It's not often your name is nearly identical to someone else's (particularly that of a moderately famous Australian movie star), but such is the case with me and Eric Bana. If he had a "g" added to his surname and the letters were then rearranged, he would have the privilege of being Eric Bagan.
The similarity doesn't end there. While watching "Troy," I noticed Bana (Hector) was standing next to Brad Pitt (Achilles) and asked my wife which of the two actors I most resemble. Her response was immediate: "Eric Bana."
In fact, I'm tall (5'9"), have brown eyes, and the sort of rugged yet androgynous features which have served me well in poetry workshops. I possess changeable looks and my hair often stands on end. For all I know, Eric Bana shares these qualities, but since I've only ever seen him on screen, I can't be sure.
I do know we are capable of attaining the same soulful look in our eyes, though mine are hazel (or actually the color of sea glass in muted light) and his are chocolate brown. Though neither of us yet has the reputation of a Tom Cruise or Will Smith, he and I are each rising stars in our fields (acting and educational administration, respectively).
Regrettably, I haven't seen Bana in some of his best-known movies. I passed on "Hulk" (I don't like the color green), "Star Trek" (don't like aviation), and "Black Hawk Down" (don't like the color black or aviation). But I admired his performance in "Munich," in which he tracked down and killed Black September terrorists (true, I dislike black, but do like September).
We also have "Troy" in common (he was in it; I saw it (twice)). He fought Achilles just the way I would have, though I might have relied a little less on my shield and employed more swordplay and head feints (war is based on deception).
Other coincidences: Bana has two children, a boy and a girl. I also have a son and--wait for it--a daughter! His son was born in July, as was mine. Both our daughters have six letters in their first names. But here's where it gets really spooky: Bana's son is named Klaus. My daughter is named Barbie. Who was the Butcher of Lyon? Klaus Barbie. Which ethnic group is not overly fond of Nazis? And when he starred in "Munich" as an Israeli Mossad agent named Avner, which ethnicity was Eric Bana portraying? So we each have experience playing Jews and killing terrorists with our bare hands (if, in my case, you count mosquitoes as terrorists).
The uncanny parallels mount: Eric Bana and I each appear to be less than stellar drivers. A motor racing enthusiast, he crashed his 1974 XB Ford Falcon coupé in the Targa Tasmania rally. A riding mower enthusiast, I decapitated a squirrel on a Snapper 2812523BVE at my weekend home in Pennsylvania.
Like many movie stars, Eric's sexual orientation is open to interpretation (I'm straight), and I'm unaware of his educational background (I made honor roll three semesters in high school and scored a "4" on the American history A.P. exam), or interests (reading and power walking are mine). But I do know that we're both "built." I attract my share of stares at the gym (my wife says it's because of the low weight I bench press ) and a girlfriend at summer camp once told me I had a washboard stomach (though she was breaking up with me when she said it).
I did enjoy watching Eric have sex in "Munich." He seemed attentive and like he could go the distance (I can also. Usually.) However, he made love to his wife when she was seven months' pregnant, which is something I would never do (to my wife, his, or anyone's) as I believe it can endanger the baby.
Probably the most difficult aspect of having a full name so close to a movie star's is determining how much of what we know about each other is based on a "public persona." At parties, I'll frequently clear a space of furniture and area rugs and entertain others with a sort of stand-up/ karaoke/ ghost story routine. My face is usually florid (I drink gin with anything) and I'm "on" for up to forty minutes, but it's not really me. It's a facet of myself (my wife asks why she didn't see this facet when we were dating; I had to save some good stuff, babe), but not my complete identity.
And I imagine that's how it is for Eric Bana. He's on the red carpet talking in a big, broad Australian accent with "Entertainment Tonight," and then everyone goes into the premiere and he's on screen speaking like an American. It's not that Americans sound great (though we definitely do compared to the Israelis in "Munich"), but I'd rather sound like an American (even one from New York), than an Australian.
Obviously, there are differences: Eric Bana's Wikipedia entry is longer than mine, he's younger (40 to my 47), he wasn't fired unfairly by a govermental agency with no justification whatsoever, and I'm not married to the daughter of the Chief Justice of Australia.
On the other hand, his in-laws probably aren't taking him on an all-expenses-paid cruise through Alaskan waterways this summer which will feature glaciers, trained naturalists, and fine wines. Nor has his one-bedroom on First Avenue tripled in value since he bought it (even factoring in the recent dip in the real estate market). On balance, we're both probably pretty well-adjusted guys who find women have a hard time getting past our looks to realize we're men of substance. I wonder if his middle name is Charles.
Thursday, 31 December 2009
Tuesday, 29 December 2009
A Euro is NOT a Dollar
The value of foreign currency fluctuates relative to the value of the dollar. Having lived in Italy for nearly seven years, I am well aware of this fact. Other members of my immediate family, however, are not.
When we got here in August of 2002, it was possible to purchase a euro for 97.8 U.S. cents. Or so I believed when I presented myself at the Banca di Sicilia at 9 a.m. to convert $19,000 in traveller's checks and open an account. After a small computer glitch was resolved several hours later, the rate of the euro had risen to 99.6 U.S. cents, and I had lost $351 and considerable patience. It was then that I learned of the hefty fees imposed to close a bank account in Italy ($68, in my case).
Nonetheless, those were banner days and I gloated over our low rent and the inexpensive wine we drank. The price of wine has remained relatively reasonable during out stay here. Unfortunately, nothing else has. Each subsequent trip to the bank brought worse news: the euro quickly broke the dollar mark, reached $1.10 with ease, and soon forded that mighty river: $1.32.
This prompted a lecture. In our clan, it is a long-acknowledged truth that only I care what things cost. Why worry yourself with trivialities when Dad's there to fret and remind you the orange you're savoring cost the equivalent of 85 American cents? Still, I felt it my duty to sit the family down and explain that things were now 33% more expensive than when we'd arrived. "But prices haven't changed," said two of my less alert relatives in unison. "Right," I explained, "but they have for us because our money's in dollars." "Then why do I have all these?" asked my son, exposing a wallet thick with euros. I turned to my wife: "Why does he have all those?"
As the euro strengthened to $1.45, I awoke each day with a churning stomach. My daughter scolded me: "Stop looking at that stupid graph on the financial page of the paper. Is the value of the dollar all you care about?" "You're right," I smiled, "money doesn't really matter when you have enough." Then I read that Warren Buffett had bought millions in euros shortly before our arrival in Europe. He explained: "The euro had to go up." More churning.
Each item brought into the house raised my hackles. The price of fruit in an imprudently-purchased ceramic bowl ($38; wife) mocked me. I mentally calculated the value of the assorted bananas, pears, and apples, then sat in stunned silence. "Why's Dad staring at fruit?" asked my daughter. "He's counting," responded my son. A bright red rubber ball ($16; son) drew my ire as did a Christmas ornament ($9; daughter).
Then there was the fish. At $1.54 to the euro, I realized the flounder in front of us had cost more than $29. "Everyone stop eating," I barked, "this is an emergency. We are now at the point where it would be cheaper to consume all our meals in a mid-priced restaurant in Manhattan." My son brandished a lemon, made an unfunny joke, and was sent from the table. In 2008, when the euro surpassed $1.60, I bought a price scanner (calibrated to those at our local market) in order to ascertain what each product carried over our threshold had actually cost (duplicitous family members having long ago learned not to bring home receipts).
One afternoon, in response to what was perhaps an annoying query from me along the lines of, "How much did you pay for that ludicrously large soda?," my wife had the misfortune to answer, "Three dollars." "No," I said firmly, "you paid three euros." "Same thing," came her reply. Then, in a voice that woke a neighbor, I resorted to a modifier: "Euros are not fucking dollars. Three euros is four dollars and eighty fucking cents."
A cluster of grapes for which my son paid in excess of seven dollars precipitated my seizure of all financial responsibility. Without my written permission, no one else in the family is allowed to purchase: airline tickets, suntan lotion, meat, quality umbrellas or clothing, tickets to a concert featuring any artist under the age of 50 (subsequently raised to 70 after my daughter saw James Taylor in Padua), fruit grown in Chile, and anything imported from the United States or manufactured here under license from an American company (two boxes of Oreos and a pint of Haagen-Dazs; son).
When the euro hit $1.62, my wife started to notice: "This bathmat would have cost a lot less in the States." I stared at her. "What?" she asked, "Why are you clenching and unclenching your fists?" "It's nothing," I answered, "you said a true thing." "Well," she grinned, "at least there's an upside: Warren Buffett's making a ton. Wait," she said, eyeing me warily, "stop moving toward me. You look scary."
And then it stopped: the dollar started to fall. Like my worst enemy shoved from a great height on to a bed of nails, it plummeted: $1.55, $1.48, $1.42, $1.36, $1.28, $1.239672. I woke one morning and turned to my wife: "It's finished," I gasped, "no more churning." I'd been worse off than Italians for almost a decade; now I was finally luckier. I couldn't believe our good fortune. "Why is this happening?" I asked in a daze. "Don't you know?" she said, "The economy's tanking. There's a worldwide crisis. The good times are over."
When we got here in August of 2002, it was possible to purchase a euro for 97.8 U.S. cents. Or so I believed when I presented myself at the Banca di Sicilia at 9 a.m. to convert $19,000 in traveller's checks and open an account. After a small computer glitch was resolved several hours later, the rate of the euro had risen to 99.6 U.S. cents, and I had lost $351 and considerable patience. It was then that I learned of the hefty fees imposed to close a bank account in Italy ($68, in my case).
Nonetheless, those were banner days and I gloated over our low rent and the inexpensive wine we drank. The price of wine has remained relatively reasonable during out stay here. Unfortunately, nothing else has. Each subsequent trip to the bank brought worse news: the euro quickly broke the dollar mark, reached $1.10 with ease, and soon forded that mighty river: $1.32.
This prompted a lecture. In our clan, it is a long-acknowledged truth that only I care what things cost. Why worry yourself with trivialities when Dad's there to fret and remind you the orange you're savoring cost the equivalent of 85 American cents? Still, I felt it my duty to sit the family down and explain that things were now 33% more expensive than when we'd arrived. "But prices haven't changed," said two of my less alert relatives in unison. "Right," I explained, "but they have for us because our money's in dollars." "Then why do I have all these?" asked my son, exposing a wallet thick with euros. I turned to my wife: "Why does he have all those?"
As the euro strengthened to $1.45, I awoke each day with a churning stomach. My daughter scolded me: "Stop looking at that stupid graph on the financial page of the paper. Is the value of the dollar all you care about?" "You're right," I smiled, "money doesn't really matter when you have enough." Then I read that Warren Buffett had bought millions in euros shortly before our arrival in Europe. He explained: "The euro had to go up." More churning.
Each item brought into the house raised my hackles. The price of fruit in an imprudently-purchased ceramic bowl ($38; wife) mocked me. I mentally calculated the value of the assorted bananas, pears, and apples, then sat in stunned silence. "Why's Dad staring at fruit?" asked my daughter. "He's counting," responded my son. A bright red rubber ball ($16; son) drew my ire as did a Christmas ornament ($9; daughter).
Then there was the fish. At $1.54 to the euro, I realized the flounder in front of us had cost more than $29. "Everyone stop eating," I barked, "this is an emergency. We are now at the point where it would be cheaper to consume all our meals in a mid-priced restaurant in Manhattan." My son brandished a lemon, made an unfunny joke, and was sent from the table. In 2008, when the euro surpassed $1.60, I bought a price scanner (calibrated to those at our local market) in order to ascertain what each product carried over our threshold had actually cost (duplicitous family members having long ago learned not to bring home receipts).
One afternoon, in response to what was perhaps an annoying query from me along the lines of, "How much did you pay for that ludicrously large soda?," my wife had the misfortune to answer, "Three dollars." "No," I said firmly, "you paid three euros." "Same thing," came her reply. Then, in a voice that woke a neighbor, I resorted to a modifier: "Euros are not fucking dollars. Three euros is four dollars and eighty fucking cents."
A cluster of grapes for which my son paid in excess of seven dollars precipitated my seizure of all financial responsibility. Without my written permission, no one else in the family is allowed to purchase: airline tickets, suntan lotion, meat, quality umbrellas or clothing, tickets to a concert featuring any artist under the age of 50 (subsequently raised to 70 after my daughter saw James Taylor in Padua), fruit grown in Chile, and anything imported from the United States or manufactured here under license from an American company (two boxes of Oreos and a pint of Haagen-Dazs; son).
When the euro hit $1.62, my wife started to notice: "This bathmat would have cost a lot less in the States." I stared at her. "What?" she asked, "Why are you clenching and unclenching your fists?" "It's nothing," I answered, "you said a true thing." "Well," she grinned, "at least there's an upside: Warren Buffett's making a ton. Wait," she said, eyeing me warily, "stop moving toward me. You look scary."
And then it stopped: the dollar started to fall. Like my worst enemy shoved from a great height on to a bed of nails, it plummeted: $1.55, $1.48, $1.42, $1.36, $1.28, $1.239672. I woke one morning and turned to my wife: "It's finished," I gasped, "no more churning." I'd been worse off than Italians for almost a decade; now I was finally luckier. I couldn't believe our good fortune. "Why is this happening?" I asked in a daze. "Don't you know?" she said, "The economy's tanking. There's a worldwide crisis. The good times are over."
