It took me several months to make it back, and he grew annoyed. When I finally let myself in through the front door, he didn't get up from his chair. His form sagged so exaggeratedly into the sofa, it was as if thieves had crept through and stolen his bones and left him there. He gestured at the smoky stone fireplace with its enormous black andirons and said, "Boy, I'm sorry the wood's so poor. I had no idea i'd be alive in November." He watched as though paralyzed while I worked at building the fire back up. He spoke only to critique my form. The heavier logs at the back, to project the heat. Not too much flame. "Young men always make that mistake." He asked me to pour him some whiskey and announced flatly his intention to nap. He lay back and draped across his eyes the velvet bag the bottle had come tied in, and I sat across from him for half an hour, forty minutes. At first the talked in his sleep, then to me. The pivots of his turn to consciousness were undetectably slight, with frequent slippages. His speech was full of mutterings, warnings. The artist's life is strewn with traps. Beware "the machinations of the enemy."
"Mr. Lytle," I whispered, "who is the enemy?"
He sat up. His unfocused eyes were an icy blue. "Why, boy," he said, "the bourgeoisie!" Then he peered at me for a second as if he'd forgotten who I was. "Of course," he said. "you're only a baby."
I'd poured myself two bourbons during nap time and felt them somewhat. He lifted his own cup and said, "Confusion to the enemy." We drank.
(john jeremiah sullivan, from pulphead)
01.23.12
01.19.12
the first time it happened i was in a sun-drenched piercing studio in laguna beach, waiting to have a new hole punched in my cartilage; i drank a little paper cup of water, pulled myself together, and went ahead with it. a few times after that, i felt it coming after a long dinner at a cuban restaurant with joe and my dad; we watched a pair of dancers fling each other across the floor beneath a dirty skylight, ate yeasty rolls with garlic butter from a cigar box, and talked politics, then i slithered to the ground in the middle of the plaza. once it happened in the middle of the night, and i woke up in the moonlight with my cheek against our san francisco kitchen's old linoleum floor.
in my late teens and early twenties, i fainted about once a year. to tell you the truth, i tended to forget that it had ever happened until, you know, it happened again. both my mother and sister have had similar experiences; mom once fainted while handing in a college assignment, and emily once hit her san francisco kitchen floor (and maybe part of her counter on the way down - as i recall, there was a head-whacking in that story). the takeaways back then were that since extremely low blood pressure runs in our family, i should be sure to have at least one cup of coffee in the morning - and if black fireworks flared up at the edges of my vision, i should sit down. otherwise, since the episodes had no constants (time of day, level of hydration, time since last meal, mental state - each swoon had a unique combination), there wasn't much i could do.
i had a span of several years without episodes here in new york, and then joe and i met newly-engaged friends for mexican food down in union square late one afternoon. as we waited for a table, i started to feel sick to my stomach; a buzzing kicked up in my ears, and the room began to curl at the corners. i made it to the sidewalk outside the restaurant before falling into joe's arms, and when i came to, i had no idea where we were. i became obsessed with the idea that passerby would think i was drunk - though i was sober as a judge, i was slurring my words - so i insisted we go ahead with the dinner. i think i made it halfway through a piece of cheese crisp before asking to go home and folding myself up on the floor of a cab.
that was the first of the two really lousy swoons. the second came after a night at our local bar in hell's kitchen: with a few beers in me, i was easy prey for the black fireworks. joe heard a horrible crash in our bathroom and came in to find me on the floor. though i'm usually limp and weak after an episode, that one went through me like lightning; i promptly tried to take a shower, fainted again, and became a slippery, flailing, senseless thing. as he called for an ambulance, i remember clinging desperately to our mattress as though gravity had forgotten me and i'd spin off into the ceiling. i was sure i'd never control my body again.
i was up and talking by the time the paramedics arrived, and i gave them the long, boring history of the pressure and makeup of my blood ("she donates a lot of blood," joe explained). fluids at the hospital felt like a cold shower under my skin, and i finally knew how our little cat must have felt when we gave him injections (though i always warmed his IV bags). the attending doctor doubled my drink count in his head, diagnosed me with vasovagal syncope, and sent me on my way. we shuffled home down ninth avenue, five hundred dollars poorer, as the sun rose, and i paused in front of the OPTIMISM sticker on a bodega's vending machine. "apparently the universe is in its first semester of film school."
early this monday morning, joe heard another terrific crash in the bathroom. i woke up able to tell him that i hadn't hit my head (wrong; i'd knocked both my temple and the back of my head, though they were light knocks and i wasn't concussed) and that i couldn't walk (right, unfortunately; i sprained my left ankle, and my foot looks like an artisanal sausage).
why do i tell you this? i'm not entirely sure. i don't want or expect pity; swooning ladies are too coddled in our and previous societies, if you ask me. my case isn't especially edifying; fainting and getting a diagnosis of "fainting" is pretty open-and-shut, really. perhaps i simply want to share a vulnerability; i grew up with the firm conviction that little girls who underwent injury or sickness without tears or complaint were braver and nobler than little girls who didn't, and that's an idea i've thought about setting aside. perhaps, having told you about strangers' books all month, i just wanted to tell you something personal. don't worry about me! but maybe, you know, don't lend me your wedding china.
