Saturday, April 30, 2005
Blank for logistical reasons
Strange things that have happened recently:
1. Blogger has removed the title field from this post. Don't know why.*
2. Jeffrey has broken two glasses in two different public places: Molly's (a bar) and a coffee shop whose name I don't know. And in another coffee shop, he put his ATM card in, you know, the ATM and there was a lot of honey in there. In the slot, I mean.
3. I have developed some sort of food allergy or medicinal side effect that I can't trace, so I am desperately ill.
4. My shower head broke right off when I touched it. It has been replaced.
5. Jeff applied to library school.
6. Jeff ate a plate of live animals.
7. Most of these things are about Jeff, aren't they?
8. That's because he epitomizes "strange."
9. I didn't like this year's Newbery, Kira-Kira. It was boring.
10. In the last two days, I have eaten at the following restaurants: Desire Oysters (I had hush puppies and onion rings), the Bluebird Café (eggs and veggie hash), Fiorella's (mac and cheese and mashed potatoes), and 13 (roasted red pepper soup and a grilled cheese).
*Have since learned that I accidentally posted this to another blog on which I have posting privileges. I have since corrected the error. Obviously.
1. Blogger has removed the title field from this post. Don't know why.*
2. Jeffrey has broken two glasses in two different public places: Molly's (a bar) and a coffee shop whose name I don't know. And in another coffee shop, he put his ATM card in, you know, the ATM and there was a lot of honey in there. In the slot, I mean.
3. I have developed some sort of food allergy or medicinal side effect that I can't trace, so I am desperately ill.
4. My shower head broke right off when I touched it. It has been replaced.
5. Jeff applied to library school.
6. Jeff ate a plate of live animals.
7. Most of these things are about Jeff, aren't they?
8. That's because he epitomizes "strange."
9. I didn't like this year's Newbery, Kira-Kira. It was boring.
10. In the last two days, I have eaten at the following restaurants: Desire Oysters (I had hush puppies and onion rings), the Bluebird Café (eggs and veggie hash), Fiorella's (mac and cheese and mashed potatoes), and 13 (roasted red pepper soup and a grilled cheese).
*Have since learned that I accidentally posted this to another blog on which I have posting privileges. I have since corrected the error. Obviously.
Monday, April 25, 2005
Now accepting comments
Most of my readers watch a lot more movies than I do. Some of you were film majors; some of you are actors; some of you are just normal people with TVs and DVD players.
So here's my list of movies I want to see. Let me know which you think I'd most enjoy, and why. Remember that my idea of a perfect movie is Jawbreaker and that I am bored by movies most people consider "indispensable" or "good." For example, I've never seen a Woody Allen movie, or Godfather, or Citizen Kane.
Elephant
Homegrown
Muriel's Wedding
About a Boy
Straight Story
Lost Highway
Desk Set
Withnail & I
Coffee and Cigarettes
She Hate Me
Gummo
Dark Days
Ghost World
Born in Flames
Hoop Dreams
Super Size Me
Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind
I Heart Huckabee's
Sense and Sensibility
Jane Eyre
So here's my list of movies I want to see. Let me know which you think I'd most enjoy, and why. Remember that my idea of a perfect movie is Jawbreaker and that I am bored by movies most people consider "indispensable" or "good." For example, I've never seen a Woody Allen movie, or Godfather, or Citizen Kane.
Elephant
Homegrown
Muriel's Wedding
About a Boy
Straight Story
Lost Highway
Desk Set
Withnail & I
Coffee and Cigarettes
She Hate Me
Gummo
Dark Days
Ghost World
Born in Flames
Hoop Dreams
Super Size Me
Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind
I Heart Huckabee's
Sense and Sensibility
Jane Eyre
I confess to being totally stumped by this one
This week's Car Talk puzzler:
RAY: This puzzler came to us from a guy named Bob Wilson. Here it is:
A boy goes off to college and after the first semester he's run out of money.
In fact, he's so broke he doesn't have enough money to call home, or to even send a letter. However, he manages to find a postcard with a stamp already on it.
He sends the following message, "Send. More money."
Here's how the message reads: from left to right, "s-e-n-d." Directly below those four letters, is the word "more."
To the left of "more" is a plus sign.
There is a line underneath those two words, and under that is the word "money", with the "m" under the plus sign, and the "y" under the "d" and "e" in "send" and "more."
You with me?
TOM: I've got it-- and I can see a follow-up puzzler for next week. He gets a postcard back, reading, "Drop. Dead."
RAY: The question is, how much money do they send him? Believe it or not, there's only one solution.
What the fuck?
RAY: This puzzler came to us from a guy named Bob Wilson. Here it is:
A boy goes off to college and after the first semester he's run out of money.
In fact, he's so broke he doesn't have enough money to call home, or to even send a letter. However, he manages to find a postcard with a stamp already on it.
He sends the following message, "Send. More money."
Here's how the message reads: from left to right, "s-e-n-d." Directly below those four letters, is the word "more."
To the left of "more" is a plus sign.
There is a line underneath those two words, and under that is the word "money", with the "m" under the plus sign, and the "y" under the "d" and "e" in "send" and "more."
You with me?
TOM: I've got it-- and I can see a follow-up puzzler for next week. He gets a postcard back, reading, "Drop. Dead."
RAY: The question is, how much money do they send him? Believe it or not, there's only one solution.
What the fuck?
Sunday, April 24, 2005
Frequently asked questions
Q. This the liberry?
A. Yes, we are a large public library in the boring end of a fun city. I'm D, the assistant branch manager and children's librarian. That's Jeff, who does the work of a librarian for less pay.
Q. That's a pit?
A. No one knows exactly what Susie is, because we met her when she walked into the library one day, unaccompanied by a human. Our best guess is that she's a pit/greyhound mix, but we just don't know.
Q. I'm goin to da Wendy's. You want somethin?
A. No, thanks; I'm vegetarian.
Q. Aw, she's vegetarian. They got a fish sandwich, though.
A. Dude, if it has parents, I don't want to eat it.
Q. What about the poor little broccolis?
A. Hee! That's really funny. I've never heard that before! Psych.
Q. You got a boyfriend?
A. No, I'm gay.
Q. Like, you never get with a guy, ever?
A. Sometimes. Not you, though.
A. Yes, we are a large public library in the boring end of a fun city. I'm D, the assistant branch manager and children's librarian. That's Jeff, who does the work of a librarian for less pay.
