with Ms. Yost. But, oh well. I hear there is no such thing as bad publicity. Let's leave it at that.
Namely:
It used to be that I wouldn't introduce Julie to people I knew. And she invariably got insulted and we had to (a) work things out, (b) process emotions and evaluate the relationship, (c) feel guilty for a while and use our verbal skills to get into some good graces again. (Take your pick.)
Every single time, however, the case was this: I didn't think the other people were worthy of meeting Julie. Julie was none of their business. And, the sooner I got away from these people, the better.
But Julie, then as now, was/is way more social than I and felt somehow slighted.
She was nice enough to say that she may have just forgotten about the article, but, really, I'm not as happy with it as I wished I were, based on the actual phone conversation with Ms. Yost. But, oh well. I hear there is no such thing as bad publicity. Let's leave it at that.
Air Apparent
In other words, I hope Prince Philip regaled the family by passing gas and not by some mumbled racist comment.
Madge Monday
This weekend, she said to me, "You're not too fat. Obelix is fatter than you."
What an optimist.
Saturday, March 17, 2007
some press
Who knew?
I thought I sounded smart, suave, and witty during the interview, judging by Ms. Yost's reactions on the other end. Now I'm not so sure.
The result is a brief contribution to an article in the Arizona Republic. (For the record, it's not "my favorite limerick" it's "my favorite limerick to tell other people when they ask me for a sample." There's a difference.)
I thought I sounded smart, suave, and witty during the interview, judging by Ms. Yost's reactions on the other end. Now I'm not so sure.
The result is a brief contribution to an article in the Arizona Republic. (For the record, it's not "my favorite limerick" it's "my favorite limerick to tell other people when they ask me for a sample." There's a difference.)
Friday, March 16, 2007
skateboard car
Weird.
The special effects are quite cool, says the "dude" in me. But the music? How does that relate?
And, then, why would you pronounce "Qashqai" as "cash-cow" other than through wishful thinking?
The special effects are quite cool, says the "dude" in me. But the music? How does that relate?
And, then, why would you pronounce "Qashqai" as "cash-cow" other than through wishful thinking?
Friday Fable (AA Fable)
I miss doing the Friday Fables, and of course I’ve had an overwhelming reader response to them. Random people on the street, in fact have been begging me to bring them back.
But, as you may have noticed, I ran out of alphabet.
So here’s one more alphabet-related one. Next week I’ll be thinking of new ways to cook them up. (Who knows, I might actually start with the moral, as Lessing suggests.)
The author and the alphabet
Offstage, beyond the blank paper, the alphabet said, “Do you even know what you’re doing?”
To which the author replied, “No, not really. I just go at it and see what happens. Luckily I have you to guide me.”
“What do you mean?”
“There are numberless books that simply use you as an organizing principle. Sure, they’re a little weak on the Qs, the Xs, and the Zs, but for some reason the idea doesn’t go away.”
“And you want to do the same?”
“Sure, if you don’t mind.”
“What if I do mind?”
“Then I’ll apologize and do it anyway.”
Sorry.
But, as you may have noticed, I ran out of alphabet.
So here’s one more alphabet-related one. Next week I’ll be thinking of new ways to cook them up. (Who knows, I might actually start with the moral, as Lessing suggests.)
The author and the alphabet
Offstage, beyond the blank paper, the alphabet said, “Do you even know what you’re doing?”
To which the author replied, “No, not really. I just go at it and see what happens. Luckily I have you to guide me.”
“What do you mean?”
“There are numberless books that simply use you as an organizing principle. Sure, they’re a little weak on the Qs, the Xs, and the Zs, but for some reason the idea doesn’t go away.”
“And you want to do the same?”
“Sure, if you don’t mind.”
“What if I do mind?”
“Then I’ll apologize and do it anyway.”
Sorry.
Madge, the watchdog
This morning, in front of school.
A mom: Good morning!
Me: Hi!
Madge: Who is SHE?
Yikes. I swear, Madge heard the exclamation points. Any wonder I occasionally feel smothered?
The continuation:
Me: A mom who picks up at the same door I do. Her kid is in the same grade as you, just in a different class.
Madge: Oh.
A mom: Good morning!
Me: Hi!
Madge: Who is SHE?
Yikes. I swear, Madge heard the exclamation points. Any wonder I occasionally feel smothered?
The continuation:
Me: A mom who picks up at the same door I do. Her kid is in the same grade as you, just in a different class.
Madge: Oh.