the first time it happened i was in a sun-drenched piercing studio in laguna beach, waiting to have a new hole punched in my cartilage; i drank a little paper cup of water, pulled myself together, and went ahead with it. a few times after that, i felt it coming after a long dinner at a cuban restaurant with joe and my dad; we watched a pair of dancers fling each other across the floor beneath a dirty skylight, ate yeasty rolls with garlic butter from a cigar box, and talked politics, then i slithered to the ground in the middle of the plaza. once it happened in the middle of the night, and i woke up in the moonlight with my cheek against our san francisco kitchen's old linoleum floor.
in my late teens and early twenties, i fainted about once a year. to tell you the truth, i tended to forget that it had ever happened until, you know, it happened again. both my mother and sister have had similar experiences; mom once fainted while handing in a college assignment, and emily once hit her san francisco kitchen floor (and maybe part of her counter on the way down - as i recall, there was a head-whacking in that story). the takeaways back then were that since extremely low blood pressure runs in our family, i should be sure to have at least one cup of coffee in the morning - and if black fireworks flared up at the edges of my vision, i should sit down. otherwise, since the episodes had no constants (time of day, level of hydration, time since last meal, mental state - each swoon had a unique combination), there wasn't much i could do.
i had a span of several years without episodes here in new york, and then joe and i met newly-engaged friends for mexican food down in union square late one afternoon. as we waited for a table, i started to feel sick to my stomach; a buzzing kicked up in my ears, and the room began to curl at the corners. i made it to the sidewalk outside the restaurant before falling into joe's arms, and when i came to, i had no idea where we were. i became obsessed with the idea that passerby would think i was drunk - though i was sober as a judge, i was slurring my words - so i insisted we go ahead with the dinner. i think i made it halfway through a piece of cheese crisp before asking to go home and folding myself up on the floor of a cab.
that was the first of the two really lousy swoons. the second came after a night at our local bar in hell's kitchen: with a few beers in me, i was easy prey for the black fireworks. joe heard a horrible crash in our bathroom and came in to find me on the floor. though i'm usually limp and weak after an episode, that one went through me like lightning; i promptly tried to take a shower, fainted again, and became a slippery, flailing, senseless thing. as he called for an ambulance, i remember clinging desperately to our mattress as though gravity had forgotten me and i'd spin off into the ceiling. i was sure i'd never control my body again.
i was up and talking by the time the paramedics arrived, and i gave them the long, boring history of the pressure and makeup of my blood ("she donates a lot of blood," joe explained). fluids at the hospital felt like a cold shower under my skin, and i finally knew how our little cat must have felt when we gave him injections (though i always warmed his IV bags). the attending doctor doubled my drink count in his head, diagnosed me with vasovagal syncope, and sent me on my way. we shuffled home down ninth avenue, five hundred dollars poorer, as the sun rose, and i paused in front of the OPTIMISM sticker on a bodega's vending machine. "apparently the universe is in its first semester of film school."
early this monday morning, joe heard another terrific crash in the bathroom. i woke up able to tell him that i hadn't hit my head (wrong; i'd knocked both my temple and the back of my head, though they were light knocks and i wasn't concussed) and that i couldn't walk (right, unfortunately; i sprained my left ankle, and my foot looks like an artisanal sausage).
why do i tell you this? i'm not entirely sure. i don't want or expect pity; swooning ladies are too coddled in our and previous societies, if you ask me. my case isn't especially edifying; fainting and getting a diagnosis of "fainting" is pretty open-and-shut, really. perhaps i simply want to share a vulnerability; i grew up with the firm conviction that little girls who underwent injury or sickness without tears or complaint were braver and nobler than little girls who didn't, and that's an idea i've thought about setting aside. perhaps, having told you about strangers' books all month, i just wanted to tell you something personal. don't worry about me! but maybe, you know, don't lend me your wedding china.
01.18.12
paul, dearest of the dear, read from the drowned library, his first collection of stories, at sunday salon at jimmy's no. 43 the other night, and i stamped my feet with pride. kidchamp reading recommendation no. 993: the drowned library, dirty uncle paul.*
paul, dearest of the dear, read from the drowned library, his first collection of stories, at sunday salon at jimmy's no. 43 the other night, and i stamped my feet with pride. kidchamp reading recommendation no. 993: the drowned library, dirty uncle paul.*
*now literally an uncle! not my uncle; long story.
01.12.12
as of today, i've been alive for exactly a third of a century; as you would imagine, i feel terribly old. in this next third i think i'd like to dance at my mom's wedding, and to go to cuba and antarctica, and to meet my sisters' children and maybe some tigers. that's how the list begins, anyway.
as of today, i've been alive for exactly a third of a century; as you would imagine, i feel terribly old. in this next third i think i'd like to dance at my mom's wedding, and to go to cuba and antarctica, and to meet my sisters' children and maybe some tigers. that's how the list begins, anyway.
