So, for a while now, I've been taking responsibility for all manner of other people's problems. Maybe "taking" is the wrong word. People have been very generous to me, gifting me with one onus to shoulder after another. I appreciate these gifts, but I'm also a practical gal. I've got mouths to feed. So I'm going to start charging. Think of the service as selling Indulgences but probably a lot more economical. I'll take just about anything. Does male pattern baldness run in your family? I'll take it. Is your teenager alienated and distant? I'll take that, too. Awww, does your girlfriend think you're an insensitive asshole? Probably my fault. What's that you say, your cousin Ricky is incontinent and you can't figure out why because there's no history of this in your family? Gimme. I can't get enough of it, and I'm embarrassed with a wealth, so why shouldn't I turn a profit? To that end, I've made up a preliminary price list:
Sibling Rivalry: $.50 per incident
Traumatic Breakups: One-time flat rate of $20, or buy a year's subscription for $75 (if you're a real emo loser, this is definitely the better deal.)
Adolescent Malaise: Due to the chronic nature of this blame-generator, the cost is a flat $500 (if your kid is a total emo loser, this will cost far less than your weekly therapy encounters, and will make you feel way better.)
Newfound Awareness of Alternative Sexuality: $Market Price
The Peace of Mind That Comes From Knowing Nothing is Your Fault: Priceless
Monday, August 18, 2008
A Solution: Revised
The 5,000 people responsible for outselling the "Handpainted Oil Portrait of a Shih-Tzu on a Cushion in Ornate Gold Frame" on HSN gave up their personal information and, therefore, their right to privacy. They must be individually tracked - each and every one of them - and their voter registrations must be revoked.* This is not the painting I saw on TV
** I realize it's a Pekingese
*** I thought it evoked the same gestalt as the Shih Tzu on Pillow one
The Sea Pig
Pig left his pen
Somewhere south of here
A life in the slop
Was ordinary
He longed to look at moving waters.
"A brine bath," he thought."Sounds fine."
A trotter he dredged through the shallows.
The current carried him out to sea
He'd never felt so light
So free
It may have been days
He didn't wear a watch
He longed to dive to the floor
But he absorbed the watery life around him
His swelling hide, it
Buoyed him up
To his annoyance.
The pig resolved:
"Before my next jount to the sea
AloneI'll fill my pockets upWith stones."
Somewhere south of here
A life in the slop
Was ordinary
He longed to look at moving waters.
"A brine bath," he thought."Sounds fine."
A trotter he dredged through the shallows.
The current carried him out to sea
He'd never felt so light
So free
It may have been days
He didn't wear a watch
He longed to dive to the floor
But he absorbed the watery life around him
His swelling hide, it
Buoyed him up
To his annoyance.
The pig resolved:
"Before my next jount to the sea
AloneI'll fill my pockets upWith stones."
Sunday, August 17, 2008
My Thirties
At this point, it's really about maintenance and avoidance.
It's been a main priority to avoid any emotion stronger than peevishhness. Drama is soooo mid-to-late twenties.
Also important to stand up straight all the time. Crack a joke to put others at ease.
Forget about the really deep cuts. You had your time to mourn, and frankly, others find it tedious. (See above re: mid-to-late twenties.)
Tedium is your fault.
Listen to Nick Drake about all the things you could've been. Like a clock.
Contemplate your tenth college reunion. Then throw out the invitation.
It's been a main priority to avoid any emotion stronger than peevishhness. Drama is soooo mid-to-late twenties.
Also important to stand up straight all the time. Crack a joke to put others at ease.
Forget about the really deep cuts. You had your time to mourn, and frankly, others find it tedious. (See above re: mid-to-late twenties.)
Tedium is your fault.
Listen to Nick Drake about all the things you could've been. Like a clock.
Contemplate your tenth college reunion. Then throw out the invitation.
An Ideal World
In my ideal world, all newborn boys would be named "Waylon." Newborn girls would be called, "Marfa."
In my ideal world, David Lee Roth and Tom Jones would record an album of duets entitled, "These Pants Ain't Too Tight for Two."
In my ideal world, the national bird of the United States would not be the Eagle. In fact, there would be no national bird. It would be a dog, and it would be a Lhasa Apso.
In my ideal world, a person's voter registration would be revoked upon a third purchase from the Home Shopping Network.
In my ideal world, emails would not suffice as Thank-You notes.