Thursday, March 15, 2007
birth order, again
Madge, the other day, said, "I'm tired of being the helpful one. I wanna be the Coco one."
Not bad, as far as zingers go.
On the other hand, she didn't see the humor in my telling her to go to bed early and not read or watch Star Trek with us or pick up the cat or use the camera or...
Oh, well.
Not bad, as far as zingers go.
On the other hand, she didn't see the humor in my telling her to go to bed early and not read or watch Star Trek with us or pick up the cat or use the camera or...
Oh, well.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
rhyming
Here I am, it's almost midnight, working on the limericks.
Guess what rhymes with "nothing"?
ooooooh, how meta
Guess what rhymes with "nothing"?
ooooooh, how meta
a boy and his cat
Synchronized Sleepers. (Both, by the way, snore.)
I apologize for not having updated the photos at Look C. in a while, but the camera just recently decided to retract the lens and start working again.
Frosty Impression
Reticence
[Scene: a snowy evening.]
Hmmmmmmmmm.
Pffffff-
ffff.
Postscript (3/15): I just reread the post and realized I was too punny in the title. It's merely intended as an impression of Robert Frost's poetry.
epa-who?
I came across a handy rhetorical term yesterday: epanorthosis.
Basically, it means having your cake and eating it, too.
When I was in high school, writing English essays, I used an underhanded version of this rhetorical device. I had two ways of correcting words (because of the mandate to use ink, we couldn't erase). The first was to completely obliterate the incorrect term. The second was to merely draw a line through it, so that my teacher's mind (Hi, Ms. H-, Ms. R- !) would be tainted by what I was trying to improve upon, therefore finding a happy medium on her own and, of course, giving me the benefit of the doubt.
(Lately, I've seen this technique on blogs and don't feel nearly as inventive as I did back then.)
Basically, it means having your cake and eating it, too.
When I was in high school, writing English essays, I used an underhanded version of this rhetorical device. I had two ways of correcting words (because of the mandate to use ink, we couldn't erase). The first was to completely obliterate the incorrect term. The second was to merely draw a line through it, so that my teacher's mind (Hi, Ms. H-, Ms. R- !) would be tainted by what I was trying to improve upon, therefore finding a happy medium on her own and, of course, giving me the benefit of the doubt.
(Lately, I've seen this technique on blogs and don't feel nearly as inventive as I did back then.)
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Coco Tuesday
He does say some cute things, especially when he’s mad.
For example:
“I’m not your cuddle-bunny anymore.”
“That’s a dummy idea.”
“You’re making me crazy.”
“That’s not a deal.”
Yesterday, though, he went past cute and into devious. He didn’t want to go to school (he’s still a little under the weather, but no fever, so off he goes – no pampering from me, thank you very much, although I did get him a toy afterwards, but, psssst, don’t tell Julie). Here’s how he built up his case (disclaimer: each of his statements below is a patent lie):
Coco: I can’t go to school.
Grand Inquisitor: Why not?
C: R-- [his wonderful teacher] says I can’t come.
GI: Why not?
C: She says I was bad.
GI: Why?
C: I hit someone.
GI: Who?
C: Uh, uh, uh, uh, uh, uh, … A--.
GI: You’re saying R— won’t let you come back to school because you hit A--?
C: Uh, uh, uh, uh, uh, uh, … yes.
He’s so advanced for his age.
For example:
“I’m not your cuddle-bunny anymore.”
“That’s a dummy idea.”
“You’re making me crazy.”
“That’s not a deal.”
Yesterday, though, he went past cute and into devious. He didn’t want to go to school (he’s still a little under the weather, but no fever, so off he goes – no pampering from me, thank you very much, although I did get him a toy afterwards, but, psssst, don’t tell Julie). Here’s how he built up his case (disclaimer: each of his statements below is a patent lie):
Coco: I can’t go to school.
Grand Inquisitor: Why not?
C: R-- [his wonderful teacher] says I can’t come.
GI: Why not?
C: She says I was bad.
GI: Why?
C: I hit someone.
GI: Who?
C: Uh, uh, uh, uh, uh, uh, … A--.
GI: You’re saying R— won’t let you come back to school because you hit A--?
C: Uh, uh, uh, uh, uh, uh, … yes.
He’s so advanced for his age.
putting the coins to rest
Now that I have (finally) thought of an aphorism to go with the "Trustworthy" post, I can let the matter go.
A distrust of money increases its value.
A distrust of money increases its value.
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