01.09.12
"Here is the story I want to tell you. You know, there was a very unusual situation, two years ago, in 2003. The city of Ust-Kut, west of here, on the Lena River, have you heard of it? So, if you go down the Lena River to the north of Ust-Kut there is a small village called Verkhnemarkovo. On November tenth of that year it was very cold there, minus twenty-five degrees centigrade, ice already stays on the river. Some boys went fishing along the river. And suddenly from the sky this bird fell on them—a flamingo! A flamingo falls on them from above! It's snowing, ice all around, and this bird is falling. The boys picked up this bird and brought it home, started to treat its frostbitten toes, even some of its small feathers have fallen off.
"So they took care of it, and cured it, and in January of 2004 they brought it here to us in the winter garden, and the flamingo lived here in our garden. Crowds of people, everybody came here to look at this miracle. Here the flamingo became so beautiful and haughty. Our flamingo was shown on TV, they spoke about it on the radio, it was in newspapers and magazines. It is a real celebrity, a superstar, our flamingo. We fed him minced fish made in a meat grinder, carrots, all vegetables, whatever you have. But he was not pink, but gray. Flamingos are pink because of the pink in the hermit crabs and shrimps they eat, but Baikal has no shrimps, so he didn't have those, and that's why he was so grayish. But so beautiful, haughty, independent he was.
"The flamingo stayed with us for seven months and then we forwarded it to the Krasnoyarsk zoo. And now the flamingo is in the zoo, it lives there, and everything is okay. But you know, nobody can explain the reason for this bird's appearance in Siberia, in the north—a bird that lives in the south and does not fly so far, they are not migratory birds. Geese and ducks arrive in our area, we admit, but this bird lives only in the south.
"But this is not all yet.
"Last year, also in November, on the Yenisei River in the north near the city of Yeniseisk, in the same way boys also find a second bird—another flamingo! This second flamingo was also frostbitten. It also was rescued and sent to us, and this other flamingo we also warmed up and caressed, and it too was then taken away to Krasnoyarsk. Now there are two of them there. Our first is called Phila, and the second Phima. Only I do not know what they are, girls or boys, because they still are baby birds, little ones. Such a wonderful story. You are a writer—isn't it a most unusual story? How would one explain this occurrence? How come that the flamingos appeared here? I'll show you a few photos, just look."
She took a few snapshots from an album on a garden bench. The pictures of the flamingo—the first or second one, I'm not sure which—had the radiant, revelatory quality of icon paintings. They showed the flamingo standing in the winter garden's tiled pond and regarding the photographer with an expression that was, indeed, haughty. He (or she) looked as if he had just planted the flamingo flag and claimed this place for Flamingo. Though kind of gray, he was definitely a flamingo. He seemed to have become comfortable with his singularity, and to accept as a matter of course the attention focused on him. Naturally he would find a tropical forest in the middle of Siberia, and naturally it would need a flamingo.
(ian frazier, from travels in siberia)
01.06.12: the dirty dozen {mystery train, round III}
december's installment of mystery train ended yesterday in a grand-guignol tide of merciless identifications, probably because i've been bellowing about how i can't post a new list until the previous one's readers have been matched up with titles (even though the list before it still has four orphans). let's bring bookish back in 2012 and get cracking again without delay, shall we?
here are twelve subway riders and the books they were reading when i started taking creepy notes on them. who got his or her hands on an advance reader copy of catherine chung's first novel? might the argentina enthusiast be someone i'd like to travel with on my way down to antarctica?* is there something buried in our dna which compels us to use airplane tickets as bookmarks?** can we talk about how amazing it is that someone's reading mercedes lackey in the twenty-first century? as before, if you correctly pair a book with its reader, i'll update the lists. tip of the hat, as always, to coverspy - and may the odds be ever in your favor.
[final update: as of 01.10.12, no riders remain! well done, internets; i'll begin my creeping anew on the morrow. see below for the correct pairings.]