Thursday, 24 December 2009
What We Know About China
China is the world's most populous nation. There are currently seventy thousand cities in China with a population of one million or more and five hundred cities with a population in excess of ten million. The government's "one family, one child" policy notwithstanding, 87,000 people are born every minute in China. The preference for male children has led to a demographic discrepancy of 3,936,600,008 males to 1,471,312,023 females (add 63,000 to the male total and 24,000 to the female total for every minute after the publication of this piece while subtracting 16,000 per minute for the country's mortality rate).
China is vast, encompassing 22 time zones. When dawn is breaking in Harbin, the sun is setting in Kashgar. In between the two are icy tundra and yak. In summer, broiling tundra and broiling yak. The National Planning Board has recently laid 652,000 kilometers of railroad track to Tibet. Six hundred fifty-two thousand trains (each .75 kilometers in length) depart the Central Station each morning en route to Lhasa. Travellers carry predominantly fireworks, transistor radios, and melons.
Chinese love melons, consuming an average of 1,430 kilos per person per annum. Unripe melons are opened using fireworks. If all the fireworks employed annually to open unripe Chinese melons in even one of the country's 7,310 regions or 812 autonomous zones were laid end to end, they could reach the sun and explode it.
Rice is a staple. Seven hundred billion eight hundred million six hundred nineteen thousand four hundred two grains of rice are consumed every minute in China (excluding major hotels).
Shanghai is China's New York. Beijing is its Washington, D.C. Guangzhou is Los Angeles. Shenzen is like Atlanta. Tianjin calls to mind Philadelphia (in the fall). Chongqing is the St. Louis of China; Dongguan the Dallas (or rather, Fort Worth); and gracious Wuhan its San Francisco. Nanjing is reminiscent of Milwaukee and Chengdu, Tacoma.
Entire Chinese cities are devoted to to the production of specific consumer goods. Hefei is known for its optical lenses. Jinan manufactures microchips and potato chips; Zhengzhou, bras and girdles; Shenjang, pancakes; Guiyang, the blue aprons worn by Wal-Mart employees. Dalian is renowned for its neurosurgeons, producing the equivalent of a Hopkins-trained brain surgeon every eleven minutes.
The number of flat-screen televisions China supplies annually to Wal-Mart exceeds the combined population of all sixteen countries in the euro zone. This figure is projected to increase exponentially in the next eight years and by 2018, China will furnish Wal-Mart with more than 78 billion TVs per annum.
Enormous Wal-Marts (known as Friendship Stores) are being constructed on the outskirts of the 14,000 most populous Chinese metropolitan areas. These mega-superstores will allow consumers to purchase unusually large items such as in-ground swimming pools, backhoes, and Costco franchises.
Ice cream is coming to the People's Republic in a big and powerful way. Forty-five million villagers have been evacuated from the Three Gorges River Plateau in anticipation of the churning of three billion gallons of cream, 316 hectares of ice, 98 tons of salt from the famous mines of South Jiangsu, and 2800 kilos of chocolate chips in anticipation of the August 2010 creation of the world's largest serving of dessert. This event was initially intended to coincide with the opening festivities of the 2008 Beijing Olympics, but authorities at that time were unable to make chocolate chip ice cream glow in the dark.
Global hegemony has traditionally been a U.S. specialty, but now China is contesting America. The adoption of near free-market economics as well as an artificially low exchange rate, a lack of emphasis on human and property rights, and a limitless labor base give China a surprisingly competitive edge. China's economy currently grows at an annual rate of 92% as does the number of medals it wins at each successive Olympics.
To win those medals, officials ask those youths who have trained as neurosurgeons in Dalian but do not possess the requisite skills to staff one of the nation's two million hospitals, to consider employing their steady nerves to become archers, marksmen, etc. Prospective athletes are housed in sizable rural compounds (known as Friendship Villages), given a bicycle and athletic stipend, and are informed that they may see their loved ones again once they can strike the center of a target from a distance of nine kilometers while blindfolded.
Blindfold production is up 375% since this initiative was introduced late last year. This fact becomes particularly pertinent when considering that China is now also beginning to challenge the U.S. in per capita contributions to world pollution. Beijing has a long way to go in reducing China's carbon footprint, but government leaders have found that donning blindfolds before attending climate conferences and the like diminishes anxiety. Meanwhile, demand for renewable energy is expected to rise rapidly in China, and scientists in Xian recently announced a promising breakthrough: given sufficient clean coal emissions, chocolate chip ice cream does indeed glow in the dark.
China is vast, encompassing 22 time zones. When dawn is breaking in Harbin, the sun is setting in Kashgar. In between the two are icy tundra and yak. In summer, broiling tundra and broiling yak. The National Planning Board has recently laid 652,000 kilometers of railroad track to Tibet. Six hundred fifty-two thousand trains (each .75 kilometers in length) depart the Central Station each morning en route to Lhasa. Travellers carry predominantly fireworks, transistor radios, and melons.
Chinese love melons, consuming an average of 1,430 kilos per person per annum. Unripe melons are opened using fireworks. If all the fireworks employed annually to open unripe Chinese melons in even one of the country's 7,310 regions or 812 autonomous zones were laid end to end, they could reach the sun and explode it.
Rice is a staple. Seven hundred billion eight hundred million six hundred nineteen thousand four hundred two grains of rice are consumed every minute in China (excluding major hotels).
Shanghai is China's New York. Beijing is its Washington, D.C. Guangzhou is Los Angeles. Shenzen is like Atlanta. Tianjin calls to mind Philadelphia (in the fall). Chongqing is the St. Louis of China; Dongguan the Dallas (or rather, Fort Worth); and gracious Wuhan its San Francisco. Nanjing is reminiscent of Milwaukee and Chengdu, Tacoma.
Entire Chinese cities are devoted to to the production of specific consumer goods. Hefei is known for its optical lenses. Jinan manufactures microchips and potato chips; Zhengzhou, bras and girdles; Shenjang, pancakes; Guiyang, the blue aprons worn by Wal-Mart employees. Dalian is renowned for its neurosurgeons, producing the equivalent of a Hopkins-trained brain surgeon every eleven minutes.
The number of flat-screen televisions China supplies annually to Wal-Mart exceeds the combined population of all sixteen countries in the euro zone. This figure is projected to increase exponentially in the next eight years and by 2018, China will furnish Wal-Mart with more than 78 billion TVs per annum.
Enormous Wal-Marts (known as Friendship Stores) are being constructed on the outskirts of the 14,000 most populous Chinese metropolitan areas. These mega-superstores will allow consumers to purchase unusually large items such as in-ground swimming pools, backhoes, and Costco franchises.
Ice cream is coming to the People's Republic in a big and powerful way. Forty-five million villagers have been evacuated from the Three Gorges River Plateau in anticipation of the churning of three billion gallons of cream, 316 hectares of ice, 98 tons of salt from the famous mines of South Jiangsu, and 2800 kilos of chocolate chips in anticipation of the August 2010 creation of the world's largest serving of dessert. This event was initially intended to coincide with the opening festivities of the 2008 Beijing Olympics, but authorities at that time were unable to make chocolate chip ice cream glow in the dark.
Global hegemony has traditionally been a U.S. specialty, but now China is contesting America. The adoption of near free-market economics as well as an artificially low exchange rate, a lack of emphasis on human and property rights, and a limitless labor base give China a surprisingly competitive edge. China's economy currently grows at an annual rate of 92% as does the number of medals it wins at each successive Olympics.
To win those medals, officials ask those youths who have trained as neurosurgeons in Dalian but do not possess the requisite skills to staff one of the nation's two million hospitals, to consider employing their steady nerves to become archers, marksmen, etc. Prospective athletes are housed in sizable rural compounds (known as Friendship Villages), given a bicycle and athletic stipend, and are informed that they may see their loved ones again once they can strike the center of a target from a distance of nine kilometers while blindfolded.
Blindfold production is up 375% since this initiative was introduced late last year. This fact becomes particularly pertinent when considering that China is now also beginning to challenge the U.S. in per capita contributions to world pollution. Beijing has a long way to go in reducing China's carbon footprint, but government leaders have found that donning blindfolds before attending climate conferences and the like diminishes anxiety. Meanwhile, demand for renewable energy is expected to rise rapidly in China, and scientists in Xian recently announced a promising breakthrough: given sufficient clean coal emissions, chocolate chip ice cream does indeed glow in the dark.
Tuesday, 22 December 2009
Gold Plated
"I bought it because I want to be the best in the world"--Saeed Khouri, Abu Dhabi resident, on purchasing a license plate bearing the number "1" for $14 million
Have you ever wanted something so badly you could taste it? I'm not talking about food, as in a platter of savory lamb on a bed of cous cous garnished with plump garden-fresh tomatoes and olives. I'm talking about a desire so intense it gives off a heat that nearly consumes you. I'm speaking of a passion that burns you down to the core: you're the candle, your desire is the wick, and the possibility that you may attain what you desire is the lighter, match, or other incendiary device held by the hand of Fate.
I come from a large family. My father had numerous wives and I am the eldest of 37 children. In many ways this has been a blessing (my brother, Juwain, nineteenth born and the middle child, is a basket case). During my youth, I was favored, pampered, and received certain privileges denied my siblings. Recently, I inherited my father's entire estate: $14.34 million.
There is an extremely high rate of unemployment in my homeland as many of us do not feel comfortable performing chores willingly done by guest workers (serfs from India, Pakistan, the Philippines, and, as of late, Indonesia). Consequently, prior to inheriting $14.34 million, there were many gaps in my work history. Actually, one large gap. I had toyed with obtaining a realtor's license, but property is not moving very swiftly in Abu Dhabi these days.
Having studied international business and finance at Cairo University, I was tempted to use my new wealth to aid my alma mater. The current enrollment at C.U. (180,000) makes it extremely difficult to take the classes one wants, to graduate in a timely manner, or to move any part of your body when attending a lecture. Lowering class size at Cairo University seemed a worthy goal. Until I divided $14.34 million by 180,000, arriving at the answer "3." Devoting three additional dollars per student to reducing overcrowding would still leave classes too large. Then my brother Juwain showed me that the true amount per student would be slightly more than $79. More than "3," but still not enough to make a dent.
In order to spend my inheritance most wisely, I sought the counsel of sages, oracles, astronomers, and Abdul-Azim, the faithful family friend who had been primarily responsible for building my father's fortune. "Think globally," he advised. "And also, I could use an air conditioner." "Thank you, Abdul-Azim," I told him, "I will take both suggestions under consideration."
My brother Juwain showed me on the Internet photos of Bolivian children who needed cleft-palate surgery. "Each surgery costs $250," said Juwain, "you could cure 57,360 children." "Right," I responded, "but I only see eight Bolivians on the screen (two rows of four)." There was an extended silence. Then Juwain spoke: "Perhaps you could straighten our sister's teeth."
That night I dreamt of establishing a dental clinic in La Paz. Parents brought their offspring from remote corners of the country to be healed. I greeted families personally and gave them a card which read: "I wish you the best." But I discovered many families could not read Arabic and I realized I would have to print more than 57,000 new cards in Spanish. I woke up in a cold sweat.
As a 28-year-old man, I think of two things constantly: sex and Israel. I crave the former and loathe the latter. For me, Bar Refaeli, Leonardo DiCaprio's girlfriend, presents the ultimate dilemma. "Juwain," I asked, "how much do you think it would cost to destroy the state of Israel?" His response was immediate: "For that you would pay a heavy price." "More than $12 million?" (I'd decided to keep some of my inheritance for a house.) "Much more." "O.K.," I queried, "How much to destroy Leonardo DiCaprio's girlfriend?"
My phone rang early the next morning. It was Juwain: "I must tell you: a life lived in the service of others is the only life worth living." "Jeez, Juwain, I hope you're not asking me to enter the service industry." "No," he said tightly, "I'm not asking you to work at at Burger King." "Good," I said, "don't even ask me to eat at Burger King." "Remember what Abdul-Azim told you?" asked my brother. "What? About the air conditioner?" "No: think globally." I then had a revelation: "Are you suggesting I purchase a Burger King franchise in Bolivia?"
One day Abdul-Azim called. "I know, I know," I apologized, "it's 136°. I'm sorry I haven't gotten back to you." "I understand you have deposited your inheritance in a non-interest-bearing account." "Calm down," I reassured him, "it's only been there eight months." "Please, for the memory of your father, transfer the funds."
So I did transfer the funds: to my living room. And part of the hall. The night I started a fire making popcorn, I could have killed Abdul-Azim. I informed him I'd lost $340,000 in banknotes extinguishing the flames and sopping up butter. "It's 136°," he responded, "why are you making popcorn?"
Sometimes it's a real drag living in a hidebound, intolerant culture. If I couldn't visit the Lamborghini showroom, I'd flip out. I usually show up there at about eleven each morning, sit in the red car, the yellow one, and then in the red one again. Then I go to the restroom, grab some glossy brochures, and leave.