Q. That's a pit?
A. No one knows exactly what Susie is, because we met her when she walked into the library one day, unaccompanied by a human. Our best guess is that she's a pit/greyhound mix, but we just don't know.
Q. I'm goin to da Wendy's. You want somethin?
A. No, thanks; I'm vegetarian.
Q. Aw, she's vegetarian. They got a fish sandwich, though.
A. Dude, if it has parents, I don't want to eat it.
Q. What about the poor little broccolis?
A. Hee! That's really funny. I've never heard that before! Psych.
Q. You got a boyfriend?
A. No, I'm gay.
Q. Like, you never get with a guy, ever?
A. Sometimes. Not you, though.
Susie's best day ever
We just got back from a day in Algiers Point, home of Rudolph and her dog Rudy. Jeffrey, Susie and I drove over the bridge to get to Rudolph's house. She threw some beers in a beach bag and we went over to the levee to let the puppies run around.
Rudy is an 85-pound golden retriever, and Susie is a forty-pound pit/greyhound mix, so basically Rudy kicked some Susie ass most of the day. She deserved it, though. They spent most of the afternoon chasing sticks, baseballs and Jeffs up and down the riverfront. Finally, Rudolph revealed that there was a spot at which she let Rudy go in the river; it's protected from the deep part by a line of trees. Jeff was fearful of alligators, but eventually we did let Rudy and Suze run down into the water. I tried to take pictures of Susie dog-paddling around, but my camera was acting like a bitch as usual.
Then we took Rudy home and Susie and the humans hung out at the Dry Dock Café. I had pinot grigio, Rudolph had a Bass, Jeff had a Diet Pepsi and Suze had ice cubes. We got a table outside so she could sit with us and beg for table scraps from an adjoining table with a beef-intensive order. She was not rewarded.
After that, we walked Rudolph home and had another glass of wine while Suze and Rudy played with sticks. When it was time to cross the river again, Jeff suggested we take the ferry and I eagerly acquiesced; I'd taken it as a foot passenger before, but never in a car and never with Suze. I thought she might be scared, but she loved it. Jeff wrapped her leash around his wrist twice so she wouldn't fall over the side, and I wished I'd thought to tighten her collar. We were a little worried she'd wriggle out of it. She'd had such a good time splashing in the river earlier that she wanted to jump right over the edge of the boat.
Now she's lying motionless on the floor. I bet she won't move for hours.
Rudy is an 85-pound golden retriever, and Susie is a forty-pound pit/greyhound mix, so basically Rudy kicked some Susie ass most of the day. She deserved it, though. They spent most of the afternoon chasing sticks, baseballs and Jeffs up and down the riverfront. Finally, Rudolph revealed that there was a spot at which she let Rudy go in the river; it's protected from the deep part by a line of trees. Jeff was fearful of alligators, but eventually we did let Rudy and Suze run down into the water. I tried to take pictures of Susie dog-paddling around, but my camera was acting like a bitch as usual.
Then we took Rudy home and Susie and the humans hung out at the Dry Dock Café. I had pinot grigio, Rudolph had a Bass, Jeff had a Diet Pepsi and Suze had ice cubes. We got a table outside so she could sit with us and beg for table scraps from an adjoining table with a beef-intensive order. She was not rewarded.
After that, we walked Rudolph home and had another glass of wine while Suze and Rudy played with sticks. When it was time to cross the river again, Jeff suggested we take the ferry and I eagerly acquiesced; I'd taken it as a foot passenger before, but never in a car and never with Suze. I thought she might be scared, but she loved it. Jeff wrapped her leash around his wrist twice so she wouldn't fall over the side, and I wished I'd thought to tighten her collar. We were a little worried she'd wriggle out of it. She'd had such a good time splashing in the river earlier that she wanted to jump right over the edge of the boat.
Now she's lying motionless on the floor. I bet she won't move for hours.
Saturday, April 23, 2005
Ooh...
I'm reading a spooky book called Among the Dolls, by William Sleator (1975). Sleator wrote the incredibly awesome House of Stairs, the best book ever assigned to me in library school (it was for my children's lit course). This one isn't as fabulous as House of Stairs, but it's creepy: a little girl that really wanted a ten-speed bike for her birthday gets an antique dollhouse instead, and she doesn't like it much but eventually starts playing with it, taking out her aggressions toward her family on the family of dolls. Then one day she finds herself literally sucked into the dolls' world -- she's their size and trapped in the house -- and they start seeking revenge on her for the miserable lives she's given them. I can't wait to finish it.
It's my first weekend off in seven weeks, so I spent the day lying in bed. I finished two other juvenile books today: The Young Landlords (Walter Dean Myers, 1979) and Things Not Seen (Andrew Clements, 2002). Both were excellent. The Young Landlords is about a group of fifteen-year-olds that decide to protest against a slum in their neighborhood and wind up buying the building for a dollar and finding out firsthand about the problems involved in being landlords. In Things Not Seen, a kid wakes up one morning and finds out he's invisible. He has to find out why, but in the meantime, he can only go out in public naked (or else his clothes will be seen floating around). He goes to the library and befriends...a blind girl, of course. And then lots of stuff happens, like his scientist dad and the girl's scientist dad start trying to figure out how he got invisible. And truant officers start banging on his door. And...it's really good.
It's my first weekend off in seven weeks, so I spent the day lying in bed. I finished two other juvenile books today: The Young Landlords (Walter Dean Myers, 1979) and Things Not Seen (Andrew Clements, 2002). Both were excellent. The Young Landlords is about a group of fifteen-year-olds that decide to protest against a slum in their neighborhood and wind up buying the building for a dollar and finding out firsthand about the problems involved in being landlords. In Things Not Seen, a kid wakes up one morning and finds out he's invisible. He has to find out why, but in the meantime, he can only go out in public naked (or else his clothes will be seen floating around). He goes to the library and befriends...a blind girl, of course. And then lots of stuff happens, like his scientist dad and the girl's scientist dad start trying to figure out how he got invisible. And truant officers start banging on his door. And...it's really good.