{the peeps}
01 F, early 20s, curly, layered blonde hair, high-collared, draped black coat, black skirt, black tights, black spike-heeled booties, crossed legs, gold-studded black hobo in lap, sniffling, D train [catching fire, suzanne collins - jacob's first mercy killing]
02 F, 20s, long, thick black hair twisted back at temples, long eyelashes, thick mauve scarf, long black puffer with grey-faux-fur-trimed hood, narrow, pointy-toed, high-heeled, black mary janes, R train [a clash of kings, george r. r. martin - rob, hunting witches]
03 F, late 20s, freckles, golden-red hair in short, neat ponytail, long camel coat, pink-and-aqua scarf with gold threads, dark brown shell, long gold necklace, rust-colored leather bag on shoulder, jeans, caramel moccasins, F train [straphanger: saving our cities and ourselves from the automobile, taras grescoe - rob 2: electric boogaloo]
04 F, early 50s, thick, straightened blonde hair, half-rim tortoiseshell glasses, coral lipstick, black anorak with gold zippers and buttons, black prada shoulder bag, black riding boots over black leggings, B train [eyewitness argentina (dk eyewitness travel guides) - MDF spotted the well-heeled traveler]
05 F, early 30s, snowflake manicure, stick-straight, center-parted, chin-length, dyed red hair, red hooded pea coat, grey tights, black ballet flats with snakeskin bows, linda the bra lady bag, F train [wives and daughters, elizabeth gaskell - rob identifies casa de kidchamp's nod to #boobsweek]
06 M, early 40s, hair swept up and back from brow, full cheeks, half-frame glasses with upturned corners, thick brown leather jacket, green boot-cut sweatpants, blue converse all-stars, blue case logic satchel in lap, D train [arrows of the queen, mercedes lackey - george, like talia, is an empath]
07 F, 60s, thin-brimmed black hat lined with black faux shearling, curly steel grey hair, wire-rimmed reading glasses, royal blue barn coat, black gloves, tapestry cross-body bag, heavy black hiking boots, grey flared trousers, C train [a fine balance, rohinton mistry - maggie lands a hit from the southern hemisphere]
08 M, 40s, stout, artfully mussed hair, beard with white streaks, black pea coat over dusty blue fisherman's sweater, bright red vans, two black duffels between feet, F train [the sixth man, david baldacci - MDF spied the baldacci enthusiast's artful muss]
09 F, early 20s, brown bangs, black hood up and clutched below chin, knitted olive scarf looped around under hood, black manicure, pigeon-toed black combat boots over black leggings, F train [miss peregrine's home for peculiar children, ransom riggs - MDF, neighborhood goth watch]
10 F, late 40s, short hair, rectangular purple reading glasses, intricate, dangly silver earrings, deep purple turtleneck, large gold rings on every finger but her thumbs, long-tasseled black scarf, black coat, black slacks, penguin classics tote hung on knees, F train [the girl from foreign: a memoir, sadia shepard - george: the revenge]
11 F, early 20s, zaftig, cable-knit black cap over long, straightened dark brown hair, raisin-tinted lipstick, black slouch boots over indigo jeggings, grey leather crossbody bag, D train [extremely loud and incredibly close, jonathan safran foer - suspected by jacob, scorner of suspect editions]
12 M, late 20s, thinning, close-cropped hair with widow's peak, thick eyebrows, neatly trimmed moustache and beard, brown waxed-canvas coat with luxe orange plaid lining, black-and-white pony sneakers, bright purple backpack between feet, boarding pass as bookmark, F train [forgotten country, catherine chung - jacob's second mercy killing]
{the books}
a fine balance, rohinton mistry
miss peregrine's home for peculiar children, ransom riggs
extremely loud and incredibly close, jonathan safran foer
wives and daughters, elizabeth gaskell
the sixth man, david baldacci
straphanger: saving our cities and ourselves from the automobile, taras grescoe
arrows of the queen, mercedes lackey
the girl from foreign: a memoir, sadia shepard
forgotten country, catherine chung
catching fire, suzanne collins
a clash of kings, george r. r. martin
eyewitness argentina (dk eyewitness travel guides)
december's installment of mystery train ended yesterday in a grand-guignol tide of merciless identifications, probably because i've been bellowing about how i can't post a new list until the previous one's readers have been matched up with titles (even though the list before it still has four orphans). let's bring bookish back in 2012 and get cracking again without delay, shall we?
here are twelve subway riders and the books they were reading when i started taking creepy notes on them. who got his or her hands on an advance reader copy of catherine chung's first novel? might the argentina enthusiast be someone i'd like to travel with on my way down to antarctica?* is there something buried in our dna which compels us to use airplane tickets as bookmarks?** can we talk about how amazing it is that someone's reading mercedes lackey in the twenty-first century? as before, if you correctly pair a book with its reader, i'll update the lists. tip of the hat, as always, to coverspy - and may the odds be ever in your favor.
[final update: as of 01.10.12, no riders remain! well done, internets; i'll begin my creeping anew on the morrow. see below for the correct pairings.]