One Tuesday, the salesman told me there was to be a big auction of vanity plates at the Supreme Division of Motor Vehicles. "Imagine yourself behind the wheel of a Lamborghini painted a primary color with your very own vanity plate." "What would it say?" I asked eagerly. "1," he answered. I thought so deeply I could almost hear my brain clicking and whirring inside my skull. Who among us does not want to be #1? "How much do you think such a vanity plate would cost?" "Ah," he said with a furrowed brow, "for that you would pay a heavy price."
Have you ever wanted something so badly you could taste it? I'm not talking about food, as in a platter of savory lamb on a bed of cous cous garnished with plump garden-fresh tomatoes and olives. I'm talking about a desire so intense it gives off a heat that nearly consumes you. I'm speaking of a passion that burns you down to the core: you're the candle, your desire is the wick, and the possibility that you may attain what you desire is the lighter, match, or other incendiary device held by the hand of Fate.
I come from a large family. My father had numerous wives and I am the eldest of 37 children. In many ways this has been a blessing (my brother, Juwain, nineteenth born and the middle child, is a basket case). During my youth, I was favored, pampered, and received certain privileges denied my siblings. Recently, I inherited my father's entire estate: $14.34 million.
There is an extremely high rate of unemployment in my homeland as many of us do not feel comfortable performing chores willingly done by guest workers (serfs from India, Pakistan, the Philippines, and, as of late, Indonesia). Consequently, prior to inheriting $14.34 million, there were many gaps in my work history. Actually, one large gap. I had toyed with obtaining a realtor's license, but property is not moving very swiftly in Abu Dhabi these days.
Having studied international business and finance at Cairo University, I was tempted to use my new wealth to aid my alma mater. The current enrollment at C.U. (180,000) makes it extremely difficult to take the classes one wants, to graduate in a timely manner, or to move any part of your body when attending a lecture. Lowering class size at Cairo University seemed a worthy goal. Until I divided $14.34 million by 180,000, arriving at the answer "3." Devoting three additional dollars per student to reducing overcrowding would still leave classes too large. Then my brother Juwain showed me that the true amount per student would be slightly more than $79. More than "3," but still not enough to make a dent.
In order to spend my inheritance most wisely, I sought the counsel of sages, oracles, astronomers, and Abdul-Azim, the faithful family friend who had been primarily responsible for building my father's fortune. "Think globally," he advised. "And also, I could use an air conditioner." "Thank you, Abdul-Azim," I told him, "I will take both suggestions under consideration."
My brother Juwain showed me on the Internet photos of Bolivian children who needed cleft-palate surgery. "Each surgery costs $250," said Juwain, "you could cure 57,360 children." "Right," I responded, "but I only see eight Bolivians on the screen (two rows of four)." There was an extended silence. Then Juwain spoke: "Perhaps you could straighten our sister's teeth."
That night I dreamt of establishing a dental clinic in La Paz. Parents brought their offspring from remote corners of the country to be healed. I greeted families personally and gave them a card which read: "I wish you the best." But I discovered many families could not read Arabic and I realized I would have to print more than 57,000 new cards in Spanish. I woke up in a cold sweat.
As a 28-year-old man, I think of two things constantly: sex and Israel. I crave the former and loathe the latter. For me, Bar Refaeli, Leonardo DiCaprio's girlfriend, presents the ultimate dilemma. "Juwain," I asked, "how much do you think it would cost to destroy the state of Israel?" His response was immediate: "For that you would pay a heavy price." "More than $12 million?" (I'd decided to keep some of my inheritance for a house.) "Much more." "O.K.," I queried, "How much to destroy Leonardo DiCaprio's girlfriend?"
My phone rang early the next morning. It was Juwain: "I must tell you: a life lived in the service of others is the only life worth living." "Jeez, Juwain, I hope you're not asking me to enter the service industry." "No," he said tightly, "I'm not asking you to work at at Burger King." "Good," I said, "don't even ask me to eat at Burger King." "Remember what Abdul-Azim told you?" asked my brother. "What? About the air conditioner?" "No: think globally." I then had a revelation: "Are you suggesting I purchase a Burger King franchise in Bolivia?"
One day Abdul-Azim called. "I know, I know," I apologized, "it's 136°. I'm sorry I haven't gotten back to you." "I understand you have deposited your inheritance in a non-interest-bearing account." "Calm down," I reassured him, "it's only been there eight months." "Please, for the memory of your father, transfer the funds."
So I did transfer the funds: to my living room. And part of the hall. The night I started a fire making popcorn, I could have killed Abdul-Azim. I informed him I'd lost $340,000 in banknotes extinguishing the flames and sopping up butter. "It's 136°," he responded, "why are you making popcorn?"
Sometimes it's a real drag living in a hidebound, intolerant culture. If I couldn't visit the Lamborghini showroom, I'd flip out. I usually show up there at about eleven each morning, sit in the red car, the yellow one, and then in the red one again. Then I go to the restroom, grab some glossy brochures, and leave.
One Tuesday, the salesman told me there was to be a big auction of vanity plates at the Supreme Division of Motor Vehicles. "Imagine yourself behind the wheel of a Lamborghini painted a primary color with your very own vanity plate." "What would it say?" I asked eagerly. "1," he answered. I thought so deeply I could almost hear my brain clicking and whirring inside my skull. Who among us does not want to be #1? "How much do you think such a vanity plate would cost?" "Ah," he said with a furrowed brow, "for that you would pay a heavy price."
Thursday, 17 December 2009
My Will
I hereby bequeath to the town of Gambier, Ohio my entire estate in order that the following scholarships may be established and awarded annually in the amount of $15,000 each to local residents:
--The "Mad" Scholarship, to be presented to that adolescent who has the most comprehensive knowledge of all back issues of "Mad" magazine found in the town library. The head librarian will administer an exam with particular emphasis on "Spy vs. Spy," and "The Lighter Side..." Candidates should be familiar with each "Mad Fold-In" and therefore be able to identify all images on back covers before the magazine is folded along perforated lines.
--The Free Spirit Prize, bestowed upon that member of the Gambier community who is at least 26 years of age, is in possession of a driver's license and of all faculties, and has dyed his or her hair as many different colors as humanly possible, has multiple tongue studs, tattoos, facial, belly, and genital piercings, and drags the maximum number of heavy chains from his or her belt.
--The Unrounded Student Award, to be given to that public high school senior who during the previous four years has neither played an instrument nor sport, written for the school newspaper, contributed in any way to the class yearbook, solicited funds for worthwhile community projects, bookmobiles in African villages and the like, volunteered at a nursing home, or earned any sort of lifesaving certificate, scout badges, or recognition for being a good citizen. The extra-curricular activity section on recipient's college applications must be completely blank.
--The George Frederickson Prize, in honor of my late brother. To be presented to that student who finishes last in his elementary, middle, and high school class, is asked to leave an accredited college for at least one semester for academic reasons, and is forced to attend law school in the Virgin Islands.
--The Media Award, to be conferred upon that high school senior who has spent the greatest number of hours during the previous eighteen years staring at a screen. Candidates should have logged tens of thousands of hours in front of television, Internet, and at the cinema, and should be familiar with all manner of computer games from Super Mario to Grand Theft Auto (San Andreas level).
--The Well-Spent Summer Scholarship, to be awarded to that college senior who has never held a summer job or internship (paid or unpaid). Aspirants must document entire summers spent lying on the sofa, drinking at the quarries, and significant sexual experimentation and/or conquest.
--The Long and Winding Road Prize, to be offered to whoever dons running shorts patterned on the American flag and jogs topless on all afternoons in which the temperature reaches 72° past the home of Reverend and Mrs. Harold Albrittton on Piedmont Road. Preference given to females.
--Neighborhood Beautification Award, to be presented to whoever builds the most vulgar McMansion possible closest to the Albritton home. Special consideration given to those who park a boat or other large recreational vehicle on the lawn within sight of the street. (This award may be offered in conjunction with the Long and Winding Road Prize.)
--Egalitarian Spirit Prize, which goes to that physician, lawyer, or other professional who first resigns from Gambier's ludicrously overpriced country club, joins the local outdoor pool with its reasonable membership fees, and announces to a sizable gathering in a loud voice, "The public pool's actually larger, the people are cooler, and sandwiches cost one-fourth as much." (Note: Kenyon College faculty members are not eligible for this award.)
--The Keep It To Yourself Award, to be offered to that family which vacations yearly in Greece, receives generous checks on a regular basis from flush grandparents, has all four children at schools in the "most competitive" category in "Barron's College Guide," has seen its house's value appreciate 2,500% in the past 17 years, has never experienced crippling debt, bad health, or other misfortune, and doesn't tell a goddamn soul about it.
--Media Award II, to be conferred upon that member of the community who has, upon attaining the age of 58, never been heard to cite or parrot the views of Tom Friedman, Maureen Dowd, David Brooks, or Judith Warner within 48 hours of reading one of their columns.
--The Thomas Edison Scholarship, to be granted to that high school graduate who has devoted the greatest number of hours to publicly listening to a Walkman, iPod, boombox or other device at high volume (with chintzy, ineffective earphones if appropriate) and has passed an inordinate amount of time texting, scrolling through a P.D.A., answering a cellphone, or otherwise electronically irritating groups of fellow humans.
--The "Mad" Scholarship, to be presented to that adolescent who has the most comprehensive knowledge of all back issues of "Mad" magazine found in the town library. The head librarian will administer an exam with particular emphasis on "Spy vs. Spy," and "The Lighter Side..." Candidates should be familiar with each "Mad Fold-In" and therefore be able to identify all images on back covers before the magazine is folded along perforated lines.
--The Free Spirit Prize, bestowed upon that member of the Gambier community who is at least 26 years of age, is in possession of a driver's license and of all faculties, and has dyed his or her hair as many different colors as humanly possible, has multiple tongue studs, tattoos, facial, belly, and genital piercings, and drags the maximum number of heavy chains from his or her belt.
--The Unrounded Student Award, to be given to that public high school senior who during the previous four years has neither played an instrument nor sport, written for the school newspaper, contributed in any way to the class yearbook, solicited funds for worthwhile community projects, bookmobiles in African villages and the like, volunteered at a nursing home, or earned any sort of lifesaving certificate, scout badges, or recognition for being a good citizen. The extra-curricular activity section on recipient's college applications must be completely blank.
--The George Frederickson Prize, in honor of my late brother. To be presented to that student who finishes last in his elementary, middle, and high school class, is asked to leave an accredited college for at least one semester for academic reasons, and is forced to attend law school in the Virgin Islands.
--The Media Award, to be conferred upon that high school senior who has spent the greatest number of hours during the previous eighteen years staring at a screen. Candidates should have logged tens of thousands of hours in front of television, Internet, and at the cinema, and should be familiar with all manner of computer games from Super Mario to Grand Theft Auto (San Andreas level).
--The Well-Spent Summer Scholarship, to be awarded to that college senior who has never held a summer job or internship (paid or unpaid). Aspirants must document entire summers spent lying on the sofa, drinking at the quarries, and significant sexual experimentation and/or conquest.
--The Long and Winding Road Prize, to be offered to whoever dons running shorts patterned on the American flag and jogs topless on all afternoons in which the temperature reaches 72° past the home of Reverend and Mrs. Harold Albrittton on Piedmont Road. Preference given to females.
--Neighborhood Beautification Award, to be presented to whoever builds the most vulgar McMansion possible closest to the Albritton home. Special consideration given to those who park a boat or other large recreational vehicle on the lawn within sight of the street. (This award may be offered in conjunction with the Long and Winding Road Prize.)
--Egalitarian Spirit Prize, which goes to that physician, lawyer, or other professional who first resigns from Gambier's ludicrously overpriced country club, joins the local outdoor pool with its reasonable membership fees, and announces to a sizable gathering in a loud voice, "The public pool's actually larger, the people are cooler, and sandwiches cost one-fourth as much." (Note: Kenyon College faculty members are not eligible for this award.)
--The Keep It To Yourself Award, to be offered to that family which vacations yearly in Greece, receives generous checks on a regular basis from flush grandparents, has all four children at schools in the "most competitive" category in "Barron's College Guide," has seen its house's value appreciate 2,500% in the past 17 years, has never experienced crippling debt, bad health, or other misfortune, and doesn't tell a goddamn soul about it.
--Media Award II, to be conferred upon that member of the community who has, upon attaining the age of 58, never been heard to cite or parrot the views of Tom Friedman, Maureen Dowd, David Brooks, or Judith Warner within 48 hours of reading one of their columns.
--The Thomas Edison Scholarship, to be granted to that high school graduate who has devoted the greatest number of hours to publicly listening to a Walkman, iPod, boombox or other device at high volume (with chintzy, ineffective earphones if appropriate) and has passed an inordinate amount of time texting, scrolling through a P.D.A., answering a cellphone, or otherwise electronically irritating groups of fellow humans.
Tuesday, 15 December 2009
All Is Not Peachy With the Bellinis
Scene: The year is 1460. We are in the workshop of the painter Jacopo Bellini, who is with his son, Gentile.
Gentile: What are all these melon balls doing here?
Jacopo: We had some people over last night.
G: (Popping a melon ball in his mouth) "We"?
J: Use a toothpick.