Thursday, April 21, 2005
What I've been reading
In the car, I'm listening to The Lovely Bones. I sort of expected it to suck, but it's pretty good. I thought it would be all about angels and crap, but instead it's...interesting. Not riveting, but good. I like it. It's a nice change, too, since my last two audiobooks were Michael Moore's Dude, Where's My Country? and Al Franken's Lies and the Lying Liars Who Tell Them: A Fair and Balanced Look at the Right. I liked both of those -- Moore is one of my heroes and really tells it like it is, when he sticks to the facts, and Franken is hilarious, particularly in the part when he described how he and his son visited Bob Jones University and pretended the kid wanted to attend -- but it's nice to have something with a little plot instead of all anti-Ann Coulter rhetoric all the time.
In print, I just finished Meg Wolitzer's The Position. Sure, it's sort of a The Corrections ripoff, but I loved The Corrections. The Position, like its predecessor, is about a family in which the children are now grown and living far apart, and the particular neuroses of each child and parent: the parents are divorced; the dad's on his third wife; the mom's married to...nah, I won't give it away; the oldest kid, Holly, lives in California and won't talk to her family; Michael, the second oldest, suffers from depression and impotence; the third oldest, Dashiell, is very ill with cancer; and the youngest, a girl whose name escapes me, is making a student film and falling in love for the first time. The book's title refers to a sexual position called "Electric Forgiveness" that the parents of the family supposedly invented back in the 1970s when they published a feelgood sex manual. Now the book is being reissued, and it's at this point that we step into the family's lives. Yeah, I told you it was like The Corrections.
I've also been reading a lot of juvenile and YA fiction:
The Doll in the Garden, Mary Downing Hahn, is a predictable and forgettable ghost story.
The Watsons Go to Birmingham - 1963, Christopher Paul Curtis, is very funny with drama at the end.
Terry Trueman's Cruise Control is a good idea as a subplot in a more complex story, but standing alone it's kind of weak.
In print, I just finished Meg Wolitzer's The Position. Sure, it's sort of a The Corrections ripoff, but I loved The Corrections. The Position, like its predecessor, is about a family in which the children are now grown and living far apart, and the particular neuroses of each child and parent: the parents are divorced; the dad's on his third wife; the mom's married to...nah, I won't give it away; the oldest kid, Holly, lives in California and won't talk to her family; Michael, the second oldest, suffers from depression and impotence; the third oldest, Dashiell, is very ill with cancer; and the youngest, a girl whose name escapes me, is making a student film and falling in love for the first time. The book's title refers to a sexual position called "Electric Forgiveness" that the parents of the family supposedly invented back in the 1970s when they published a feelgood sex manual. Now the book is being reissued, and it's at this point that we step into the family's lives. Yeah, I told you it was like The Corrections.
I've also been reading a lot of juvenile and YA fiction:
The Doll in the Garden, Mary Downing Hahn, is a predictable and forgettable ghost story.
The Watsons Go to Birmingham - 1963, Christopher Paul Curtis, is very funny with drama at the end.
Terry Trueman's Cruise Control is a good idea as a subplot in a more complex story, but standing alone it's kind of weak.
Hodgepodge
1. Quote of the day, from a twelve-year-old kid lingering at the library past closing, labeling his newly purchased disk: "Do you call this a floppy disk or a flappy disk?" I managed to answer him with a straight face.
2. It's punctuated y'all. Not ya'll. Think about it: Apostrophes replace missing letters. Like, in don't, which is a contraction for do not, the apostrophe replaces the O. And in y'all, the apostrophe replaces the OU. Got it?
3. Eggs are really good, be they scrambled or in egg salad. I could eat eggs all the livelong day.
2. It's punctuated y'all. Not ya'll. Think about it: Apostrophes replace missing letters. Like, in don't, which is a contraction for do not, the apostrophe replaces the O. And in y'all, the apostrophe replaces the OU. Got it?
3. Eggs are really good, be they scrambled or in egg salad. I could eat eggs all the livelong day.
Sunday, April 17, 2005
More actual transcripts
I'm at the French Quarter Fest, wearing an Elastica t-shirt.
Man working in a booth: Oh! The Elastics! Whoo!
Me: It's actually Elastica.
Man: (does a double take) Oh yeah! You're right!
I'm walking Susie around the block when we see a group of kids, a little older than the group of elementary-school children that normally swarm around us to pet Suze. We know these kids as individuals but have never seen them in this particular clump before.
Twelve-year-old girl: Hey Susie!
Me: Hi there. (Susie gets very excited and lunges at the kids.)
Other kids: Hi Susie! Hey Susie!
Twelve-year-old girl: Hey, Susie mama, I'm talkin to you.
Me: What's up?
Twelve-year-old girl: That boy want to touch your butt. (Points at a fifteen-ish boy on a bike. The boy looks abashed. The other kids in the crowd hoot with glee.)
Me: Oh, uh, heh, I'm sure he doesn't. Um, come on, Susie.
Twelve-year-old girl: No, not Susie butt. He want to touch YOUR butt, Susie mama. (The boy blushes and rides away. Susie and I scurry off down the block as fast as we can.)
Some bitch at the library desk wants to write my boss a letter describing how I "violated state law" by asking a child to tell me his birthday so I could issue him a library card.
Bitch: What your name is?
Me: It's Daisy Lastname, and I'm the assistant br--
Bitch: I don't care who you are. I'm writing a letter! You heard me? What's your name?
Me: Daisy Lastname.
Bitch: Breaking state law, asking parents questions about they children. You better believe I'm-a write this letter. What's your name?
Me: I've given it to you twice now, ma'am.
Bitch: You better tell me it again.
Me: For the final time, my name is Miss Lastname.
Bitch: You better be telling me your first name.
Me: No, I think Miss Lastname will do.
Bitch: Fine. I'll just write "the fat redhead."
Of course, I should have said, "I'm certain that will lend your undoubtedly finely crafted prose an extra layer of credibility, madam," but instead I just walked away.
Man working in a booth: Oh! The Elastics! Whoo!
Me: It's actually Elastica.
Man: (does a double take) Oh yeah! You're right!
I'm walking Susie around the block when we see a group of kids, a little older than the group of elementary-school children that normally swarm around us to pet Suze. We know these kids as individuals but have never seen them in this particular clump before.
Twelve-year-old girl: Hey Susie!
Me: Hi there. (Susie gets very excited and lunges at the kids.)
Other kids: Hi Susie! Hey Susie!
Twelve-year-old girl: Hey, Susie mama, I'm talkin to you.
Me: What's up?
Twelve-year-old girl: That boy want to touch your butt. (Points at a fifteen-ish boy on a bike. The boy looks abashed. The other kids in the crowd hoot with glee.)