{the peeps}
01 F, early 20s, curly, layered blonde hair, high-collared, draped black coat, black skirt, black tights, black spike-heeled booties, crossed legs, gold-studded black hobo in lap, sniffling, D train [catching fire, suzanne collins - jacob's first mercy killing]
02 F, 20s, long, thick black hair twisted back at temples, long eyelashes, thick mauve scarf, long black puffer with grey-faux-fur-trimed hood, narrow, pointy-toed, high-heeled, black mary janes, R train [a clash of kings, george r. r. martin - rob, hunting witches]
03 F, late 20s, freckles, golden-red hair in short, neat ponytail, long camel coat, pink-and-aqua scarf with gold threads, dark brown shell, long gold necklace, rust-colored leather bag on shoulder, jeans, caramel moccasins, F train [straphanger: saving our cities and ourselves from the automobile, taras grescoe - rob 2: electric boogaloo]
04 F, early 50s, thick, straightened blonde hair, half-rim tortoiseshell glasses, coral lipstick, black anorak with gold zippers and buttons, black prada shoulder bag, black riding boots over black leggings, B train [eyewitness argentina (dk eyewitness travel guides) - MDF spotted the well-heeled traveler]
05 F, early 30s, snowflake manicure, stick-straight, center-parted, chin-length, dyed red hair, red hooded pea coat, grey tights, black ballet flats with snakeskin bows, linda the bra lady bag, F train [wives and daughters, elizabeth gaskell - rob identifies casa de kidchamp's nod to #boobsweek]
06 M, early 40s, hair swept up and back from brow, full cheeks, half-frame glasses with upturned corners, thick brown leather jacket, green boot-cut sweatpants, blue converse all-stars, blue case logic satchel in lap, D train [arrows of the queen, mercedes lackey - george, like talia, is an empath]
07 F, 60s, thin-brimmed black hat lined with black faux shearling, curly steel grey hair, wire-rimmed reading glasses, royal blue barn coat, black gloves, tapestry cross-body bag, heavy black hiking boots, grey flared trousers, C train [a fine balance, rohinton mistry - maggie lands a hit from the southern hemisphere]
08 M, 40s, stout, artfully mussed hair, beard with white streaks, black pea coat over dusty blue fisherman's sweater, bright red vans, two black duffels between feet, F train [the sixth man, david baldacci - MDF spied the baldacci enthusiast's artful muss]
09 F, early 20s, brown bangs, black hood up and clutched below chin, knitted olive scarf looped around under hood, black manicure, pigeon-toed black combat boots over black leggings, F train [miss peregrine's home for peculiar children, ransom riggs - MDF, neighborhood goth watch]
10 F, late 40s, short hair, rectangular purple reading glasses, intricate, dangly silver earrings, deep purple turtleneck, large gold rings on every finger but her thumbs, long-tasseled black scarf, black coat, black slacks, penguin classics tote hung on knees, F train [the girl from foreign: a memoir, sadia shepard - george: the revenge]
11 F, early 20s, zaftig, cable-knit black cap over long, straightened dark brown hair, raisin-tinted lipstick, black slouch boots over indigo jeggings, grey leather crossbody bag, D train [extremely loud and incredibly close, jonathan safran foer - suspected by jacob, scorner of suspect editions]
12 M, late 20s, thinning, close-cropped hair with widow's peak, thick eyebrows, neatly trimmed moustache and beard, brown waxed-canvas coat with luxe orange plaid lining, black-and-white pony sneakers, bright purple backpack between feet, boarding pass as bookmark, F train [forgotten country, catherine chung - jacob's second mercy killing]
{the books}
*fun fact: if you head for antarctica via argentina, you don't need a yellow fever vaccination.
**i dog-ear books, both at the top corners (to mark my place) and at the bottom corners (to designate pages i want to revisit for THUNDERTOME). some pages are scored thrice and end up looking mangled, but they are mangled with love.
01.05.12
[...] Usually when we rode in Roman's car, he played American rap and rock music on tape cassettes that you might find in the 99¢ bin at an American flea market. He sometimes talked to me about the music he played. One afternoon as we were bouncing and zooming in his little car on a Vladivostok street broken to pieces by ice and thaws, he put on a cassette by Kid Rock. I would not have recognized the artist, but Roman told me who it was. "I love Kid Rock's music," he said, "but I don't know what his words mean."
I listened for a while to the song. "Well, here he's saying that he wants money in order to make his life better," I explained.
"Oh, I understand," Roman said. Then, "Kid Rock is a scandalist, yes?"
"Yes, I think so. He was married to Pamela Anderson, of Baywatch."
"Ah, yes. I know Baywatch. Pamela Anderson—she is also a scandalist, I think."
Just then the car hit a big bump and all of us ricocheted off the ceiling. Roman said, "Oh, these roads!"
"Dorogi, i duraki" (roads, and idiots), I said. (This is a famous saying, attributed to Gogol, who once noted that in Russia the two biggest problems were the roads, and idiots.)
Roman laughed. "Yes," he said. "And they never repair either one."
(ian frazier, from travels in siberia)
01.03.12
how florid you were, end of 2011! abandoned by an ailing milkmaid, i watched a kid from billy elliot dump blood all over a bunch of shakespeareans;* spirited to arizona, i read the hunger games trilogy in like thirty-six hours and beheld a giant snowman made of diet root beer. i floated in a nudie tank at the new museum and ended up with swimmer's ear; i flew to california and received a rhino head made of old pants. i donned a creepy venetian mask and completely missed the orgy room at sleep no more.*** i started a book that, had i finished it, would've won THUNDERTOME for the year. there is much to tell, and i have missed you.
how florid you were, end of 2011! abandoned by an ailing milkmaid, i watched a kid from billy elliot dump blood all over a bunch of shakespeareans;* spirited to arizona, i read the hunger games trilogy in like thirty-six hours and beheld a giant snowman made of diet root beer. i floated in a nudie tank at the new museum and ended up with swimmer's ear; i flew to california and received a rhino head made of old pants. i donned a creepy venetian mask and completely missed the orgy room at sleep no more.*** i started a book that, had i finished it, would've won THUNDERTOME for the year. there is much to tell, and i have missed you.
imaginary reading group discussion questions
01 does stage blood bother you?