G: Who? You and Giovanni?
J: Yes. Your brother and I showed some paintings.
G: That's called an opening. Who did you invite?
J: Whom.
G: (With an edge) Whom did you invite?
J: Clergy. It was last-minute. Giambellino and I...
G: (Interrupting) Spare me the loving diminutive: call him Giovanni.
J: Go easy on those melon balls.
G: It's hurtful to be excluded.
J: No one's excluding you.
G: Right. I'm sorry I'm not the greatest Venetian master of the 15th Century.
J: (Conciliatory) Gentile....
G: Your favoritism is obvious.
J: Giovanni's specialty is Madonnas. The Church wants a Madonna.
G: Who doesn't? It's not as if I can't handle paint.
J: Of course you can.
G: So let me do the Madonna.
J: (Long pause) Gentile, your work has a certain...hesitancy.
G: My lack of assurance is bashfulness. What's wrong with bashful paintings?
J: Nothing. But your brother...
G: (Interrupting) Yes, my younger, illegitimate brother.
J: Your name means "kind," yet sometimes I wonder....
G: It's hard to feel kind when my emotional and professional needs aren't met.
J: Perhaps you would like to help me with a portrait of Doge Malipiero.
G: What's Giovanni doing?
J: A Crucifixion.
G: Christ.
J: Obviously....
G: I know the subject of the Crucifixion. What I'm saying is that He's a bit more important than Doge Malipiero.
J: (Spreads his hands helplessly) What do you want from me?
G: Love, respect, decent commissions, my own living quarters, use of the boat Friday evenings....
J: If only you were as bashful as your pictures.
G: I'm the eldest son. Last month Giovanni was at work on the "Sacred Conversation." You asked me to re-paint the kitchen.
J: And you did a poor job.
G: You said "yellow."
J: I said "ochre." Your mother is unhappy.
G: Have you noticed how all Giovanni's Madonnas resemble Aunt Elsa?
J: Untrue.
G: Look closely.
J: I see gentle mystery.
G: The mystery is why he's fixated on a relative. A blood relative.
J: What are you implying? Stop gobbling melon and be candid.
G: You want candor?
J: I do.
G: Maybe the weak link isn't me.
(Jacopo stares at him)
G: Maybe it's you.
J: I am your father. The patriarch.
G: Try being a little less patriarchal and we might get along better.
J: You disappoint me.
G: Tell me something I don't know.
J: Not as a painter. As a son.
G: You know, psychology's not really your strong suit...
J: (Interrupting) I've tried to guide you....
G: Into oblivion.
J: But you are impatient. You must give yourself time.
G: Time? I'm 31. Statistically, I'll be dead in six years.
J: Think not of your honor on this earth.
G: That doesn't really work for me. Call me crazy, but I'm not a big believer in resurrection.
J: You liken yourself to Christ.
G: Who else is there?
J: You blaspheme.
G: Why don't we get Giovanni a big ermine cape and jeweled scepter? Then he can be doge and paint himself. You'd love that, wouldn't you?
J: Don't be absurd.
G: No, really. I've heard you glorify him every day of his life. And I've had it up to here. Next time you have an opening,
I expect to be invited. In the meantime...
J: (Interrupting) In the meantime, you'll paint the kitchen.
G: I already did.
J: Then re-paint it. Ochre.
Gentile: What are all these melon balls doing here?
Jacopo: We had some people over last night.
G: (Popping a melon ball in his mouth) "We"?
J: Use a toothpick.
G: Who? You and Giovanni?
J: Yes. Your brother and I showed some paintings.
G: That's called an opening. Who did you invite?
J: Whom.
G: (With an edge) Whom did you invite?
J: Clergy. It was last-minute. Giambellino and I...
G: (Interrupting) Spare me the loving diminutive: call him Giovanni.
J: Go easy on those melon balls.
G: It's hurtful to be excluded.
J: No one's excluding you.
G: Right. I'm sorry I'm not the greatest Venetian master of the 15th Century.
J: (Conciliatory) Gentile....
G: Your favoritism is obvious.
J: Giovanni's specialty is Madonnas. The Church wants a Madonna.
G: Who doesn't? It's not as if I can't handle paint.
J: Of course you can.
G: So let me do the Madonna.
J: (Long pause) Gentile, your work has a certain...hesitancy.
G: My lack of assurance is bashfulness. What's wrong with bashful paintings?
J: Nothing. But your brother...
G: (Interrupting) Yes, my younger, illegitimate brother.
J: Your name means "kind," yet sometimes I wonder....
G: It's hard to feel kind when my emotional and professional needs aren't met.
J: Perhaps you would like to help me with a portrait of Doge Malipiero.
G: What's Giovanni doing?
J: A Crucifixion.
G: Christ.
J: Obviously....
G: I know the subject of the Crucifixion. What I'm saying is that He's a bit more important than Doge Malipiero.
J: (Spreads his hands helplessly) What do you want from me?
G: Love, respect, decent commissions, my own living quarters, use of the boat Friday evenings....
J: If only you were as bashful as your pictures.
G: I'm the eldest son. Last month Giovanni was at work on the "Sacred Conversation." You asked me to re-paint the kitchen.
J: And you did a poor job.
G: You said "yellow."
J: I said "ochre." Your mother is unhappy.
G: Have you noticed how all Giovanni's Madonnas resemble Aunt Elsa?
J: Untrue.
G: Look closely.
J: I see gentle mystery.
G: The mystery is why he's fixated on a relative. A blood relative.
J: What are you implying? Stop gobbling melon and be candid.
G: You want candor?
J: I do.
G: Maybe the weak link isn't me.
(Jacopo stares at him)
G: Maybe it's you.
J: I am your father. The patriarch.
G: Try being a little less patriarchal and we might get along better.
J: You disappoint me.
G: Tell me something I don't know.
J: Not as a painter. As a son.
G: You know, psychology's not really your strong suit...
J: (Interrupting) I've tried to guide you....
G: Into oblivion.
J: But you are impatient. You must give yourself time.
G: Time? I'm 31. Statistically, I'll be dead in six years.
J: Think not of your honor on this earth.
G: That doesn't really work for me. Call me crazy, but I'm not a big believer in resurrection.
J: You liken yourself to Christ.
G: Who else is there?
J: You blaspheme.
G: Why don't we get Giovanni a big ermine cape and jeweled scepter? Then he can be doge and paint himself. You'd love that, wouldn't you?
J: Don't be absurd.
G: No, really. I've heard you glorify him every day of his life. And I've had it up to here. Next time you have an opening,
I expect to be invited. In the meantime...
J: (Interrupting) In the meantime, you'll paint the kitchen.
G: I already did.
J: Then re-paint it. Ochre.
Friday, 11 December 2009
Being Nineteen
My head's about to explode. With the possible exception of Princeton, the pressure's more intense here than at any other college in New Jersey. Just look at my desk: books stacked as high as the Tower of Babel, the Leaning Tower of Pisa, and the Seattle Space Needle put together.
I love how they call it "reading period." What do they think I've been doing all semester? Here, read this text from Lenny: "Kickass party tonight at Jake's." Do you realize how much research I'm going to have to do? First of all, Jake who? What time? Where does he live? On or off-campus? Will I need wheels? Jesus, as if I don't have enough to do.
Then I've got the Sword of Damocles hanging over my head. My frat wants me to do a Christmas porno with Denise. But I already made a Halloween porno with Heather. I feel like one of those guys in the National Guard doing a third tour of duty. Stop-gap or whatever it's called. Denise isn't even my body type (plays rugby).
Lenny says my Halloween porno actually helped Heather fulfill a Women's Studies requirement. Typical. Just the way actresses in adult films are well compensated while actors earn squat. If I even mentioned my appearance in "Jack O' Lanterns" to a prof., I'd be suspended.
You'd think the Duke lacrosse scandal would have shown how mistaken college administrators can be about frats, but no, we're still the bad guys. Get a load of this: "Roundtable on the Future of Fraternities." Smack in the middle of reading period. I wonder if there'll be beer.
And I'm supposed to be Secret Santa for somebody whose name I can't even pronounce. I complained to Simon, who told me, "He's the smartest kid in Pakistan." That really doesn't help me. They don't have Christmas in Pakistan so he won't appreciate my gift. Not that I'm going to get him one. Do I have the time to go shopping? I should buy something for Denise, though, if we're going to be working together. Speaking of which, I should also be at study group now. We're supposed to have read Dickens's Hard Times. Tell me about it: 574 pages with next to no margins. I haven't even lifted the thing.
Maybe if I arrive with beer at study group, I won't have to say much. Can I bring beer into that part of the library? Probably. This e-mail says we're meeting near the open stacks. To me that sounds like a "yes."
You know what I hate with a passion? Anthropology. I can't believe it's my major. My cousin told me not to choose my classes based on class times, but the chance to sleep in Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday was just too tempting. I don't think even Claude Lévi-Strauss would turn down a five-day weekend.
Now I've got to call Brendan, who I hear bought his term paper from the very company I recommended. In fact, it's rumored Brendan bought the same term paper I did. I don't want to turn nasty, but if I have to write an anonymous note to the Disciplinary Committee accusing him of plagiarism, I will.
One thing I will not be doing is moving the Dumpster from next to our frat to the far side of the parking lot. Why don't they just call me Ishmael and ask me to harpoon Moby Dick like the Old Man in the Sea? My frat brothers say the Dumpster stinks. Guess what? So do most of my frat brothers. I'll move the Dumpster if I don't have to make "Snow Globes" with Denise. And if someone drives me to Delaware for Christmas break. My notice has been downstairs on the ride board for six weeks and last night I heard Jerry Thurston offer the guy from Pakistan a lift to Wilmington. OK, dude, that's my Secret Santa present to you: my seat in Jerry Thurston's SmartCar.
Thank God my Poli Sci final's being offered on the honor system. Bingo! Of course they expect you to write more than you would if you were trapped in a classroom, but I'm willing to put in the time.
This I am not going to: a holiday dinner to benefit UNICEF. Great scheduling, folks. I've got an invite to this guy Jake's, study group, and I have to make a porno before Wednesday. Plus the dinner's vegetarian.
It's time for some textual relations: I'll see if Marcy wants to hook up at midnight. But it's 43° out: I'm not walking over to her place. I can't believe this: just like that, she said "no." "Y not?" I want to know. "Work." Tell me about it. This place is too extreme. I need to step back from the brink and chill out. I wonder what's on TV.
I love how they call it "reading period." What do they think I've been doing all semester? Here, read this text from Lenny: "Kickass party tonight at Jake's." Do you realize how much research I'm going to have to do? First of all, Jake who? What time? Where does he live? On or off-campus? Will I need wheels? Jesus, as if I don't have enough to do.
Then I've got the Sword of Damocles hanging over my head. My frat wants me to do a Christmas porno with Denise. But I already made a Halloween porno with Heather. I feel like one of those guys in the National Guard doing a third tour of duty. Stop-gap or whatever it's called. Denise isn't even my body type (plays rugby).
Lenny says my Halloween porno actually helped Heather fulfill a Women's Studies requirement. Typical. Just the way actresses in adult films are well compensated while actors earn squat. If I even mentioned my appearance in "Jack O' Lanterns" to a prof., I'd be suspended.
You'd think the Duke lacrosse scandal would have shown how mistaken college administrators can be about frats, but no, we're still the bad guys. Get a load of this: "Roundtable on the Future of Fraternities." Smack in the middle of reading period. I wonder if there'll be beer.
And I'm supposed to be Secret Santa for somebody whose name I can't even pronounce. I complained to Simon, who told me, "He's the smartest kid in Pakistan." That really doesn't help me. They don't have Christmas in Pakistan so he won't appreciate my gift. Not that I'm going to get him one. Do I have the time to go shopping? I should buy something for Denise, though, if we're going to be working together. Speaking of which, I should also be at study group now. We're supposed to have read Dickens's Hard Times. Tell me about it: 574 pages with next to no margins. I haven't even lifted the thing.
Maybe if I arrive with beer at study group, I won't have to say much. Can I bring beer into that part of the library? Probably. This e-mail says we're meeting near the open stacks. To me that sounds like a "yes."
You know what I hate with a passion? Anthropology. I can't believe it's my major. My cousin told me not to choose my classes based on class times, but the chance to sleep in Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday was just too tempting. I don't think even Claude Lévi-Strauss would turn down a five-day weekend.
Now I've got to call Brendan, who I hear bought his term paper from the very company I recommended. In fact, it's rumored Brendan bought the same term paper I did. I don't want to turn nasty, but if I have to write an anonymous note to the Disciplinary Committee accusing him of plagiarism, I will.
One thing I will not be doing is moving the Dumpster from next to our frat to the far side of the parking lot. Why don't they just call me Ishmael and ask me to harpoon Moby Dick like the Old Man in the Sea? My frat brothers say the Dumpster stinks. Guess what? So do most of my frat brothers. I'll move the Dumpster if I don't have to make "Snow Globes" with Denise. And if someone drives me to Delaware for Christmas break. My notice has been downstairs on the ride board for six weeks and last night I heard Jerry Thurston offer the guy from Pakistan a lift to Wilmington. OK, dude, that's my Secret Santa present to you: my seat in Jerry Thurston's SmartCar.