Me: Oh, uh, heh, I'm sure he doesn't. Um, come on, Susie.
Twelve-year-old girl: No, not Susie butt. He want to touch YOUR butt, Susie mama. (The boy blushes and rides away. Susie and I scurry off down the block as fast as we can.)
Some bitch at the library desk wants to write my boss a letter describing how I "violated state law" by asking a child to tell me his birthday so I could issue him a library card.
Bitch: What your name is?
Me: It's Daisy Lastname, and I'm the assistant br--
Bitch: I don't care who you are. I'm writing a letter! You heard me? What's your name?
Me: Daisy Lastname.
Bitch: Breaking state law, asking parents questions about they children. You better believe I'm-a write this letter. What's your name?
Me: I've given it to you twice now, ma'am.
Bitch: You better tell me it again.
Me: For the final time, my name is Miss Lastname.
Bitch: You better be telling me your first name.
Me: No, I think Miss Lastname will do.
Bitch: Fine. I'll just write "the fat redhead."
Of course, I should have said, "I'm certain that will lend your undoubtedly finely crafted prose an extra layer of credibility, madam," but instead I just walked away.
Friday, April 15, 2005
More stuff
I didn't get very far into Myra Breckinridge before abandoning it. There just wasn't enough going on. Luckily, the next book on my list was William Gibson's Idoru, which I got for my birthday from Becky. It's ridiculously good and, in fact, I'm already on page 251 even though I only began it this morning and I've already taken two naps today (I'm getting over a cold).
The Idoru of the title is a Japanese virtual celebrity. She has only just appeared in the book a few pages ago, so I haven't quite gotten a handle on her yet, but she's basically a beautiful mass of data...not human at all. But a rock star named Rez apparently has decided he wants to marry her, so this fourteen-year-old girl named Chia, who's in his fan club in Seattle, has been dispatched by the well-connected members of her club to go to Tokyo and figure out whether the rumor is true. Half of the book is told from Chia's perspective, and the other half (in alternating segments) is from the point of view of this dude Laney whose job is to sort through the data trails people leave behind and figure out dirt on them that no one else can find. Laney seems to have a special gift in this regard, sort of like Cayce in Gibson's later Pattern Recognition. But he can't find out much on Rez. Does this mean Rez is virtual too? I don't know yet. I still have, uh, 132 pages to go, and I can't put the book down. The blurbs in the front of the paperback edition I'm reading are all, "explores postmodern concepts of identity" and "disturbing visions blurring the virtual and the actual" and "the metaphors through which technology reveals our darkest desires," but I just think it's a goddamn good story.
And following close on the heels of Rae's announcement of her new blog, Juice of Tales from the Liberry is putting out a second one of his own. It's called Have Cipro, Will Travel and it's the story of a medical/missionary trip he took to Guatemala and El Salvador with his wife, who's a medical student, and a bunch of her classmates.
The Idoru of the title is a Japanese virtual celebrity. She has only just appeared in the book a few pages ago, so I haven't quite gotten a handle on her yet, but she's basically a beautiful mass of data...not human at all. But a rock star named Rez apparently has decided he wants to marry her, so this fourteen-year-old girl named Chia, who's in his fan club in Seattle, has been dispatched by the well-connected members of her club to go to Tokyo and figure out whether the rumor is true. Half of the book is told from Chia's perspective, and the other half (in alternating segments) is from the point of view of this dude Laney whose job is to sort through the data trails people leave behind and figure out dirt on them that no one else can find. Laney seems to have a special gift in this regard, sort of like Cayce in Gibson's later Pattern Recognition. But he can't find out much on Rez. Does this mean Rez is virtual too? I don't know yet. I still have, uh, 132 pages to go, and I can't put the book down. The blurbs in the front of the paperback edition I'm reading are all, "explores postmodern concepts of identity" and "disturbing visions blurring the virtual and the actual" and "the metaphors through which technology reveals our darkest desires," but I just think it's a goddamn good story.
And following close on the heels of Rae's announcement of her new blog, Juice of Tales from the Liberry is putting out a second one of his own. It's called Have Cipro, Will Travel and it's the story of a medical/missionary trip he took to Guatemala and El Salvador with his wife, who's a medical student, and a bunch of her classmates.
Thursday, April 14, 2005
Stuff
1. Some of you (Nadia! Bartsy!) will doubtless enjoy Rae's new blog, Neurotica: tales of genderfuck and kink in San Francisco. I intend to check in at least daily, myself. Rae is my ersatz little sister and I can't wait to see her in July.
2. Speaking of gender play, I've just begun Gore Vidal's Myra Breckenridge, a Christmas gift from Jeffrey. Jeff is a fan of Vidal's historical works but thought this might be more up my alley. The cover is fabulous:
And the first paragraph is funny:
"I am Myra Breckenridge whom no man will ever possess. Clad only in garter belt and one dress shield, I held off the entire elite of the Trobriand Islanders, a race who possess no words for 'why' or 'because.' Wielding a stone axe, I broke the arms, the limbs, the balls of their finest warriors, my beauty blinding them as it does all men, unmanning them in the way that King Kong was reduced to a mere simian whimper by beauteous Fay Wray whom I resemble left three-quarter profile if the key light is no more than five feet high during the close shot."
Still, I'm afraid the high camp will get in the way of the plot, such as it is, and I'm not one to take style over substance in my reading material. I'm only on page 25, though, so we'll see what happens.
3. While trying to find a version of the cover image above minus the white borders, I ran across this and am now delighted.
2. Speaking of gender play, I've just begun Gore Vidal's Myra Breckenridge, a Christmas gift from Jeffrey. Jeff is a fan of Vidal's historical works but thought this might be more up my alley. The cover is fabulous:
And the first paragraph is funny:
"I am Myra Breckenridge whom no man will ever possess. Clad only in garter belt and one dress shield, I held off the entire elite of the Trobriand Islanders, a race who possess no words for 'why' or 'because.' Wielding a stone axe, I broke the arms, the limbs, the balls of their finest warriors, my beauty blinding them as it does all men, unmanning them in the way that King Kong was reduced to a mere simian whimper by beauteous Fay Wray whom I resemble left three-quarter profile if the key light is no more than five feet high during the close shot."
Still, I'm afraid the high camp will get in the way of the plot, such as it is, and I'm not one to take style over substance in my reading material. I'm only on page 25, though, so we'll see what happens.