02 how many plane rides did you take in december?
03 would you risk getting swimmer's ear from a museum's nudie tank?
04 if you were a rhino head made of old pants, would you rather hang above a bar cart or in a bedroom?
05 can i post another dozen subway readers even though some of the previous fourteen remain unmatched?
06 where were you on new year's eve?
*second-bloodiest show i've ever seen!**
**the all-time bloodiest was evil dead: the musical.
***which, let's be honest, is probably for the best; december was already unusually nude.
12.21.11
my traditional what-eccentric-thing-would-you-do-if-you-were-ludicrously-wealthy-and-had-already-saved-all-of-the-suffering-animals-and-people? response is that i would bronze my underwear, but i hadn't really thought it through very carefully. i don't like looking at underwear all that much, for one thing, and i think i was assuming that i'd be able to wear the underwear once it was bronzed, which just doesn't make sense. what i would actually do if i had a substantial sum of money that i felt comfortable spending in an utterly self-indulgent way is this: i would rent a u-haul, wait until the end of the night on christmas eve, drive out to the neighborhood tree lots, and buy all of their orphans. i would take them home and make a forest in my apartment, tree after tree after tree. i'd bring out some blankets and a lantern, curl up on the floor and tuck into a book, and pretend i'd created a new dimension.
we have only one tree; fortunately it's not an especially tall one, for i don't have a u-haul, it couldn't be delivered, and i had to carry it a mile in the rain. i festooned it with skulls (rounded up from where i'd hidden them around the apartment in october; one was in joe's shoe, i found another in our refrigerator's cheese drawer, and a third was behind the shampoo in our shower), feathers (recycled from the office) and, okay, a few bats (rolled up and coaxed into a few of the extra glass ornaments). welcome home, tree.
my traditional what-eccentric-thing-would-you-do-if-you-were-ludicrously-wealthy-and-had-already-saved-all-of-the-suffering-animals-and-people? response is that i would bronze my underwear, but i hadn't really thought it through very carefully. i don't like looking at underwear all that much, for one thing, and i think i was assuming that i'd be able to wear the underwear once it was bronzed, which just doesn't make sense. what i would actually do if i had a substantial sum of money that i felt comfortable spending in an utterly self-indulgent way is this: i would rent a u-haul, wait until the end of the night on christmas eve, drive out to the neighborhood tree lots, and buy all of their orphans. i would take them home and make a forest in my apartment, tree after tree after tree. i'd bring out some blankets and a lantern, curl up on the floor and tuck into a book, and pretend i'd created a new dimension.
we have only one tree; fortunately it's not an especially tall one, for i don't have a u-haul, it couldn't be delivered, and i had to carry it a mile in the rain. i festooned it with skulls (rounded up from where i'd hidden them around the apartment in october; one was in joe's shoe, i found another in our refrigerator's cheese drawer, and a third was behind the shampoo in our shower), feathers (recycled from the office) and, okay, a few bats (rolled up and coaxed into a few of the extra glass ornaments). welcome home, tree.
12.15.11: the dirty dozen +2 {mystery train, part II}
it's been awhile since i last challenged you to guess what my fellow new-york-city-subway-riders are reading, though i find myself wanting to write about people i see on the train all the time (particularly when i've cleaned out my bag and forgotten to bring my own read). part of that is my reluctance to bite coverspy's moves (i want to tip my hat, not pick their pockets), and part of it is that 2011's the year i forgot to talk about books on the internet. beastly!
let's try again: here are fourteen riders and the fourteen books they were reading. who's learning english (or turkish)? who now knows that kelly cutrone became, at age 11, the first female umpire in her small town in upstate new york? are ipads the new girl with the dragon tattoo? as before, if you correctly pair a book with its reader, i'll update the lists. guess, guess!
[final update: as of 01.05.12, there are no survivors! see below for the pairs and killers.]