Thank God my Poli Sci final's being offered on the honor system. Bingo! Of course they expect you to write more than you would if you were trapped in a classroom, but I'm willing to put in the time.
This I am not going to: a holiday dinner to benefit UNICEF. Great scheduling, folks. I've got an invite to this guy Jake's, study group, and I have to make a porno before Wednesday. Plus the dinner's vegetarian.
It's time for some textual relations: I'll see if Marcy wants to hook up at midnight. But it's 43° out: I'm not walking over to her place. I can't believe this: just like that, she said "no." "Y not?" I want to know. "Work." Tell me about it. This place is too extreme. I need to step back from the brink and chill out. I wonder what's on TV.
Wednesday, 9 December 2009
Other Voices, Other Rooms
Truman Capote cited one of his major failings as not being able to speak Italian despite having lived in Italy for a combined total of nine years. I've lived here seven. Two more years and this magnificent writer and I will finally have something in common.
Although I've availed myself of costly classes, tiresome tapes, and a laminated four-page guide which lists nearly every major rule of the Italian language and the declensions of all tenses of regular and irregular verbs, I still have difficulty remembering that the word "flower" is masculine. But then, too, so is "feminist."
Parent-teacher conferences are excruciating. When my children were in first grade, I possessed the comprehension of a first grader. Now that they're in eighth grade, I'm up to fourth. I begin each meeting with a plea for the teacher to speak very slowly and remind her that my Italian is weak. We can sometimes pass an amiable three or four minutes unless joined by a second or third instructor. Then all hell breaks loose and a rapid clicking approximating language ensues as they become increasingly animated and I discouraged. On the upside, my limited comprehension allows me to blithely assume that my children excel at school here and have perfect behavior (a marked contrast from their performance in America). Unable to read the lengthy comments on their report cards, I am satisfied.
Being American and choosing to live in Italy with children is taken as a compliment by Italians. Living here without kids means you've simply retired, read Frances Mayes's books, purchased her calendars or products from her home furnishings line, attended her Under The Tuscan Sun Festival, or all five. So I find myself in rarefied settings from which I would certainly be excluded in the United States if people knew my family background, where I was educated, or how uninteresting I actually am.
When spoken at in rapid-fire Italian by a renowned psychiatrist in a 15th-Century palazzo, I find gestures amazingly helpful. Ditto when asked to peel sausage with an unusually dull knife in an intimidating aristocrat's rustic weekend retreat. I thank God for making the human head able to swivel no and nod yes. Those two words are really all you need to travel the globe: let foreigners do the heavy lifting.
Sure, I could try to express myself in Italian, but I don't yet know the words for "dull," "sausage," or "inexperience peeling Italian sausage with an unusually dull." I do, though, know the word for "knife." I could always shift to English (anyone who has attended school in Italy in the past 15 years, uses computers, teaches, or travels knows our language), but Italians often share my reluctance to sound stupid in someone else's vernacular and insist we speak Italian since we're "in Italia." When conversation flags, I gesticulate more frantically, making clear that my hands speak Italian even if my mouth doesn't.
As a fan of Tim Parks's writing, I was overjoyed to read that after a decade in Italy, he understood 80 percent of what was said to his face and 50 percent of what was uttered in his presence. This explained my low percentage of word recognition when answering the phone. I can now identify telemarketers (friendly), teachers (angry), and neighbors (friendly, then angry). On all others, I hang up.
Meanwhile, further research into Tim Parks's achievements (beginning with his graduation from Cambridge, continuing through his publication of numerous novels, memoirs, and critical studies, and culminating in his tenured position as a professor in Milan) revealed we had little in common. "And," said my wife helpfully, "he's married to an Italian."
Nonetheless, it's always possible to model yourself on someone and hope appeared on my horizon in the guise of a dismayingly limited American woman who's been here nine years. Watching her struggle to order tuna (tonno) at the fish market, Capote sprang instantly to mind. She expresses herself so boringly in English that I always suggest we speak Italian in order to salvage something of value from the encounter. I notice she makes many of my grammatical mistakes and is also not married to an Italian. Though we have little else in common, she's actually become one of my closest acquaintances. Particularly after she asked me how long I'd lived in Italy. "Seven years," she gasped, "but your Italian's so good."
Although I've availed myself of costly classes, tiresome tapes, and a laminated four-page guide which lists nearly every major rule of the Italian language and the declensions of all tenses of regular and irregular verbs, I still have difficulty remembering that the word "flower" is masculine. But then, too, so is "feminist."
Parent-teacher conferences are excruciating. When my children were in first grade, I possessed the comprehension of a first grader. Now that they're in eighth grade, I'm up to fourth. I begin each meeting with a plea for the teacher to speak very slowly and remind her that my Italian is weak. We can sometimes pass an amiable three or four minutes unless joined by a second or third instructor. Then all hell breaks loose and a rapid clicking approximating language ensues as they become increasingly animated and I discouraged. On the upside, my limited comprehension allows me to blithely assume that my children excel at school here and have perfect behavior (a marked contrast from their performance in America). Unable to read the lengthy comments on their report cards, I am satisfied.
Being American and choosing to live in Italy with children is taken as a compliment by Italians. Living here without kids means you've simply retired, read Frances Mayes's books, purchased her calendars or products from her home furnishings line, attended her Under The Tuscan Sun Festival, or all five. So I find myself in rarefied settings from which I would certainly be excluded in the United States if people knew my family background, where I was educated, or how uninteresting I actually am.
When spoken at in rapid-fire Italian by a renowned psychiatrist in a 15th-Century palazzo, I find gestures amazingly helpful. Ditto when asked to peel sausage with an unusually dull knife in an intimidating aristocrat's rustic weekend retreat. I thank God for making the human head able to swivel no and nod yes. Those two words are really all you need to travel the globe: let foreigners do the heavy lifting.
Sure, I could try to express myself in Italian, but I don't yet know the words for "dull," "sausage," or "inexperience peeling Italian sausage with an unusually dull." I do, though, know the word for "knife." I could always shift to English (anyone who has attended school in Italy in the past 15 years, uses computers, teaches, or travels knows our language), but Italians often share my reluctance to sound stupid in someone else's vernacular and insist we speak Italian since we're "in Italia." When conversation flags, I gesticulate more frantically, making clear that my hands speak Italian even if my mouth doesn't.
As a fan of Tim Parks's writing, I was overjoyed to read that after a decade in Italy, he understood 80 percent of what was said to his face and 50 percent of what was uttered in his presence. This explained my low percentage of word recognition when answering the phone. I can now identify telemarketers (friendly), teachers (angry), and neighbors (friendly, then angry). On all others, I hang up.
Meanwhile, further research into Tim Parks's achievements (beginning with his graduation from Cambridge, continuing through his publication of numerous novels, memoirs, and critical studies, and culminating in his tenured position as a professor in Milan) revealed we had little in common. "And," said my wife helpfully, "he's married to an Italian."
Nonetheless, it's always possible to model yourself on someone and hope appeared on my horizon in the guise of a dismayingly limited American woman who's been here nine years. Watching her struggle to order tuna (tonno) at the fish market, Capote sprang instantly to mind. She expresses herself so boringly in English that I always suggest we speak Italian in order to salvage something of value from the encounter. I notice she makes many of my grammatical mistakes and is also not married to an Italian. Though we have little else in common, she's actually become one of my closest acquaintances. Particularly after she asked me how long I'd lived in Italy. "Seven years," she gasped, "but your Italian's so good."
Thursday, 3 December 2009
From Sir, With Love
I've absorbed some heavy hits in my life, but none can compare to the pain I feel today as I inform you, my beloved students, that effective immediately I am resigning from the English department at McCloskey Technical High School. This is entirely my choice. While I am a contoversial teacher, I was not "forced out" by the administration. I do hope, however, that the following lines will serve to clarify my decision.
If there's one piece of advice I can impart to you, it would be "act on your beliefs." I believe in a country where one out of four children is not on foodstamps, where 46% of the Bronx population is not dependent on foodstamps, and where nine out of ten minority children have not, at one time or another, relied on foodstamps. In short, I believe in America and I believe in foodstamps, but I do not believe in an America where foodstamps are prevalent to such a degree.
Like Martin Luther King, Jr., Gandhi, and Nelson Mandela, I envision a better world. McCloskey Tech, as it is currently structured and run, is not that world. Many students come to McCloskey each morning with an insatiable hunger: a hunger for acceptance, for knowledge, and for the nutritious breakfast all the foodstamps in the world can't provide.
I began teaching when I learned of a teacher shortage in the inner city. Urban America issued a challenge and I responded with every fiber of my being, during every minute of my tenure here at McCloskey. But I am exhausted, my reserves of passion and imagination are spent. In attempting to meet the challenge of teaching, the profession has overly challenged me. The six weeks I've spent on the McCloskey faculty have taken a devastating toll.
None of this is your fault. My absence for the remainder of the school year is no reflection on you. But you are old enough now to watch me bear witness and to hear me speak power to truth as I confront the status quo.
Many of you showed minimal interest in the film I recently screened, "One Flew Over the Cukoo's Nest." But those of you who weren't talking, sleeping, drinking soda, smoking, or bringing each other to sexual climax may remember the scene in which McMurphy (Jack Nicholson) attempts to uproot a rectangular, marble bathroom fixture and hurl it through the window of the mental asylum where he is held captive. He fails (marble is a very heavy material, particularly when employed in an institutional setting) and the other inmates stare at him. "At least I tried," he tells them.
That is what I say to you today: "By God, I tried." To extend the metaphor, I am Jack Nicholson, you are the inmates, McCloskey is the mental ward, and the educational hierarchy here is the rectangular, marble bathroom fixture.
What do I mean by the "educational hierarchy"? I mean, specifically, my department chair, Dr. Edward Selvin. Allow me to explain something about the title "Dr." This prefix was originally intended for practioners of the art of medicine. Over time, those who earned Ph.D.'s in fields such as physics, chemical engineering, and astronomy began to refer to themselves as Dr. So-and-so. Edward Selvin holds a doctorate in education, but he is not a doctor. He is, in fact, a so-and-so. If you do only one thing to preserve my memory in the halls of McCloskey, please cease to refer to "Dr. Selvin." "Mr. Selvin" or "Ed" will do just fine.
You may think that I spent my time here fighting with you. Yes, we had our disagreements. You graffitied your books, the desks, our classroom, my text, and each other. In anger, I rashly called some of you indolent (lazy), apathetic (unfeeling), oppositional (obnoxious), and claimed you suffered from ennui. This last is a French word, but at least one of you should have been familiar with the other adjectives. Nontheless, my beef is not with you. It is with the theoretical rectangular, marble bathroom fixture: Edward Selvin.
I have won awards for my writing at the state level and was accepted into a prestigious seminar ("Literature of the Uncanny") my senior year of college. Thus when Mr. Selvin notified me that my lesson plans were "poorly written and incoherent," I was aghast (shocked). Do you know what was truly poorly written and incoherent? Mr. Selvin's evaluation of my lesson plans. I did not tell him then, but use this farewell now to alert him to the fact that "rummage" has two m's.
I corrected your essays, read your journals, and heard you crack wise in the halls. Quite simply, you burrowed into my heart. SJ, I'll never forget that Thursday afternoon when you told me of your uncle's death; Shaneequa, I hope you someday see Disneyworld; Leon, if you want to play for the Yankees, you can play for the Yankees; Tasha, a modelling career is within reach (but no more of those videos!); Tibbs, you're #1; Amber, you walk among dinosaurs (I'm sorry I won't be on next week's field trip to the Museum of Natural History).
To all of you I've known and cherished, peace. I will continue to fight the good fight and hope to effect societal change on a larger scale by enrolling in a screenwriting workshop in Tribeca for four days in January. You will live on in my screenplay (tentatively entitled "My Struggle"), which will be based on my time at McCloskey this fall. In the script, your names will be altered, but the dream will never die. You're all a part of me: the best part. Happy Halloween.
If there's one piece of advice I can impart to you, it would be "act on your beliefs." I believe in a country where one out of four children is not on foodstamps, where 46% of the Bronx population is not dependent on foodstamps, and where nine out of ten minority children have not, at one time or another, relied on foodstamps. In short, I believe in America and I believe in foodstamps, but I do not believe in an America where foodstamps are prevalent to such a degree.
Like Martin Luther King, Jr., Gandhi, and Nelson Mandela, I envision a better world. McCloskey Tech, as it is currently structured and run, is not that world. Many students come to McCloskey each morning with an insatiable hunger: a hunger for acceptance, for knowledge, and for the nutritious breakfast all the foodstamps in the world can't provide.
I began teaching when I learned of a teacher shortage in the inner city. Urban America issued a challenge and I responded with every fiber of my being, during every minute of my tenure here at McCloskey. But I am exhausted, my reserves of passion and imagination are spent. In attempting to meet the challenge of teaching, the profession has overly challenged me. The six weeks I've spent on the McCloskey faculty have taken a devastating toll.
None of this is your fault. My absence for the remainder of the school year is no reflection on you. But you are old enough now to watch me bear witness and to hear me speak power to truth as I confront the status quo.