In my ideal world, individuals would be required to submit Letters of Intent to the National Science Foundation, The National Endowment for the Arts, and The ASPCA before receiving approval to reproduce. This requirement would be limited to humans.
In my ideal world, cats would finally be acknowledged as the original purveyors of ancient knowledge.
In my ideal world, Simon Cowel would not be nationally regarded as a member of the intelligentsia.
In my ideal world, David Lee Roth and Tom Jones would record an album of duets entitled, "These Pants Ain't Too Tight for Two."
In my ideal world, the national bird of the United States would not be the Eagle. In fact, there would be no national bird. It would be a dog, and it would be a Lhasa Apso.
In my ideal world, a person's voter registration would be revoked upon a third purchase from the Home Shopping Network.
In my ideal world, emails would not suffice as Thank-You notes.
In my ideal world, individuals would be required to submit Letters of Intent to the National Science Foundation, The National Endowment for the Arts, and The ASPCA before receiving approval to reproduce. This requirement would be limited to humans.
In my ideal world, cats would finally be acknowledged as the original purveyors of ancient knowledge.
In my ideal world, Simon Cowel would not be nationally regarded as a member of the intelligentsia.
I know funny.
I KNOW funny!
Here’s what I know. I know about comedy. I screamed at a kid today that he didn’t know funny because he didn’t like my idea.
I also figured out that comedy lives in my shoulder. Know how I know that? Because I have severe stabbing pains in my shoulder that I thought were caused by poor weightlifting technique. Cuyler said it’s ’cause my funnybone is in the wrong place. Then I realized that he was wrong. Know why? Because my funnybone is SO precise that it grew all the way up my tibia or whatever and pierced my rotator cuff tendon or whatever it’s called. How come it did that? Because I have funny IN my bones now, where most people have just one, separate bone.
Here’s what I know. I know about comedy. I screamed at a kid today that he didn’t know funny because he didn’t like my idea.
I also figured out that comedy lives in my shoulder. Know how I know that? Because I have severe stabbing pains in my shoulder that I thought were caused by poor weightlifting technique. Cuyler said it’s ’cause my funnybone is in the wrong place. Then I realized that he was wrong. Know why? Because my funnybone is SO precise that it grew all the way up my tibia or whatever and pierced my rotator cuff tendon or whatever it’s called. How come it did that? Because I have funny IN my bones now, where most people have just one, separate bone.
Happy Birthday, Kaspar Hauser
Happy Birthday, Kaspar Hauser
There you stand,A monkey in culottes.
You foraged for fruit in the Black Forest
And shat in the brush
Ere we discovered you
A year ago today.
See the cheerful faces of the neighborhood children
and those of us from the university research facility
Who have come to celebrate the glorious day of your discovery -your deliverance from savage obscurity!
Remark how our eyes glow and our smiles beam
In birthday candlelight!
No, no Kaspar, you mustn't bite your party guests!
Mind that you use the fork!
Kaspar, dear boy, remove your penis from the table.You frighten the children.
There there.
It's so lovely when you're calm.
Let us raise our glasses to this little wonder
And toast to his approximately sixteen years of life(So far as we can glean from dental X-rays)We celebrate your progress
And pray that you soon acquire speech.
Little Kaspar.
Who would know that you, our rosebud in blue stockings,
This picture of Lutheran sweetness
Was weaned from the teat of a marmot?
Lo these two years since you came to us
You have become our wee man-child.(Please do not mount my leg while I'm speaking, Kaspar.)
Let us thank a power greater than ourselves
And the miracles of modern science!
For you, our feral boy, our marmot-man,
Are born anew in the chaste waters of Christendom.
The Almighty has brought you from the wilderness
And to the forest shall you never return.
There you stand,A monkey in culottes.
You foraged for fruit in the Black Forest
And shat in the brush
Ere we discovered you
A year ago today.
See the cheerful faces of the neighborhood children
and those of us from the university research facility
Who have come to celebrate the glorious day of your discovery -your deliverance from savage obscurity!
Remark how our eyes glow and our smiles beam
In birthday candlelight!
No, no Kaspar, you mustn't bite your party guests!
Mind that you use the fork!
Kaspar, dear boy, remove your penis from the table.You frighten the children.
There there.
It's so lovely when you're calm.