{the peeps}
01 M, 70s, thick, tufted white hair, white linen suit with fraying jacket hem, red crewneck sweater over white oxford shirt, black wire-rimmed glasses, tasseled oxblood loafers with black socks, B train [name and address: an autobiography, t.s. matthews - holli pegged him]
02 F, 20s, long red braid snaking out over shoulder from tie-dyed green baseball cap, silver nose ring, armful of silver bangles, large silver crucifix, F train [you are a little bit happier than i am, tao lin - georgepocalypse victim I]
03 F, 20s, grey slouched beret over sideswept chestnut bangs, tropical-snake-length plum scarf looped around neck like five times, black buckled boots, long navy coat, F train [@ontext, cory doctorow - georgepocalypse victim II]
04 M, early 30s, blue suede adidas with yellow stripes, c. 1972 cleveland browns knitted pom pom hat, white ipod buds in ears, heavy tortoiseshell glasses, neatly trimmed beard, F train [breakfast of champions, kurt vonnegut - victim of a gracie/valya double-team]
05 F, 20s, short, tightly-curled black hair, pearl earrings, black hooded puffer, black studded rebecca minkoff hobo, black plaid tights, green ipod nano, black shopping bag, ballet flats, B train [the lying days, nadine gordimer - rob studies, then strikes]
06 F, 20s, asian, hair with shaved sides, black coat, black-and-tan golf umbrella, black-and-green rain boots, black plaid tights, M train [if you have to cry, go outside, kelly cutrone - rob spots the PR hatchling]
07 F, 50s, brown faux-fur-trimmed puffer, caramel-colored polka-dotted scarf on head, wide-legged brown slacks, brown orthopedic shoes, camel scarf, B train [langenscheidt's universal dictionary (english-turkish, turkish-english)] - also rob; seriously, keep an eye on these guys who run marathons between distilleries in the middle of the night]
08 F, 30s, long camel coat, maroon tights, black dress, gold breastplate necklace, long brown hair, large black purse with heavy gold hardware in lap, F train [the unmaking of israel, gershom gorenberg - georgepocalypse victim III]
09 M, 40s, yarmulke, heavy black pea coat, black turtleneck, black slacks, rectangular tortoiseshell reading glasses, soft brown leather briefcase between feet, B train [the drop, michael connelly - MDF ID'ed my pulp-loving neighbor]
10 F, 30s, gauzy black-and-white paisley scarf, open black pea coat, grey slacks, small orange bag on knees, slim wedding ring, twisting curly hair around finger, F train [fathers and sons, ivan turgenev - georgepocalypse victim IV]
11 F, 20s, feathered red hair, tiny diamond nose stud, oatmeal-colored cashmere fingerless gloves, flat black folded-down boots, F train [the boleyn inheritance, philippa gregory - georgepocalypse victim V]
12 F, early 30s, short hair, short-sleeved buffalo plaid coat over long grey sleeves, short black dress, black tights, black boots with spats, dirty grey leather messenger bag, A train [death be not proud, john gunther - i flashed MDF and jacob]
13 M, 30s, curly brown hair, moustache with flecks of white, full beard, rust-colored shawl-collar sweater, beige all-stars, leather-trimmed navy canvas weekender between feet, tweed slacks, tortoiseshell glasses, continental airlines boarding pass as bookmark, F train [the cave, josé saramago - MDF profiles the traveler]
14 M, 30s, ash-brown tintin hair, green brooklyn industries messenger bag slung across chest, grey overcoat with popped collar, neutral plaid scarf, heavy brown leather slip-ons, leaning against door and balancing book on belly, D train [the secret soldier, alex berenson - MDF, TCB]
{the books}
fathers and sons, ivan turgenev
breakfast of champions, kurt vonnegut
name and address: an autobiography, t.s. matthews
the lying days, nadine gordimer
you are a little bit happier than i am, tao lin
death be not proud, john gunther
the drop, michael connelly
the boleyn inheritance, philippa gregory
the secret soldier, alex berenson
the cave, josé saramago
langenscheidt's universal dictionary (english-turkish, turkish-english)
the unmaking of israel, gershom gorenberg
©ontext, cory doctorow
it's been awhile since i last challenged you to guess what my fellow new-york-city-subway-riders are reading, though i find myself wanting to write about people i see on the train all the time (particularly when i've cleaned out my bag and forgotten to bring my own read). part of that is my reluctance to bite coverspy's moves (i want to tip my hat, not pick their pockets), and part of it is that 2011's the year i forgot to talk about books on the internet. beastly!
let's try again: here are fourteen riders and the fourteen books they were reading. who's learning english (or turkish)? who now knows that kelly cutrone became, at age 11, the first female umpire in her small town in upstate new york? are ipads the new girl with the dragon tattoo? as before, if you correctly pair a book with its reader, i'll update the lists. guess, guess!
[final update: as of 01.05.12, there are no survivors! see below for the pairs and killers.]