Many of you showed minimal interest in the film I recently screened, "One Flew Over the Cukoo's Nest." But those of you who weren't talking, sleeping, drinking soda, smoking, or bringing each other to sexual climax may remember the scene in which McMurphy (Jack Nicholson) attempts to uproot a rectangular, marble bathroom fixture and hurl it through the window of the mental asylum where he is held captive. He fails (marble is a very heavy material, particularly when employed in an institutional setting) and the other inmates stare at him. "At least I tried," he tells them.
That is what I say to you today: "By God, I tried." To extend the metaphor, I am Jack Nicholson, you are the inmates, McCloskey is the mental ward, and the educational hierarchy here is the rectangular, marble bathroom fixture.
What do I mean by the "educational hierarchy"? I mean, specifically, my department chair, Dr. Edward Selvin. Allow me to explain something about the title "Dr." This prefix was originally intended for practioners of the art of medicine. Over time, those who earned Ph.D.'s in fields such as physics, chemical engineering, and astronomy began to refer to themselves as Dr. So-and-so. Edward Selvin holds a doctorate in education, but he is not a doctor. He is, in fact, a so-and-so. If you do only one thing to preserve my memory in the halls of McCloskey, please cease to refer to "Dr. Selvin." "Mr. Selvin" or "Ed" will do just fine.
You may think that I spent my time here fighting with you. Yes, we had our disagreements. You graffitied your books, the desks, our classroom, my text, and each other. In anger, I rashly called some of you indolent (lazy), apathetic (unfeeling), oppositional (obnoxious), and claimed you suffered from ennui. This last is a French word, but at least one of you should have been familiar with the other adjectives. Nontheless, my beef is not with you. It is with the theoretical rectangular, marble bathroom fixture: Edward Selvin.
I have won awards for my writing at the state level and was accepted into a prestigious seminar ("Literature of the Uncanny") my senior year of college. Thus when Mr. Selvin notified me that my lesson plans were "poorly written and incoherent," I was aghast (shocked). Do you know what was truly poorly written and incoherent? Mr. Selvin's evaluation of my lesson plans. I did not tell him then, but use this farewell now to alert him to the fact that "rummage" has two m's.
I corrected your essays, read your journals, and heard you crack wise in the halls. Quite simply, you burrowed into my heart. SJ, I'll never forget that Thursday afternoon when you told me of your uncle's death; Shaneequa, I hope you someday see Disneyworld; Leon, if you want to play for the Yankees, you can play for the Yankees; Tasha, a modelling career is within reach (but no more of those videos!); Tibbs, you're #1; Amber, you walk among dinosaurs (I'm sorry I won't be on next week's field trip to the Museum of Natural History).
To all of you I've known and cherished, peace. I will continue to fight the good fight and hope to effect societal change on a larger scale by enrolling in a screenwriting workshop in Tribeca for four days in January. You will live on in my screenplay (tentatively entitled "My Struggle"), which will be based on my time at McCloskey this fall. In the script, your names will be altered, but the dream will never die. You're all a part of me: the best part. Happy Halloween.
Tuesday, 1 December 2009
A Private Hanging
So many scenes between husbands and wives...contain the seeds of potential murder.--Sir John Mortimer
SHE: You know what I'm thinking?
HE: What are you thinking, angel?
SHE: That I'd finally like to hang that painting my dad gave us for a wedding present.
HE: O.K., great.
SHE: Really?
HE: Sure. I'll get a hammer and a nail.
SHE: Bring a big one.
HE: Big hammer or big nail?
SHE: Both.
HE: Voilà: here I am.
SHE: We need wire.
HE: Oh, right.
SHE: And eye-hooks.
HE: No problem.
SHE: How high on the back of the frame should you insert the eye-hooks?
HE: Does it matter?
SHE: No. Probably not. Insert them higher.
HE: (Grunting with exertion) I'm actually not inserting them; I'm screwing them into the frame.
SHE: Screw them in higher.
HE: Does it matter?
SHE: No. Probably not.
HE: Good. Because the left one's already in. Jesus.
SHE: What?
HE: What's this made of? Metal? Where did we buy this frame?
SHE: At a yard sale in Maine.
HE: Metal covered with a veneer of wood. Jesus. There goes the right one.
SHE: Is that enough wire?
HE: You think I need more.
SHE: Is that a question?
HE: Jesus. It's sharp.
SHE: That's why they call it wire, babe.
HE: Barbed wire is sharp.
SHE: Also other kinds.
HE: Tony Soprano could garrote someone with this.
SHE: I'm glad he's not here. Do you have a pencil?
HE: For what?
SHE: Marking the wall.
HE: How can I mark the wall if I'm holding the painting?
SHE: You hold the painting, I'll tell you the proper height, and then I'll step forward and mark the wall with the pencil.
HE: Okey-dokey. Maybe you could get the pencil.
SHE: Voilà.
HE: (Lifts the painting) So, we'll put it...here?
SHE: You're kidding, right?
HE: No.
SHE: It's a gift from my father.
HE: So you mentioned.
SHE: Pride of place.
HE: Meaning?
SHE: Over the sofa.
HE: Jesus.
SHE: Do you keep saying that because it's Sunday?
HE: The sofa's too wide. I can't hold the painting flush against the wall.
SHE: Does it need to be flush?
HE: Yes.
SHE: Maybe we'd better move the sofa.
HE: "We"?
SHE: Do you not want to do this?
HE: Do I want to move a horsehair sofa before I've read "The Week in Review" section of the paper? Not particularly.
SHE: You want to read the "Week in Review" and then move the sofa.
HE: I don't want to move the sofa, but as you can see, my knees are sinking into it.
SHE: Can you move your knees?
HE: Where? They're attached to my legs.
SHE: Move them in a less sinking motion. What are you doing?
HE: Removing my shirt.
SHE: May I ask why?
HE: Because if I'm going to (grunts) move a sofa, I don't want to (grunts) change my shirt.
SHE: Careful. Watch the painting.
HE: Can't you do that?
SHE: Please don't move the sofa while the painting's on it.
HE: Here. Hold the painting.
SHE: Oh. It's heavy.
HE: That I know.
SHE: You know what I'm thinking?
HE: I'm not David Copperfield.
SHE: David Copperfield's not a mind reader.
HE: Neither am I.
SHE: I'm thinking the painting might look better over there.
HE: What happened to pride of place?
SHE: It'll just look better over there.
HE: I already moved the sofa.
SHE: Just indulge me.
HE: Okey-dokey.
SHE: Does it look nice?
HE: It looks as nice as it can look.
SHE: Meaning?
HE: It's not a Kandinsky now, is it, love?
SHE: Well I'm sorry my father didn't give us a Kandinsky.
HE: So am I. What did he give us?
SHE: Do you really not know what this is?
HE: A barn?
SHE: It's the hull of a ship. Why would a barn be floating in water?
HE: I thought it was grass.
SHE: Black grass?
HE: Dark grass.
SHE: O.K., here. Take the painting.
HE: How about here?
SHE: Think.
HE: What?
SHE: You can't just choose a spot at random, some arbitrary place on the wall where it's just...floating.
HE: It is a ship.
SHE: To the left.
HE: More?
SHE: Right.
HE: Is that a command or praise?
SHE: A command. Further to the right.
HE: Here?
SHE: It won't help to be impatient. Less to the right.
HE: In other words: left.
SHE: Yes, good.
HE: Happy to hear it.
SHE: Now, a little higher.
HE: Here?
SHE: Higher.
HE: O.K.?
SHE: A wee bit higher.
HE: Here?
SHE: A smidgen.
HE: What? A smidgen of what?
SHE: Oh, you lost your place!
HE: Do you realize this is as heavy as a ship? It's as heavy as a barn. Or a ship that looks like a barn.
SHE: You don't want to do this, do you?
HE: (Sighs) Is this where I was?
SHE: Lower.
HE: Here?
SHE: Lower still.
HE: Now?
SHE: Move north-east.
HE: Me or the painting?
SHE: You. So I can see the painting. Perfect. That's great.
HE: Super.
SHE: Now where's that pencil?
SHE: You know what I'm thinking?
HE: What are you thinking, angel?
SHE: That I'd finally like to hang that painting my dad gave us for a wedding present.
HE: O.K., great.
SHE: Really?
HE: Sure. I'll get a hammer and a nail.
SHE: Bring a big one.
HE: Big hammer or big nail?
SHE: Both.
HE: Voilà: here I am.
SHE: We need wire.
HE: Oh, right.
SHE: And eye-hooks.
HE: No problem.
SHE: How high on the back of the frame should you insert the eye-hooks?
HE: Does it matter?
SHE: No. Probably not. Insert them higher.
HE: (Grunting with exertion) I'm actually not inserting them; I'm screwing them into the frame.
SHE: Screw them in higher.
HE: Does it matter?
SHE: No. Probably not.
HE: Good. Because the left one's already in. Jesus.
SHE: What?
HE: What's this made of? Metal? Where did we buy this frame?
SHE: At a yard sale in Maine.
HE: Metal covered with a veneer of wood. Jesus. There goes the right one.
SHE: Is that enough wire?
HE: You think I need more.
SHE: Is that a question?
HE: Jesus. It's sharp.
SHE: That's why they call it wire, babe.
HE: Barbed wire is sharp.
SHE: Also other kinds.
HE: Tony Soprano could garrote someone with this.
SHE: I'm glad he's not here. Do you have a pencil?
HE: For what?
SHE: Marking the wall.
HE: How can I mark the wall if I'm holding the painting?
SHE: You hold the painting, I'll tell you the proper height, and then I'll step forward and mark the wall with the pencil.
HE: Okey-dokey. Maybe you could get the pencil.
SHE: Voilà.
HE: (Lifts the painting) So, we'll put it...here?
SHE: You're kidding, right?
HE: No.
SHE: It's a gift from my father.
HE: So you mentioned.
SHE: Pride of place.
HE: Meaning?
SHE: Over the sofa.
HE: Jesus.
SHE: Do you keep saying that because it's Sunday?
HE: The sofa's too wide. I can't hold the painting flush against the wall.
SHE: Does it need to be flush?
HE: Yes.
SHE: Maybe we'd better move the sofa.
HE: "We"?
SHE: Do you not want to do this?
HE: Do I want to move a horsehair sofa before I've read "The Week in Review" section of the paper? Not particularly.
SHE: You want to read the "Week in Review" and then move the sofa.
HE: I don't want to move the sofa, but as you can see, my knees are sinking into it.
SHE: Can you move your knees?
HE: Where? They're attached to my legs.
SHE: Move them in a less sinking motion. What are you doing?
HE: Removing my shirt.
SHE: May I ask why?
HE: Because if I'm going to (grunts) move a sofa, I don't want to (grunts) change my shirt.
SHE: Careful. Watch the painting.
HE: Can't you do that?
SHE: Please don't move the sofa while the painting's on it.
HE: Here. Hold the painting.
SHE: Oh. It's heavy.
HE: That I know.
SHE: You know what I'm thinking?
HE: I'm not David Copperfield.
SHE: David Copperfield's not a mind reader.
HE: Neither am I.
SHE: I'm thinking the painting might look better over there.
HE: What happened to pride of place?
SHE: It'll just look better over there.
HE: I already moved the sofa.
SHE: Just indulge me.
HE: Okey-dokey.
SHE: Does it look nice?
HE: It looks as nice as it can look.
SHE: Meaning?
HE: It's not a Kandinsky now, is it, love?
SHE: Well I'm sorry my father didn't give us a Kandinsky.
HE: So am I. What did he give us?
SHE: Do you really not know what this is?
HE: A barn?
SHE: It's the hull of a ship. Why would a barn be floating in water?
HE: I thought it was grass.
SHE: Black grass?
HE: Dark grass.
SHE: O.K., here. Take the painting.
HE: How about here?
SHE: Think.
HE: What?
SHE: You can't just choose a spot at random, some arbitrary place on the wall where it's just...floating.
HE: It is a ship.
SHE: To the left.
HE: More?
SHE: Right.
HE: Is that a command or praise?
SHE: A command. Further to the right.
HE: Here?
SHE: It won't help to be impatient. Less to the right.
HE: In other words: left.
SHE: Yes, good.
HE: Happy to hear it.
SHE: Now, a little higher.
HE: Here?
SHE: Higher.
HE: O.K.?
SHE: A wee bit higher.
HE: Here?
SHE: A smidgen.
HE: What? A smidgen of what?
SHE: Oh, you lost your place!
HE: Do you realize this is as heavy as a ship? It's as heavy as a barn. Or a ship that looks like a barn.
SHE: You don't want to do this, do you?
HE: (Sighs) Is this where I was?
SHE: Lower.
HE: Here?
SHE: Lower still.
HE: Now?
SHE: Move north-east.
HE: Me or the painting?
SHE: You. So I can see the painting. Perfect. That's great.
HE: Super.
SHE: Now where's that pencil?
Thursday, 26 November 2009
Eric-san
Though raised in the United States, I am the eldest son of a Japanese mother and French father and have the sort of refined Eurasian looks which have served me well in poetry workshops. It was in one such workshop that the student next to me drew my attention to my beautifully-tapered fingers: "Each is like an exquisitely-carved ivory netsuke," she commented.