3. While trying to find a version of the cover image above minus the white borders, I ran across this and am now delighted.
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
The other side of town
Actual conversation held with an old lady at Snooty Branch, where I spent all day yesterday:
Old Lady: Hello there. I have some books on tape on reserve.
Me: No problem. I just need your library card. (She proffers it.) Okay, it looks like two of them came in. Let me get them from the back. (I do so and return.) Okay, here we are...
Old Lady, peering at the audiocassettes: No, wait, I...(she fumbles for words)
Me, trying to be helpful: Have you already read one of these? We can send it back.
Old Lady: No, no, I ordered the wrong thing. These are for my car. I can't...
Me: You don't have a tape player in your car?
Old Lady: Those are for the VCR.
Me: Oh, the box is shaped like a videotape box, but they're audiocassettes, see? (I open a case and show her the six little tapes lined up inside.)
Old Lady, looking very confused: So it's on a lot of different tapes?
Me: Right. See, here's tape one, and this is tape two, and...
Old Lady, with realization dawning on her wrinkled countenance: Oh! They go in order!
I have no idea what she thought. That the same story appeared on six different cassettes? I don't get it.
Old Lady: Hello there. I have some books on tape on reserve.
Me: No problem. I just need your library card. (She proffers it.) Okay, it looks like two of them came in. Let me get them from the back. (I do so and return.) Okay, here we are...
Old Lady, peering at the audiocassettes: No, wait, I...(she fumbles for words)
Me, trying to be helpful: Have you already read one of these? We can send it back.
Old Lady: No, no, I ordered the wrong thing. These are for my car. I can't...
Me: You don't have a tape player in your car?
Old Lady: Those are for the VCR.
Me: Oh, the box is shaped like a videotape box, but they're audiocassettes, see? (I open a case and show her the six little tapes lined up inside.)
Old Lady, looking very confused: So it's on a lot of different tapes?
Me: Right. See, here's tape one, and this is tape two, and...
Old Lady, with realization dawning on her wrinkled countenance: Oh! They go in order!
I have no idea what she thought. That the same story appeared on six different cassettes? I don't get it.
Saturday, April 09, 2005
Rising Tide
When I heard that this year's One Book/One New Orleans book was Rising Tide: The Great Mississippi Flood of 1927 and How It Changed America, I was skeptical. The point of OB/ONO is for the whole city to read a book together, thus promoting reading and literacy. Rising Tide is certainly of local interest, but I thought the idea of pushing a 426-page nonfiction book about civil engineering on a population whose twelve-year-old children frequently do not know their middle names or birthdays was maintaining a ridiculously high level of expectation. Last year's OB/ONO book was Ernest Gaines's A Lesson Before Dying, which is also of local interest but has the additional advantages of being fictional and short.
Even I didn't want to read Rising Tide, although Jeffrey eventually wore me down and I started it today. It's good; in fact, it's very good. But I still don't think it will encourage the populace to read.
Even I didn't want to read Rising Tide, although Jeffrey eventually wore me down and I started it today. It's good; in fact, it's very good. But I still don't think it will encourage the populace to read.
Friday, April 08, 2005
I posted this yesterday
But the Blogger monsters ate it for breakfast.
A woman with a child in tow approaches the circ desk.
Woman: I could get her a library card?
Me: Sure. How old are you, honey?
Kid: Nine.
Me: Okay, that means you get a Kids' Club card. Let me look you up in our computer. What's your last name?
Kid: Butler.
Me, typing away: Okay, and what's your first name?
Kid: Jennifer.
Me: Hmm. It looks like you already have a library card in here. Let me see if this is you. When's your birthday?
Kid: May 6.
Me: Yep, this is you. Let me update your account. What's your middle name?
Kid: Selina.
Me, imagining that this could be spelled Selina, Selena, Celina, or probably countless other variations: How do you spell that?
Mom: We don't spell her middle name.
Me: You don't do what now?
Mom: Just put S.
Me: Well, with a common name like Jennifer Butler, it's important that we put her whole middle name so we can tell her apart from others with similar names. We wouldn't want someone else to be able to check out books from her account.
Mom: We don't spell her middle name.
Me: Jennifer, how do you spell Selina?
Kid: Um....S....um, L...
Me, thinking, Aha! A variation that hadn't occurred to me: Okay, "Slina," is it? Is the next letter E or I?
Mom: We don't spell her middle name.
Me: I truly do have to have it, ma'am.
Mom, with a great sigh: Okay. Um, S-L....A...M...I don't know. Uh, I....C, I think.
Me: S-L-A-M-I-C?
Mom: Yeah, I think so.
Me: "Slamic"?
Mom: I think so. I have to look up how to spell it and tell you next time I come in. It's her Muslim name. We don't know how to spell it.
I have changed no details of this story except the name Jennifer Butler. Selina, spelled "Slamic," appears to be the kid's actual middle name.
A woman with a child in tow approaches the circ desk.
Woman: I could get her a library card?
Me: Sure. How old are you, honey?
Kid: Nine.
Me: Okay, that means you get a Kids' Club card. Let me look you up in our computer. What's your last name?
Kid: Butler.
Me, typing away: Okay, and what's your first name?
Kid: Jennifer.
Me: Hmm. It looks like you already have a library card in here. Let me see if this is you. When's your birthday?
Kid: May 6.
Me: Yep, this is you. Let me update your account. What's your middle name?
Kid: Selina.
Me, imagining that this could be spelled Selina, Selena, Celina, or probably countless other variations: How do you spell that?
Mom: We don't spell her middle name.
Me: You don't do what now?
Mom: Just put S.
Me: Well, with a common name like Jennifer Butler, it's important that we put her whole middle name so we can tell her apart from others with similar names. We wouldn't want someone else to be able to check out books from her account.
Mom: We don't spell her middle name.
Me: Jennifer, how do you spell Selina?
Kid: Um....S....um, L...
Me, thinking, Aha! A variation that hadn't occurred to me: Okay, "Slina," is it? Is the next letter E or I?
Mom: We don't spell her middle name.
Me: I truly do have to have it, ma'am.
Mom, with a great sigh: Okay. Um, S-L....A...M...I don't know. Uh, I....C, I think.
Me: S-L-A-M-I-C?
Mom: Yeah, I think so.
Me: "Slamic"?