{the peeps}
01 M, 70s, thick, tufted white hair, white linen suit with fraying jacket hem, red crewneck sweater over white oxford shirt, black wire-rimmed glasses, tasseled oxblood loafers with black socks, B train [name and address: an autobiography, t.s. matthews - holli pegged him]
02 F, 20s, long red braid snaking out over shoulder from tie-dyed green baseball cap, silver nose ring, armful of silver bangles, large silver crucifix, F train [you are a little bit happier than i am, tao lin - georgepocalypse victim I]
03 F, 20s, grey slouched beret over sideswept chestnut bangs, tropical-snake-length plum scarf looped around neck like five times, black buckled boots, long navy coat, F train [@ontext, cory doctorow - georgepocalypse victim II]
04 M, early 30s, blue suede adidas with yellow stripes, c. 1972 cleveland browns knitted pom pom hat, white ipod buds in ears, heavy tortoiseshell glasses, neatly trimmed beard, F train [breakfast of champions, kurt vonnegut - victim of a gracie/valya double-team]
05 F, 20s, short, tightly-curled black hair, pearl earrings, black hooded puffer, black studded rebecca minkoff hobo, black plaid tights, green ipod nano, black shopping bag, ballet flats, B train [the lying days, nadine gordimer - rob studies, then strikes]
06 F, 20s, asian, hair with shaved sides, black coat, black-and-tan golf umbrella, black-and-green rain boots, black plaid tights, M train [if you have to cry, go outside, kelly cutrone - rob spots the PR hatchling]
07 F, 50s, brown faux-fur-trimmed puffer, caramel-colored polka-dotted scarf on head, wide-legged brown slacks, brown orthopedic shoes, camel scarf, B train [langenscheidt's universal dictionary (english-turkish, turkish-english)] - also rob; seriously, keep an eye on these guys who run marathons between distilleries in the middle of the night]
08 F, 30s, long camel coat, maroon tights, black dress, gold breastplate necklace, long brown hair, large black purse with heavy gold hardware in lap, F train [the unmaking of israel, gershom gorenberg - georgepocalypse victim III]
09 M, 40s, yarmulke, heavy black pea coat, black turtleneck, black slacks, rectangular tortoiseshell reading glasses, soft brown leather briefcase between feet, B train [the drop, michael connelly - MDF ID'ed my pulp-loving neighbor]
10 F, 30s, gauzy black-and-white paisley scarf, open black pea coat, grey slacks, small orange bag on knees, slim wedding ring, twisting curly hair around finger, F train [fathers and sons, ivan turgenev - georgepocalypse victim IV]
11 F, 20s, feathered red hair, tiny diamond nose stud, oatmeal-colored cashmere fingerless gloves, flat black folded-down boots, F train [the boleyn inheritance, philippa gregory - georgepocalypse victim V]
12 F, early 30s, short hair, short-sleeved buffalo plaid coat over long grey sleeves, short black dress, black tights, black boots with spats, dirty grey leather messenger bag, A train [death be not proud, john gunther - i flashed MDF and jacob]
13 M, 30s, curly brown hair, moustache with flecks of white, full beard, rust-colored shawl-collar sweater, beige all-stars, leather-trimmed navy canvas weekender between feet, tweed slacks, tortoiseshell glasses, continental airlines boarding pass as bookmark, F train [the cave, josé saramago - MDF profiles the traveler]
14 M, 30s, ash-brown tintin hair, green brooklyn industries messenger bag slung across chest, grey overcoat with popped collar, neutral plaid scarf, heavy brown leather slip-ons, leaning against door and balancing book on belly, D train [the secret soldier, alex berenson - MDF, TCB]
{the books}
12.06.11
have we spoken lately about how much i like hannah mae? i really like hannah mae. via her wondrous site, an excerpt from "the little woman," a 1945 essay by suffragette ida alexa ross wylie:
have we spoken lately about how much i like hannah mae? i really like hannah mae. via her wondrous site, an excerpt from "the little woman," a 1945 essay by suffragette ida alexa ross wylie:
It was discovered that a relative handful of human beings, unarmed save with a resolute fighting temper and a conviction of justice, could set the forces of society – armed to the teeth but with a bad conscience – right back on their heels…. To my astonishment I found that women, in spite of knock-knees and the fact that for centuries a respectable woman’s leg had not even been mentionable, could at a pinch outrun the average London bobby. Their aim with a little practice became good enough to land ripe vegetables in ministerial eyes, their wits sharp enough to keep Scotland Yard running around round in circles and looking very silly. Their capacity for impromptu organization, for secrecy and loyalty, their iconoclastic disregard for class and established order were a revelation to all concerned but especially themselves.i'll be circling back for the whole thing when i'm on the other side of tonight's solo titus andronicus run. to straight lefts, dear internets, and our money where our mouths are.
Best of all was the discovery that when it came down to a real slugging match they were not at such a hopeless disadvantage as tradition would have had them suppose. The day that, with a straight left to the jaw, I sent a fair-sized CID officer… into the orchestra pit of the Pavillion Theatre where we were holding one of our belligerent meetings, was the day of my own coming-of-age. It set me free to be whatever I was to the top of my bent….
For two years of wild and sometimes dangerous adventure I worked and fought alongside vigorous, happy, well-adjusted women who laughed instead of tittering, who walked freely instead of teetering, who could outfast Gandhi and come out with a grin and a jest. I slept on hard floors between elderly duchesses, stout cooks, and young shopgirls. We were often tired, hurt and frightened. But we were content as we had never been. We shared a life of joy that we had never known.
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