I remembered this after I'd been teaching English to Japanese businessmen in Kyoto for 16 months. The job had its moments, like when one fellow began speaking reverently about his "great uncle's decorative pond full of crap" (he meant carp), but the pay wasn't as great as I'd been led to believe and the classroom smelled like ammonia. One day while pretending to listen to Mr. Nobu Tanaka conjugate the verb "to swim," I glanced down at my hands. "Surely," I thought, "I can do more with these delicate gifts than erase chalkboards."
It was then that I began my journey into the very heart of Japan. For I had vowed to become a geisha. Not only Kyoto's first Eurasian geisha, but its first male geisha as well. This leap of double daring was to alter my life forever.
Few men appreciate the pain entailed in plucking hair from their knuckles. I am one of these men. After plucking my knuckles, I then waxed the back of my hands and forearms (ouch). What spurred me on was the knowledge that the rest of the geisha community in my district of Kyoto was adamantly set against my joining their ranks.
I've always thrived in the face of adversity and the few conversations I conducted with geisha convinced me that they possessed no qualities absent from my own character. I was also taller and seemed to have better posture than most.
No geisha ever forgets their first kimono and I was no exception. A glance at myself in the mirror in the richly-brocaded teal and crimson garment sent my heart racing. With my hair adorned with ornaments and done up in the style of a young geisha in the momoware style (meaning "split peach"), I was utterly transformed. My magnificent kimono was bound with a stunning obi (or sash) and my countenance painted a striking shade of white. Not to be too M. Butterflyish about it, but I looked ravishing. After using the restroom (note to self: in future visit the bathroom before donning kimono), I tottered out into the streets of Kyoto in the tall wooden shoes worn by apprentice geishas, prepared to conquer the world.
Being a man, I'd been unable to find a geisha to mentor me, but felt secure that I would soon progress from apprentice to full geisha under my own steam. The "gei" of "geisha" means arts and the word "geisha" actually means "artisan" or "artist." It was here that my poetry workshops at NYU and the Learning Annex paid off. Much of my poetry (particularly my early work) had centered on water, stone, and wood. Coincidentally, much Japanese poetry is also about these elements. Since water, stone, and wood are found in my verse, in Japanese poetry, or in both, they comprise the set-theoretic union of the two. Mathematically, this is expressed: Eric's poetry U Japanese poetry.
As a geisha, I had to master Japanese flute (I'd played recorder briefly in eighth grade), a small drum known as tsutsumi and an incredibly annoying stringed instrument called shamisen. I've never been musically inclined, but I knew my future male clients would be interested in one thing only: how I poured tea. And though I don't want to puncture the rice-paper screen of my modesty, let's just say that I do a damn fine tea ceremony.
For I grew up at the side of a Japanese mother who had the equivalent of an American Ph.D. yet was trapped in a drafty house in northwest Connecticut while my father was away on business ten months per year. During frequent snowstorms that wreaked havoc on our television reception, we had two choices: to drive by William Styron's house to see if he'd either constructed, destroyed, or constructed and destroyed a snowman, or to brew tea. We usually opted for the tea.
My first gig (a word nearly impossible to translate to the Japanese) came when an apprentice geisha toppled from her tall wooden shoes into a full-fledged geisha and fractured the latter's right tibia. In desperation, the teahouse phoned and asked if I could fill in.
Who's that famous actor who was an understudy in whatchamacallit when so-and-so fell ill and suddenly the rest was history? Well, think "All About Eve" with the Eve Harrrington role filled by a really good-looking guy from Connecticut.
As the door to the private room in the teahouse was rolled back, I came face to face with six Japanese businessmen and my face flushed with embarrassment. "Goddamnit," I realized, "it's Nobu Tanaka and the rest of my old English class."
I prayed that $4,600 worth of women's clothing and makeup would prevent them from recognizing me. They scrutinized me as I looked demurely at the floor, my ruby-red lips curled in an enigmatic half-smile. I was prepared to pour tea, flirt, sing a traditional Japanese ballad, or pretty much do anything to avoid detection.
"Eric-san?" asked Mr. Tanaka tentatively. I remained silent. Then he solemnly intoned, "I swim, you swim, he or she swims." "Yes, yes," I said impatiently, "very good." "Eric-san, you are now a...geisha?" "I'm an apprentice geisha, but your culture is so hidebound and myopic that I can't find a mentor." Tanaka responded proudly: "Today I find, yesterday I found, I have found."
"O.K., guys, you know what? Let's just make this a language class." The quick consensus was that this was a dreadful suggestion and that I should pour them sake. I agreed to this though I noticed several men peering up the length of my kimono sleeve while I did so. "Now, please play shamisen," they asked. "Oh, come on," I groaned. "Play, play," they implored. "USA! USA!" I picked up that hateful instrument and banged out a tune, thinking to myself, "At least in here it doesn't smell like ammonia."
I remembered this after I'd been teaching English to Japanese businessmen in Kyoto for 16 months. The job had its moments, like when one fellow began speaking reverently about his "great uncle's decorative pond full of crap" (he meant carp), but the pay wasn't as great as I'd been led to believe and the classroom smelled like ammonia. One day while pretending to listen to Mr. Nobu Tanaka conjugate the verb "to swim," I glanced down at my hands. "Surely," I thought, "I can do more with these delicate gifts than erase chalkboards."
It was then that I began my journey into the very heart of Japan. For I had vowed to become a geisha. Not only Kyoto's first Eurasian geisha, but its first male geisha as well. This leap of double daring was to alter my life forever.
Few men appreciate the pain entailed in plucking hair from their knuckles. I am one of these men. After plucking my knuckles, I then waxed the back of my hands and forearms (ouch). What spurred me on was the knowledge that the rest of the geisha community in my district of Kyoto was adamantly set against my joining their ranks.
I've always thrived in the face of adversity and the few conversations I conducted with geisha convinced me that they possessed no qualities absent from my own character. I was also taller and seemed to have better posture than most.
No geisha ever forgets their first kimono and I was no exception. A glance at myself in the mirror in the richly-brocaded teal and crimson garment sent my heart racing. With my hair adorned with ornaments and done up in the style of a young geisha in the momoware style (meaning "split peach"), I was utterly transformed. My magnificent kimono was bound with a stunning obi (or sash) and my countenance painted a striking shade of white. Not to be too M. Butterflyish about it, but I looked ravishing. After using the restroom (note to self: in future visit the bathroom before donning kimono), I tottered out into the streets of Kyoto in the tall wooden shoes worn by apprentice geishas, prepared to conquer the world.
Being a man, I'd been unable to find a geisha to mentor me, but felt secure that I would soon progress from apprentice to full geisha under my own steam. The "gei" of "geisha" means arts and the word "geisha" actually means "artisan" or "artist." It was here that my poetry workshops at NYU and the Learning Annex paid off. Much of my poetry (particularly my early work) had centered on water, stone, and wood. Coincidentally, much Japanese poetry is also about these elements. Since water, stone, and wood are found in my verse, in Japanese poetry, or in both, they comprise the set-theoretic union of the two. Mathematically, this is expressed: Eric's poetry U Japanese poetry.
As a geisha, I had to master Japanese flute (I'd played recorder briefly in eighth grade), a small drum known as tsutsumi and an incredibly annoying stringed instrument called shamisen. I've never been musically inclined, but I knew my future male clients would be interested in one thing only: how I poured tea. And though I don't want to puncture the rice-paper screen of my modesty, let's just say that I do a damn fine tea ceremony.
For I grew up at the side of a Japanese mother who had the equivalent of an American Ph.D. yet was trapped in a drafty house in northwest Connecticut while my father was away on business ten months per year. During frequent snowstorms that wreaked havoc on our television reception, we had two choices: to drive by William Styron's house to see if he'd either constructed, destroyed, or constructed and destroyed a snowman, or to brew tea. We usually opted for the tea.
My first gig (a word nearly impossible to translate to the Japanese) came when an apprentice geisha toppled from her tall wooden shoes into a full-fledged geisha and fractured the latter's right tibia. In desperation, the teahouse phoned and asked if I could fill in.
Who's that famous actor who was an understudy in whatchamacallit when so-and-so fell ill and suddenly the rest was history? Well, think "All About Eve" with the Eve Harrrington role filled by a really good-looking guy from Connecticut.
As the door to the private room in the teahouse was rolled back, I came face to face with six Japanese businessmen and my face flushed with embarrassment. "Goddamnit," I realized, "it's Nobu Tanaka and the rest of my old English class."
I prayed that $4,600 worth of women's clothing and makeup would prevent them from recognizing me. They scrutinized me as I looked demurely at the floor, my ruby-red lips curled in an enigmatic half-smile. I was prepared to pour tea, flirt, sing a traditional Japanese ballad, or pretty much do anything to avoid detection.
"Eric-san?" asked Mr. Tanaka tentatively. I remained silent. Then he solemnly intoned, "I swim, you swim, he or she swims." "Yes, yes," I said impatiently, "very good." "Eric-san, you are now a...geisha?" "I'm an apprentice geisha, but your culture is so hidebound and myopic that I can't find a mentor." Tanaka responded proudly: "Today I find, yesterday I found, I have found."
"O.K., guys, you know what? Let's just make this a language class." The quick consensus was that this was a dreadful suggestion and that I should pour them sake. I agreed to this though I noticed several men peering up the length of my kimono sleeve while I did so. "Now, please play shamisen," they asked. "Oh, come on," I groaned. "Play, play," they implored. "USA! USA!" I picked up that hateful instrument and banged out a tune, thinking to myself, "At least in here it doesn't smell like ammonia."
Tuesday, 24 November 2009
The Chosen
Announcing that Vanderbilt intends to recruit Jewish students, the University's chancellor explained, "Jewish students by culture and by ability and by the very nature of their liveliness make a university a much more habitable place in terms of intellectual life"--The Wall Street Journal
We are currently engaged in assembling the most intellectually curious, accomplished, dynamic student body in the United States of America. We value those who esteem scholarship and are motivated to succeed. Our prospective applicants have that indefinable quality, that little something extra that sets them apart from the crowd. They're highly verbal, gregarious, opinionated, and they love to learn.
Do you enjoy films, be they the comedies of Woody Allen, the dramas of Steven Spielberg, or the documentaries of Frederick Wiseman? Do you particularly relish documentaries about your own people? Do you dream of writing, starring in, directing, reviewing, or merely discussing films about your own people (or any other people, for that matter)?
Do you love to laugh and to make others laugh? Do you have the same gift of laughter as Groucho Marx, Milton Berle, Jack Benny, Albert Brooks, Ben Stiller or Jon Stewart?
Is your surname a color: Gold, Silver, or Green? Or perhaps a variation on a color: Goldfine, Silverman, or Greenspan? Is your surname Rosen or a version thereof: Rosenberg, Rosenfeld, Rosenbaum, Rosencrantz, or Rosenquist? If so, we have exciting news: our university may well be for you.
We're rolling out the red carpet for those who hail from major metropolitan areas or suburbs with strong public school systems. We look for students with varied interests: if you play chess, organize and run an investment club at your school, have volunteered on a kibbutz, or have interned in a hospital where one or both of your parents is a specialist, please consider us.
We cherish strong communication and writing skills. If you possess the zeal and talent to become a columnist like Thomas Friedman or William Safire, an investigative reporter like Seymour Hersh or Jane Mayer, or are equipped with the business savvy to helm a major news organization like Arthur Sulzberger, Jr., we eagerly await your application. Whether you hope to contribute to society as a titan of literature like Bellow, Roth, Ozick, Mailer, or Salinger, or merely to give back philanthropically like Annenberg, Zuckerman, Bloomberg, Geffen, and Tisch, we urge you to apply.
Our ideal candidates have a solid background in math and science, four years of English and foreign language, and three of four grandparents who are Jewish. An applicant is expected to submit SAT I and II scores, an official transcript, two teacher recommendations, and proof that his or her birth mother is Jewish. (Please note that mothers who have converted to the Jewish faith may not have done so in a reform synagogue.)
We realize in a diverse society such as ours that members of minority groups are often sensitive to special treatment. Let us be perfectly clear: no one is being "targeted." We're simply trying to raise the intellectual tone on our campus, to stimulate thought, and to gather a group of individuals who prize the old-fashioned art of conversation.
We strive to select those who feel deeply, can be counted on to cry at weddings and other social occasions, debate issues well into the night, and above all, care. We're searching for what might be termed the "creative personality," who not only plays a stringed instrument, sculpts or paints, writes and performs monologues, but who expresses a zany, urban sensibility that captivates others.
We want catalysts: people who intend to be pioneers in law, medicine, business, journalism, entertainment, and academia. We hunger for those who ultimately will augment, transform, and dominate these fields.
If you're boisterous and effervescent, we want you. If you're feisty, combative, argumentative, outspoken, and controversial, we want you. If you're dynamic, explosive, formidable, and larger than life, we want you. We covet aesthetes, activists, and aspiring anesthesiologists. We applaud those who are passionately involved in this great enterprise called life.
If you've ever felt marginalized, misunderstood, denigrated, unappreciated, unfairly maligned or otherwise victimized, we are your promised land. We herald both your past and future accomplishments and bid you welcome. We implore you: consider yourself a member of our club.