Mom: I think so. I have to look up how to spell it and tell you next time I come in. It's her Muslim name. We don't know how to spell it.
I have changed no details of this story except the name Jennifer Butler. Selina, spelled "Slamic," appears to be the kid's actual middle name.
Wednesday, April 06, 2005
A fruity mystery
I was in the kitchen getting a glass of water just now, and as I returned to the stairs, a splotch on the floor near the front door caught my eye. At first I was nervous because it was a shiny dark red like thick, clotted blood, and I was afraid one of the cats had gotten hurt.
The floor is painted deep reddish-brown, though, and any dark substance appears to have the color of dried blood, so I convinced myself that the substance was mud (we had thunderstorms all day), and went to get some paper towels to clean it up. The first paper towel, though, turned dark red. I hesitantly sniffed the paper. Cranberries. Or cranberry puree, from the texture.
Well, I'm really glad the cats aren't bleeding to death, but I'm EXTREMELY puzzled about the cranberry sauce, because not only have I not bought or made any such dish lately, I have NEVER made cranberry sauce and I almost certainly have never even tasted any. Sure, I might have at a Thanksgiving or two, but it's just not my thing. I don't even like cranberry JUICE. The only reason I was even able to identify the smell is from treating the occasional urinary tract infection with cranberry juice.
I live alone, and no one has a key to my house except the landlord, who has never entered without my permission and prior knowledge even the day that he and his wife called me seven times to find out if I was alive because Susie had turned on one of the stove burners and the place reeked of gas, which had leaked into their house. Even then, they didn't come in; they just called and called repeatedly and eventually the landlady came over and banged on my door until I woke up and then said she was really sorry to disturb me but she just wanted to make sure I wasn't dead.
So who has entered my home -- bearing cranberry sauce, mind you -- dropped some on my floor, and then left without taking or leaving anything else? It's kind of scary.
The floor is painted deep reddish-brown, though, and any dark substance appears to have the color of dried blood, so I convinced myself that the substance was mud (we had thunderstorms all day), and went to get some paper towels to clean it up. The first paper towel, though, turned dark red. I hesitantly sniffed the paper. Cranberries. Or cranberry puree, from the texture.
Well, I'm really glad the cats aren't bleeding to death, but I'm EXTREMELY puzzled about the cranberry sauce, because not only have I not bought or made any such dish lately, I have NEVER made cranberry sauce and I almost certainly have never even tasted any. Sure, I might have at a Thanksgiving or two, but it's just not my thing. I don't even like cranberry JUICE. The only reason I was even able to identify the smell is from treating the occasional urinary tract infection with cranberry juice.
I live alone, and no one has a key to my house except the landlord, who has never entered without my permission and prior knowledge even the day that he and his wife called me seven times to find out if I was alive because Susie had turned on one of the stove burners and the place reeked of gas, which had leaked into their house. Even then, they didn't come in; they just called and called repeatedly and eventually the landlady came over and banged on my door until I woke up and then said she was really sorry to disturb me but she just wanted to make sure I wasn't dead.
So who has entered my home -- bearing cranberry sauce, mind you -- dropped some on my floor, and then left without taking or leaving anything else? It's kind of scary.
Tuesday, April 05, 2005
Car talk, happy talk
I'm a little bit sad tonight because it's the birthday of a once-close friend who is now so distant from me I don't even know what his phone number is. So to cheer us all up, here's the answer to last week's Car Talk puzzler:
RAY: What they're measuring is the passage of time. One is the sandglass, which has thousands of grains of sand. The other is the sundial, which has no moving parts.
Both of them measure the passage of time.
And this week's puzzler:
The year was 1962. New York City was in the grip of a measles epidemic. City officials were getting nervous. It seemed like New Yorkers weren't taking it seriously.
But, people needed to know who needed to be vaccinated and why, and, moreover, they needed to know where the vaccine was available and who was eligible. There was a lot of information that needed to be disseminated.
The public health service people were getting discouraged as the epidemic spread. Something had to be done. A meeting was called. Various strategies were presented. Finally, out of the inky shadows, emerged Edmund J. Potas, Senior Public Health Advisor.
"I have an idea," he said. He suggested a form of mass communication that had never been used before. It was a success. And this method has been used countless times ever since.
What did he suggest that day? And here's a hint: "measles."
RAY: What they're measuring is the passage of time. One is the sandglass, which has thousands of grains of sand. The other is the sundial, which has no moving parts.
Both of them measure the passage of time.
And this week's puzzler:
The year was 1962. New York City was in the grip of a measles epidemic. City officials were getting nervous. It seemed like New Yorkers weren't taking it seriously.
But, people needed to know who needed to be vaccinated and why, and, moreover, they needed to know where the vaccine was available and who was eligible. There was a lot of information that needed to be disseminated.
The public health service people were getting discouraged as the epidemic spread. Something had to be done. A meeting was called. Various strategies were presented. Finally, out of the inky shadows, emerged Edmund J. Potas, Senior Public Health Advisor.
"I have an idea," he said. He suggested a form of mass communication that had never been used before. It was a success. And this method has been used countless times ever since.
What did he suggest that day? And here's a hint: "measles."
Monday, April 04, 2005
Residential woes
1. On Saturday evening, I said goodbye to Susie and the cats, grabbed my purse, and walked out the front door. As always when leaving the house, I turned the inside doorknob lock, twisted the knob back and forth (while the door was still open) to make sure the door was locked, and grabbed my keys from the nail to the right of the door. Then I pulled the door shut behind me and was on my merry way to Jeff's house to watch the Illini in the Final Four.
Except, oops....there's another nail just above the keyring nail where I hang Susie's leash. Yeah, I grabbed the leash instead of my keys and didn't realize it until after I shut the locked door. My house and car keys were now just out of my reach, hanging tantalizingly just inside the door.
I considered my options. The game was beginning and I really didn't want to miss a minute of it. First, I rang my landlord's doorbell, presuming that he'd have a key, but there was no answer. I tore a page out of the back of the copy of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance that was in my purse and scrawled a note instructing them to just go over and unlock my door for me and I'd be home later.
Now I needed to get in touch with Jeff to beg him to pick my ass up. I don't have a cell phone, so I rang my neighbors' doorbell, but they weren't home. I jogged over to the grocery store and picked up one of their disgusting pay phones. The first phone card I tried had expired. Damn it. I tried another. This one worked but required me to sit through thirty seconds of advertising before allowing me to place my call.