Let us raise our glasses to this little wonder
And toast to his approximately sixteen years of life(So far as we can glean from dental X-rays)We celebrate your progress
And pray that you soon acquire speech.
Little Kaspar.
Who would know that you, our rosebud in blue stockings,
This picture of Lutheran sweetness
Was weaned from the teat of a marmot?
Lo these two years since you came to us
You have become our wee man-child.(Please do not mount my leg while I'm speaking, Kaspar.)
Let us thank a power greater than ourselves
And the miracles of modern science!
For you, our feral boy, our marmot-man,
Are born anew in the chaste waters of Christendom.
The Almighty has brought you from the wilderness
And to the forest shall you never return.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
The Beautiful People
Why could we not avert our eyes from her? Was it because she beckoned? Or was there something else we longed for?By IAN BURUMA for Time
These words were penned in honor of an extraordinary woman who left the world in a state far better than she found it. Mother Teresa? No, silly. Diana Spencer.
In 1997, the world was set to mourning. Princess Diana died tragically while being pursued by pernicious paparazzi. Her coy countenance graced the covers of Vogue, Elle, and Time. Her death was followed not long after by the death of her favorite designer, Gianni Versace. After his murder, the world likewise felt its heart pull in the direction of glamour. New York City was just growing scar tissue over Audrey Hepburn's demise in 1993. The international beauty brigade couldn't deal with the shock of losing another icon.
So there was this other woman who perished in the summer of '97. Her name was Agnes Gonxha Bojaxhiu. This name doesn't so much roll off the tongue as stumble down on clumsy bear feet. She must have realized this and got herself a publicist, becoming a much easier-to-prounounce Mother Teresa. So why did she merit only a couple of lousy spreads in Newsweek and an obligatory mention in Time? Why didn't Vogue salute her as L'Ange des Enfants, the way it did Ms. Hepburn? Sure, she performed a miracle or whatever (something icky about a tumor). But she didn't try hard enough where it counts: Prettiness.
I understand - I guess - that missionary work in leper colonies doesn't leave a girl much time for her toilette, and Lord knows there must be a dearth of good dermatologists in Calcutta, but really. If she had really wanted this Sister of Charity thing to take off, she could have made herself a touch more camera-ready. Now, I don't know what a missionary packs in her Prada duffel, but I'll bet dollars to doughnuts that there's room for a Chanel lip gloss and a tub of La Mer moisturizer. She needed to come down to Earth and look at her predecessors: The Angelic Eyes of Joan D'Arc (doubtless she dabbed a bit of Great Lash on before those portraits were painted); Saint Bernadette, the ingenue; and, let us not forget, the Virgin Mary. She was at least in her forties when all those beatific portraits were done. (What did Mary know that Teresa didn't? Lighting, honey. It's EVERYthing.) There's a reason her beatification is taking so long - she's a tough PR sell.
So, again, let us not be befuddled at M.T.'s lack of post-mortem publicity. It was her own fault for not trying hard enough to be good-looking. If I could go back in time, I'd like to help her image with a few timely fashion spreads with Sting or Bono and gift her a facial peel. She could have had Comme des Garcons craft her a much more flattering habit, which would have done loads to ingratiate her with the right people. Who knows, maybe Elton John would have rewritten the lyrics to a song about her, as well as Di? (Alas, hindsight is 20/20.)
In our paths to greatness, let's be ever-aware of the importance of lighting, smiling, a few no-nonsense wardrobe staples, and a skincare regimen. Remember the immortal words of America's greatest living actor, George Hamilton (no stranger to the sun himself) in his finest cinematic hour as Zorro: The Gay Blade: "There is no shame in being poor: Only in dressing poorly."
These words were penned in honor of an extraordinary woman who left the world in a state far better than she found it. Mother Teresa? No, silly. Diana Spencer.
In 1997, the world was set to mourning. Princess Diana died tragically while being pursued by pernicious paparazzi. Her coy countenance graced the covers of Vogue, Elle, and Time. Her death was followed not long after by the death of her favorite designer, Gianni Versace. After his murder, the world likewise felt its heart pull in the direction of glamour. New York City was just growing scar tissue over Audrey Hepburn's demise in 1993. The international beauty brigade couldn't deal with the shock of losing another icon.
