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.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
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
Saturday, August 18, 2007
The Stupid
All of us, every day, function in close proximity to The Stupid. I capitalized the term to illustrate the privileged position that The Stupid occupy in our society. The power of The Stupid was revealed to me today; by virtue of their inability to process information, The Stupid are empowered to ignore completely any sound argument the Non-Stupid put forth to them. I discovered this in today, when I broke my rule of never engaging The Stupid in logical discussion. The Stupid and I went round and round in a sick dance in which I repeated my argument (ten times!) in every way I could possibly think to make him understand, and he repeated his argument in exactly the same way - ten times. By the end, I was irritated to the point of striking him. He had broken me, and made me just as Stupid as he.
Categories of Stupid:
1.The Wily Stupid - Like the one I dealt with today, they will pull you into their web of Stupidity and make you one of them.
2.The Hateful Stupid - These are malicious. Even when they don't understand what mean thing they have said/done, they do understand that they are being harmful in some way.
3.The Drunken Stupid - Most of us have been this.
4..The Happy Stupid - They are happy to be stupid and to know that you think that they're stupid.
5.George W. Bush
Categories of Stupid:
1.The Wily Stupid - Like the one I dealt with today, they will pull you into their web of Stupidity and make you one of them.
2.The Hateful Stupid - These are malicious. Even when they don't understand what mean thing they have said/done, they do understand that they are being harmful in some way.
3.The Drunken Stupid - Most of us have been this.
4..The Happy Stupid - They are happy to be stupid and to know that you think that they're stupid.
5.George W. Bush
Sunday, June 17, 2007
The Secret 2, Electric Bugaloo
The Secret advises You (author's caps, not mine) to speak only your desires aloud, and the Universe (their caps, again) will respond.
Try the fun things I've been doing for a couple days now:
Announce aloud, "I eat whatever I want and am my ideal weight," in between mouthfuls of chimichanga.
Announce to your partner frequently, "See that clear lane of traffic/green light/image of St. Francis of Assissi in tire grease? I manifested that."
Assert that everything you want is on its way. When someone asks "When?", remind him or her that the Universe doesn't recognize time. This works especially well if you work at the post office or DPS.
Try the fun things I've been doing for a couple days now:
Announce aloud, "I eat whatever I want and am my ideal weight," in between mouthfuls of chimichanga.
Announce to your partner frequently, "See that clear lane of traffic/green light/image of St. Francis of Assissi in tire grease? I manifested that."
Assert that everything you want is on its way. When someone asks "When?", remind him or her that the Universe doesn't recognize time. This works especially well if you work at the post office or DPS.
Saturday, June 16, 2007
The Secret
The Secret, a self-empowerment book that's being flung about in book circles and touted as nothing short of miraculous, was gifted to me. Not to be left out of a trend, I've been trying out some of the suggestions. One passage suggests that, before sleep, I replay all the events of the day and, "If any events or moments did not got the way you wanted, replay them in your mind in a way that thrills you." Here are some events from my day that I thought might could use a rewrite:
1. In an effort to get through a restaurant meal with a tired 4-year old, I would not have succumbed to the hot judgment of the woman at the adjacent table and her three silent children and, when my daughter refused to stop dancing in the aisle and eat her damn burrito, I might have given her a little pat on the head, rather than dragging her into the bathroom and threatening to burn all of her toys.
2. During a Rockwellian moment of drinking coffee and humoring my mother by reading aloud from Robert Pinsky's America's Favorite Poems, I would not have taken her bait and entered in a heated argument about home decor. In this conflict, I implied that the four paintings she demanded I hang in the living room were painted by a no-name ass clown and would serve the decor best if they were mounted in the following locations: beneath the litter box, in one of the toilet tanks, on the ceiling of the guest bathroom, and on the topmost branch of the tree in the backyard, respectively. I haven't thought of an alternate ending for this one.
1. In an effort to get through a restaurant meal with a tired 4-year old, I would not have succumbed to the hot judgment of the woman at the adjacent table and her three silent children and, when my daughter refused to stop dancing in the aisle and eat her damn burrito, I might have given her a little pat on the head, rather than dragging her into the bathroom and threatening to burn all of her toys.
2. During a Rockwellian moment of drinking coffee and humoring my mother by reading aloud from Robert Pinsky's America's Favorite Poems, I would not have taken her bait and entered in a heated argument about home decor. In this conflict, I implied that the four paintings she demanded I hang in the living room were painted by a no-name ass clown and would serve the decor best if they were mounted in the following locations: beneath the litter box, in one of the toilet tanks, on the ceiling of the guest bathroom, and on the topmost branch of the tree in the backyard, respectively. I haven't thought of an alternate ending for this one.
Thursday, June 15, 2006
Hey, Old Man
Hey, Old Man.
I see you, Old Man, at the end of the bar.
I think you're kinda cute
The way you gob a whiskey
And how you're trying hard to chew.
Hey, Old Man.
Are you busy later on?I wanna go off-roading with you.
I plan to king your checkers
And wear your blue bathrobe
I'll feed you tapioca
If you let me take you home.
They call me one sick puppy
When I tell 'em your my man
Hop up on my scooter
We'll make them understand.
Hey, Old Man.
© R. Adame/L. Lee 1998 Lyrics appear courtesy of 25 Whores LLC
I see you, Old Man, at the end of the bar.
I think you're kinda cute
The way you gob a whiskey
And how you're trying hard to chew.
Hey, Old Man.
Are you busy later on?I wanna go off-roading with you.
I plan to king your checkers
And wear your blue bathrobe
I'll feed you tapioca
If you let me take you home.
They call me one sick puppy
When I tell 'em your my man
Hop up on my scooter
We'll make them understand.
Hey, Old Man.
© R. Adame/L. Lee 1998 Lyrics appear courtesy of 25 Whores LLC
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