I got through to Jeff, who asked whether we could possibly break into my house. I said I didn't think so; the first-floor windows all have bars on them. He said he'd come right over to pick me up, and while he was on his way I remembered that the bathroom window does not, in fact, have bars, and it almost certainly wasn't locked. It was closed, but that shouldn't be too hard to get around. The more pressing problem was that to get to it, we'd have to slip in the two-foot space between the window and the fence, step over a bunch of rocks, construction rubble, and other debris, and then climb up about six feet to get in the window. I'm a big girl and I was wearing sandals. I didn't think this was going to work.
Jeffrey sweetly volunteered for this job. I protested weakly and then let him do it. He pried open the bathroom window to the delight of Bruce the cat, who jumped up and sat on the sill, blocking Jeff's access to same. I yelled at Bruce and cajoled him and finally told Jeff to just push him off.
Now we had only to boost Jeff up the six feet or so to the windowsill and squeeze him through the two-foot gap available. I brought out a cinderblock, but it wasn't tall enough to use as a step. Jeff clambered onto the chain-link fence dividing my property from that of my neighbors' and then, in a very athletic maneuver, pushed off his hands and stuck his legs through the window, belly up. He slowly lowered himself to the floor, contorting his face to express his discomfort, until he suddenly panicked that the floor was further away than he'd thought. I secretly wished I had a camera but assured him that if he just bent his spine a few more degrees, he could stand up. This proved to be true. He soon achieved his goal and unlocked the door from the inside. We drove to his house and still got to see the second half of the game. Thanks, Jeffer.
2. Today at 10:45, I went out to my car, parked on the street in front of the house next door, to stick the cats in there, carriers and all, for their trip to the vet. Once they were safely ensconced in the back seat, howling at me for having the nerve to confine them in this way, I saw that there was a note on my windshield. I pulled it off and read it. It began:
I have to load some things into my house today. Can you please move your car up a few feet?
So far, so good. Of course I didn't mind doing that.
But the note went on to say:
You are taking up two parking spaces.
Thanks, Keith
Now, the problems with this are threefold.
(a) I live, commonly enough, in a residential area without marked or assigned parking spaces. There's just, like, a street, and people park on it. It's impossible to "take up two parking spaces." Furthermore, I'm very conscientious about the way I park; I always drive up to a foot or two from the bumper of the car in front of me so as to allow the maximum amount of space behind me for someone else to park. That's just what I'd done the night before; I remember it vividly because I'd actually tapped the bumper of the car in front of me, and then I backed up a few inches. If people in front of me and behind me came and went in the interim, that's hardly my fault. I guess I was parked in front of this dude's house. I have no idea who Keith is, so I'm not sure. And like almost all of the buildings on my block, the house next door has no driveway, so I wasn't blocking that or anything. In other words: I was parking in a perfectly legal, polite manner.
(b) To the best of my knowledge, there is no law, rule or custom that says that everyone is entitled to a parking spot in front of their own house. If there were such a law, I'd have been parked in front of my own damn house, but undoubtedly there were cars already there when I pulled in the night before. Why would I not PREFER to park in front of my own residence?
(c) If you want someone to move their car, the best way to accomplish this is NOT by leaving a note on their windshield. The car's owner is not going to see said note until they approach their car, which is generally done only when they're going to leave anyway. I was on my way to the vet, so I drove my car away. I'd have been happy to move it earlier if the dude had knocked on my door.
Except, oops....there's another nail just above the keyring nail where I hang Susie's leash. Yeah, I grabbed the leash instead of my keys and didn't realize it until after I shut the locked door. My house and car keys were now just out of my reach, hanging tantalizingly just inside the door.
I considered my options. The game was beginning and I really didn't want to miss a minute of it. First, I rang my landlord's doorbell, presuming that he'd have a key, but there was no answer. I tore a page out of the back of the copy of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance that was in my purse and scrawled a note instructing them to just go over and unlock my door for me and I'd be home later.
Now I needed to get in touch with Jeff to beg him to pick my ass up. I don't have a cell phone, so I rang my neighbors' doorbell, but they weren't home. I jogged over to the grocery store and picked up one of their disgusting pay phones. The first phone card I tried had expired. Damn it. I tried another. This one worked but required me to sit through thirty seconds of advertising before allowing me to place my call.
I got through to Jeff, who asked whether we could possibly break into my house. I said I didn't think so; the first-floor windows all have bars on them. He said he'd come right over to pick me up, and while he was on his way I remembered that the bathroom window does not, in fact, have bars, and it almost certainly wasn't locked. It was closed, but that shouldn't be too hard to get around. The more pressing problem was that to get to it, we'd have to slip in the two-foot space between the window and the fence, step over a bunch of rocks, construction rubble, and other debris, and then climb up about six feet to get in the window. I'm a big girl and I was wearing sandals. I didn't think this was going to work.
Jeffrey sweetly volunteered for this job. I protested weakly and then let him do it. He pried open the bathroom window to the delight of Bruce the cat, who jumped up and sat on the sill, blocking Jeff's access to same. I yelled at Bruce and cajoled him and finally told Jeff to just push him off.
Now we had only to boost Jeff up the six feet or so to the windowsill and squeeze him through the two-foot gap available. I brought out a cinderblock, but it wasn't tall enough to use as a step. Jeff clambered onto the chain-link fence dividing my property from that of my neighbors' and then, in a very athletic maneuver, pushed off his hands and stuck his legs through the window, belly up. He slowly lowered himself to the floor, contorting his face to express his discomfort, until he suddenly panicked that the floor was further away than he'd thought. I secretly wished I had a camera but assured him that if he just bent his spine a few more degrees, he could stand up. This proved to be true. He soon achieved his goal and unlocked the door from the inside. We drove to his house and still got to see the second half of the game. Thanks, Jeffer.
2. Today at 10:45, I went out to my car, parked on the street in front of the house next door, to stick the cats in there, carriers and all, for their trip to the vet. Once they were safely ensconced in the back seat, howling at me for having the nerve to confine them in this way, I saw that there was a note on my windshield. I pulled it off and read it. It began:
I have to load some things into my house today. Can you please move your car up a few feet?
So far, so good. Of course I didn't mind doing that.
But the note went on to say:
You are taking up two parking spaces.
Thanks, Keith
Now, the problems with this are threefold.