So there was this other woman who perished in the summer of '97. Her name was Agnes Gonxha Bojaxhiu. This name doesn't so much roll off the tongue as stumble down on clumsy bear feet. She must have realized this and got herself a publicist, becoming a much easier-to-prounounce Mother Teresa. So why did she merit only a couple of lousy spreads in Newsweek and an obligatory mention in Time? Why didn't Vogue salute her as L'Ange des Enfants, the way it did Ms. Hepburn? Sure, she performed a miracle or whatever (something icky about a tumor). But she didn't try hard enough where it counts: Prettiness.
I understand - I guess - that missionary work in leper colonies doesn't leave a girl much time for her toilette, and Lord knows there must be a dearth of good dermatologists in Calcutta, but really. If she had really wanted this Sister of Charity thing to take off, she could have made herself a touch more camera-ready. Now, I don't know what a missionary packs in her Prada duffel, but I'll bet dollars to doughnuts that there's room for a Chanel lip gloss and a tub of La Mer moisturizer. She needed to come down to Earth and look at her predecessors: The Angelic Eyes of Joan D'Arc (doubtless she dabbed a bit of Great Lash on before those portraits were painted); Saint Bernadette, the ingenue; and, let us not forget, the Virgin Mary. She was at least in her forties when all those beatific portraits were done. (What did Mary know that Teresa didn't? Lighting, honey. It's EVERYthing.) There's a reason her beatification is taking so long - she's a tough PR sell.
So, again, let us not be befuddled at M.T.'s lack of post-mortem publicity. It was her own fault for not trying hard enough to be good-looking. If I could go back in time, I'd like to help her image with a few timely fashion spreads with Sting or Bono and gift her a facial peel. She could have had Comme des Garcons craft her a much more flattering habit, which would have done loads to ingratiate her with the right people. Who knows, maybe Elton John would have rewritten the lyrics to a song about her, as well as Di? (Alas, hindsight is 20/20.)
In our paths to greatness, let's be ever-aware of the importance of lighting, smiling, a few no-nonsense wardrobe staples, and a skincare regimen. Remember the immortal words of America's greatest living actor, George Hamilton (no stranger to the sun himself) in his finest cinematic hour as Zorro: The Gay Blade: "There is no shame in being poor: Only in dressing poorly."
Thursday, June 19, 2008
had a conversation with a man who was trying to defraud me of many hundreds of dollars today. Since I was onto his game and was already filing a complaint, I went ahead and returned his threatening phone call. Our conversation went something like this:
Him (in nearly unintelligible South Asian accent): Hello?
Me: (with a severe head cold): Yes, what company do you represent?
Him: Tell me your name.Me: No. You tell me your company's name first.
Him: No. You tell me your name and then I tell you company name fuhst. {sic}
Me: Let's try this again. I want to know whom you represent.
Him: Ma'am, tell me your name NOW! I don't have to tell you nothing.
Me: Okay, since you asked nicely, Rachel Anderson. But you should know that, since you called me first.
Him: Spell that, please.Me: T-H-A-T
Him: Spell name, please MA'AM!!!Me: Oh, I see. Well, Rachel is spelled just like it sounds, and Anderson is pretty common so you should get that no problem.
Him: SPELL NAME PLEASE!!!
Me: No. Guess.Him: LISA LISA LISA MA'AM!!!
Me: Who's "Lisa?" My name is Rachel.
Him: Spell name FOR MY CONVENIENCE!
Me: Oh, I don't think I'll do that.
End transmission
Him (in nearly unintelligible South Asian accent): Hello?
Me: (with a severe head cold): Yes, what company do you represent?
Him: Tell me your name.Me: No. You tell me your company's name first.
Him: No. You tell me your name and then I tell you company name fuhst. {sic}
Me: Let's try this again. I want to know whom you represent.
Him: Ma'am, tell me your name NOW! I don't have to tell you nothing.
Me: Okay, since you asked nicely, Rachel Anderson. But you should know that, since you called me first.
Him: Spell that, please.Me: T-H-A-T
Him: Spell name, please MA'AM!!!Me: Oh, I see. Well, Rachel is spelled just like it sounds, and Anderson is pretty common so you should get that no problem.
Him: SPELL NAME PLEASE!!!
Me: No. Guess.Him: LISA LISA LISA MA'AM!!!
Me: Who's "Lisa?" My name is Rachel.
Him: Spell name FOR MY CONVENIENCE!
Me: Oh, I don't think I'll do that.
End transmission
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