(a) I live, commonly enough, in a residential area without marked or assigned parking spaces. There's just, like, a street, and people park on it. It's impossible to "take up two parking spaces." Furthermore, I'm very conscientious about the way I park; I always drive up to a foot or two from the bumper of the car in front of me so as to allow the maximum amount of space behind me for someone else to park. That's just what I'd done the night before; I remember it vividly because I'd actually tapped the bumper of the car in front of me, and then I backed up a few inches. If people in front of me and behind me came and went in the interim, that's hardly my fault. I guess I was parked in front of this dude's house. I have no idea who Keith is, so I'm not sure. And like almost all of the buildings on my block, the house next door has no driveway, so I wasn't blocking that or anything. In other words: I was parking in a perfectly legal, polite manner.
(b) To the best of my knowledge, there is no law, rule or custom that says that everyone is entitled to a parking spot in front of their own house. If there were such a law, I'd have been parked in front of my own damn house, but undoubtedly there were cars already there when I pulled in the night before. Why would I not PREFER to park in front of my own residence?
(c) If you want someone to move their car, the best way to accomplish this is NOT by leaving a note on their windshield. The car's owner is not going to see said note until they approach their car, which is generally done only when they're going to leave anyway. I was on my way to the vet, so I drove my car away. I'd have been happy to move it earlier if the dude had knocked on my door.
Sunday, April 03, 2005
Hodgepodge
1. I'm taking the cats to the vet tomorrow for checkups and shots. I've been extremely lax about this the last few years because they were indoor cats; now that I live in New Orleans, however, and they can jump out the screenless windows whenever they please, it's too hard to keep them inside. They don't go far anyway. I think they're okay out there, but they do need rabies shots. So anyway, I have the cat carriers out on the bedroom floor so they can get used to the idea, and Susie, who's never seen the cat carriers before, is beside herself. She keeps sticking her head into the smaller one and getting her shoulders caught and banging around for a minute trying to get herself loose.
2. Margaret Cho was pretty good but not sensational. I thought her book and the tapes I've seen of her earlier shows were much better. She retread a lot of old ground this time, with jokes about fag hags and vegetarians and lesbians' short fingernails and stuff we all know already. Part of this was my bias as a 29-year-old, though, I think; I saw her on the Tulane campus and the audience was full of 20-year-old baby dykes with buzz cuts who thought she was uproariously funny. She did tell a few good jokes, but I think she's at her best when impersonating her mother.
3. I told the barbarian people I wouldn't babysit for them any more. I said I had a part-time job and wouldn't have the time, but really I'm going to keep sitting for P and her sister and all the other winsome children I usually sit for. But the barbarian family are such brats, combined with the fact that their mom is a whiny snob...forget it. I have a new babysitting job for next Saturday: the cousin of a current client is visiting town for a reunion and they want me to babysit for their two kids in their hotel room while they go to the party. I've been babysitting for nineteen years, but I've never done so in a hotel room before, and I keep envisioning the Four Rooms segment. You know the one.
4. I'm reading Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance and A Brief History of Time simultaneously. I was reading Brief History at the doctor's office and the doctor (nurse practitioner, really) gasped and said she loved it but that her favorite philosophy book was Zen and.... I privately thought that the two books were absolutely nothing alike and that all they had in common was that they could both vaguely be said to be about philosophy in the loosest sense, but I told her I'd check out Zen anyway.
I'm right so far. A Brief History of Time is a physicist's account, written for a popular audience, of what happened when the universe began and what will happen when it ends. It's full of equations and diagrams and it's pretty difficult reading even though it's supposed to be all dumbed down.
Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance is about a dude on a motorcycle trip across the country with his eleven-year-old son, who has just been diagnosed with an unspecified mental illness. The dad had undergone electroshock therapy himself a few years back, so it's ringing all kinds of bells with him. But this is really just the framework for the "talks" the dad gives the reader about some basic concepts of critical theory: the connections between art and technology, how paradigm shifts occur, what's wrong with the classicism/romanticism dichotomy, etc. It's interesting and a good review, but I've been to grad school twice now, thanks. I think I would have gotten more out of the book if I'd read it when I was twenty. I should've handed out copies at Margaret Cho.
2. Margaret Cho was pretty good but not sensational. I thought her book and the tapes I've seen of her earlier shows were much better. She retread a lot of old ground this time, with jokes about fag hags and vegetarians and lesbians' short fingernails and stuff we all know already. Part of this was my bias as a 29-year-old, though, I think; I saw her on the Tulane campus and the audience was full of 20-year-old baby dykes with buzz cuts who thought she was uproariously funny. She did tell a few good jokes, but I think she's at her best when impersonating her mother.
3. I told the barbarian people I wouldn't babysit for them any more. I said I had a part-time job and wouldn't have the time, but really I'm going to keep sitting for P and her sister and all the other winsome children I usually sit for. But the barbarian family are such brats, combined with the fact that their mom is a whiny snob...forget it. I have a new babysitting job for next Saturday: the cousin of a current client is visiting town for a reunion and they want me to babysit for their two kids in their hotel room while they go to the party. I've been babysitting for nineteen years, but I've never done so in a hotel room before, and I keep envisioning the Four Rooms segment. You know the one.
4. I'm reading Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance and A Brief History of Time simultaneously. I was reading Brief History at the doctor's office and the doctor (nurse practitioner, really) gasped and said she loved it but that her favorite philosophy book was Zen and.... I privately thought that the two books were absolutely nothing alike and that all they had in common was that they could both vaguely be said to be about philosophy in the loosest sense, but I told her I'd check out Zen anyway.
I'm right so far. A Brief History of Time is a physicist's account, written for a popular audience, of what happened when the universe began and what will happen when it ends. It's full of equations and diagrams and it's pretty difficult reading even though it's supposed to be all dumbed down.
Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance is about a dude on a motorcycle trip across the country with his eleven-year-old son, who has just been diagnosed with an unspecified mental illness. The dad had undergone electroshock therapy himself a few years back, so it's ringing all kinds of bells with him. But this is really just the framework for the "talks" the dad gives the reader about some basic concepts of critical theory: the connections between art and technology, how paradigm shifts occur, what's wrong with the classicism/romanticism dichotomy, etc. It's interesting and a good review, but I've been to grad school twice now, thanks. I think I would have gotten more out of the book if I'd read it when I was twenty. I should've handed out copies at Margaret Cho.