We are currently engaged in assembling the most intellectually curious, accomplished, dynamic student body in the United States of America. We value those who esteem scholarship and are motivated to succeed. Our prospective applicants have that indefinable quality, that little something extra that sets them apart from the crowd. They're highly verbal, gregarious, opinionated, and they love to learn.
Do you enjoy films, be they the comedies of Woody Allen, the dramas of Steven Spielberg, or the documentaries of Frederick Wiseman? Do you particularly relish documentaries about your own people? Do you dream of writing, starring in, directing, reviewing, or merely discussing films about your own people (or any other people, for that matter)?
Do you love to laugh and to make others laugh? Do you have the same gift of laughter as Groucho Marx, Milton Berle, Jack Benny, Albert Brooks, Ben Stiller or Jon Stewart?
Is your surname a color: Gold, Silver, or Green? Or perhaps a variation on a color: Goldfine, Silverman, or Greenspan? Is your surname Rosen or a version thereof: Rosenberg, Rosenfeld, Rosenbaum, Rosencrantz, or Rosenquist? If so, we have exciting news: our university may well be for you.
We're rolling out the red carpet for those who hail from major metropolitan areas or suburbs with strong public school systems. We look for students with varied interests: if you play chess, organize and run an investment club at your school, have volunteered on a kibbutz, or have interned in a hospital where one or both of your parents is a specialist, please consider us.
We cherish strong communication and writing skills. If you possess the zeal and talent to become a columnist like Thomas Friedman or William Safire, an investigative reporter like Seymour Hersh or Jane Mayer, or are equipped with the business savvy to helm a major news organization like Arthur Sulzberger, Jr., we eagerly await your application. Whether you hope to contribute to society as a titan of literature like Bellow, Roth, Ozick, Mailer, or Salinger, or merely to give back philanthropically like Annenberg, Zuckerman, Bloomberg, Geffen, and Tisch, we urge you to apply.
Our ideal candidates have a solid background in math and science, four years of English and foreign language, and three of four grandparents who are Jewish. An applicant is expected to submit SAT I and II scores, an official transcript, two teacher recommendations, and proof that his or her birth mother is Jewish. (Please note that mothers who have converted to the Jewish faith may not have done so in a reform synagogue.)
We realize in a diverse society such as ours that members of minority groups are often sensitive to special treatment. Let us be perfectly clear: no one is being "targeted." We're simply trying to raise the intellectual tone on our campus, to stimulate thought, and to gather a group of individuals who prize the old-fashioned art of conversation.
We strive to select those who feel deeply, can be counted on to cry at weddings and other social occasions, debate issues well into the night, and above all, care. We're searching for what might be termed the "creative personality," who not only plays a stringed instrument, sculpts or paints, writes and performs monologues, but who expresses a zany, urban sensibility that captivates others.
We want catalysts: people who intend to be pioneers in law, medicine, business, journalism, entertainment, and academia. We hunger for those who ultimately will augment, transform, and dominate these fields.
If you're boisterous and effervescent, we want you. If you're feisty, combative, argumentative, outspoken, and controversial, we want you. If you're dynamic, explosive, formidable, and larger than life, we want you. We covet aesthetes, activists, and aspiring anesthesiologists. We applaud those who are passionately involved in this great enterprise called life.
If you've ever felt marginalized, misunderstood, denigrated, unappreciated, unfairly maligned or otherwise victimized, we are your promised land. We herald both your past and future accomplishments and bid you welcome. We implore you: consider yourself a member of our club.
Sunday, 22 November 2009
Friday, 20 November 2009
Chafed
I would like to take this opportunity to thank everyone for their cards and letters sent in anticipation of my upcoming procedure. Since returning from our Hawaiian honeymoon, we've devoted nearly all our time to navigating the health care labyrinth, phoning specialists and clinics.
Though much is unknown about my condition, with little to be found in the annals of medicine, there is one point on which there is unanimous agreement: I am the victim of extremely unfortunate timing. My marriage proposal in 2003 to young Meryl (nineteen at the time) was sullied by my immediate imprisonment for grand larceny. Our inability to consummate our union proved frustrating not only to Meryl, then living at home with her mother who required round-the-clock care, but for me, confined to a federal correctional facility with few outlets for my primary desires other than exercise and cable television.
Upon my early release, Meryl and I flew to paradise to rediscover each other and to cement our vows. The result is what has best been described by Dr. Herbert Marcus of the UCLA Medical Center as "excessive chafing." Meryl has been nothing short of heroic throughout my ordeal, displaying reserves of patience and empathy I did not know she possessed. In this respect, I am a lucky man.
During my hospitalization, I know I can depend on many of you to comfort her with concern, company, and, yes, casseroles. Also, if you visit within 72 hours of my arrival home, please bring vast quantities of ice as Dr. Marcus has informed me that there will be significant swelling.
The procedure will be performed by Dr. Harold Bronstein and I feel sure I am in competent hands as he has years of experience ministering to transsexuals, transgender individuals, and Michael Jackson. He is uncertain at this point if a skin graft will be necessary, but if any of you is willing to donate that bit of epidermis found between your big toe and its neighbor, please contact me as soon as possible.
A few folks have already dropped off mix tapes for Meryl to enjoy during my absence and for me to savor upon my return. Knowing we are in your thoughts means the world to us. I also deeply appreciate all the pro bono work being done on my behalf by my cousin Peter Schreiber and his law firm in my attempt to obtain a settlement from the Hotel Hana Maui.
Experts tell me a hostelry such as this certainly would have seen its share of honeymoon fatigue and should have ignored our "Do Not Disturb" sign after the fifth day and interrupted our exertions in order to salvage what was left of my midsection. Their complimentary fruit platter and Hana Maui ice packs for our journey home in no way absolve them of responsibility.
I do not deny that I overdid it with my comely minx, Meryl, but cannot help see myself as Tess of the d'Urbervilles: "more sinned against than sinning." To be incarcerated for 78 months with a roommate from a radically different social background who had virtually no interests nor, indeed, teeth; to be given only back issues of "Mad" magazine and "Martha Stewart Living"; to be deprived of female companionship except in the form of Vice-Warden Susan Prother's twice-weekly appearances at breakfast; and to be told that one is less than a man because one has committed a financial transgression (albeit a particularly sizable one) against society is to reduce one such as I to a weak-willed being, unable to make just decisions.
For those of you who saw the excellent film "Kinsey" (featuring the stellar Liam Neeson as the famous sex researcher), you know the human body is capable of unimagined achievement in the pursuit of pleasure. The nature of my plight obviously begs discretion, but I believe I can share one anecdote without betraying our privacy: on the final night of our honeymoon, Meryl said to me, "Now that you've spent yourself in every orifice of my body for the eighth day in a row, do you think we could order a sandwich?"
That cracked me up. But it was just as our BLT Club arrived (a choice I heartily recommend to prospective guests), and I was spreading a damask napkin across my lap, that I felt my first twinge. Though my eyes were crossed in pain and Meryl had a strip of bacon dangling from the corner of her mouth, I found myself in the grip of desire and, knocking our sandwich to the floor, I began, oh so gingerly, to undo my bathrobe for that final, fateful time.
Though much is unknown about my condition, with little to be found in the annals of medicine, there is one point on which there is unanimous agreement: I am the victim of extremely unfortunate timing. My marriage proposal in 2003 to young Meryl (nineteen at the time) was sullied by my immediate imprisonment for grand larceny. Our inability to consummate our union proved frustrating not only to Meryl, then living at home with her mother who required round-the-clock care, but for me, confined to a federal correctional facility with few outlets for my primary desires other than exercise and cable television.
Upon my early release, Meryl and I flew to paradise to rediscover each other and to cement our vows. The result is what has best been described by Dr. Herbert Marcus of the UCLA Medical Center as "excessive chafing." Meryl has been nothing short of heroic throughout my ordeal, displaying reserves of patience and empathy I did not know she possessed. In this respect, I am a lucky man.
During my hospitalization, I know I can depend on many of you to comfort her with concern, company, and, yes, casseroles. Also, if you visit within 72 hours of my arrival home, please bring vast quantities of ice as Dr. Marcus has informed me that there will be significant swelling.
The procedure will be performed by Dr. Harold Bronstein and I feel sure I am in competent hands as he has years of experience ministering to transsexuals, transgender individuals, and Michael Jackson. He is uncertain at this point if a skin graft will be necessary, but if any of you is willing to donate that bit of epidermis found between your big toe and its neighbor, please contact me as soon as possible.
A few folks have already dropped off mix tapes for Meryl to enjoy during my absence and for me to savor upon my return. Knowing we are in your thoughts means the world to us. I also deeply appreciate all the pro bono work being done on my behalf by my cousin Peter Schreiber and his law firm in my attempt to obtain a settlement from the Hotel Hana Maui.
Experts tell me a hostelry such as this certainly would have seen its share of honeymoon fatigue and should have ignored our "Do Not Disturb" sign after the fifth day and interrupted our exertions in order to salvage what was left of my midsection. Their complimentary fruit platter and Hana Maui ice packs for our journey home in no way absolve them of responsibility.
I do not deny that I overdid it with my comely minx, Meryl, but cannot help see myself as Tess of the d'Urbervilles: "more sinned against than sinning." To be incarcerated for 78 months with a roommate from a radically different social background who had virtually no interests nor, indeed, teeth; to be given only back issues of "Mad" magazine and "Martha Stewart Living"; to be deprived of female companionship except in the form of Vice-Warden Susan Prother's twice-weekly appearances at breakfast; and to be told that one is less than a man because one has committed a financial transgression (albeit a particularly sizable one) against society is to reduce one such as I to a weak-willed being, unable to make just decisions.
For those of you who saw the excellent film "Kinsey" (featuring the stellar Liam Neeson as the famous sex researcher), you know the human body is capable of unimagined achievement in the pursuit of pleasure. The nature of my plight obviously begs discretion, but I believe I can share one anecdote without betraying our privacy: on the final night of our honeymoon, Meryl said to me, "Now that you've spent yourself in every orifice of my body for the eighth day in a row, do you think we could order a sandwich?"
That cracked me up. But it was just as our BLT Club arrived (a choice I heartily recommend to prospective guests), and I was spreading a damask napkin across my lap, that I felt my first twinge. Though my eyes were crossed in pain and Meryl had a strip of bacon dangling from the corner of her mouth, I found myself in the grip of desire and, knocking our sandwich to the floor, I began, oh so gingerly, to undo my bathrobe for that final, fateful time.
Tuesday, 17 November 2009
Enough is Enough
The best part of working at Starbucks in Malibu is serving Warren Beatty. It's a true privilege. Of course, our clients include many of America's most famous stars, but it's very different making a chai latte for Larry Hagman or Robin Wright Penn than making one for Warren. Trust me, I know. Over the years, I've made him far too many to count (1,236).
I love when the Beattys come in as a family unit. That cracks me up. As I said to Warren one day when I handed him a scone, "Who'da thunk?" He seemed confused. I gestured to his brood: "Who'da thunk?" "Yeah," he deadpanned, "three girls and a boy. What are the odds?" "I get you," I said, "but I meant the odds of your having a family. Man to man, I mean, come on, you? 'Splendor in the Grass'? 'Shampoo'? 'Bonnie and Clyde'?" He tapped his scone on the counter: "I think I'm waiting on a chai latte." "O.K.," I nodded, "I'll catch you on the flip side."
The next time he stopped by, I was on him like white on rice. "You remember what we were talking about last time you were here?" He seemed confused: "When was that?" "March 26th, 11:38 A.M.," I informed him. "You have quite a memory," he said. "Our register has an internal clock," I explained, "all receipts are time-stamped." "No," he said. "They are," I insisted. "No," said Beatty, "I don't remember what we were discussing at 11:38 on March 26th."
"Let me ask you a question, Warren." "You don't have to," he responded, "I'll tell you: I'd like a chai latte." "Let me ask you a personal question." "Oh," he said warily, "I don't like those." "Because you're a movie star?" "Because I'm a person." "O.K., Warren, why don't you ask me a personal question?" "I just did: may I please have a chai latte?"
I smiled. I had to admit: the guy was sharp. Not like some of these stars who come in and still can't quite believe that someone with no talent and a gut is living in a $16 million house in Malibu. They love to talk. About their $16 million house. But not Warren. He's over himself. Way over himself. He's been famous for nearly fifty years. He turned down ten football scholarships to attend drama school at Northwestern. His life's been cake, but his body language tells me he's open to others.
I tried again: "You've probably never been asked this, but how much sex have you had?" He stared at me: "Can I just have my tea?" "C'mon," I said, "indulge me. How much sex have you had?" He paused for longer than I've ever seen a normal customer pause. Then he answered, "Enough."
"Oh, no, you don't," I said, "don't be coy. That's not an answer." "Well," he said tightly, "it's my answer." "That's a grade-school response," I told him. "I'm rubber; you're glue. Whatever you say bounces off me and sticks to you," I recited. "You seem to be both rubber and glue in this situation." he said. "In that each is an irritant to one who's seeking tea."
"Let's start alphabetically," I prodded, "Adjani, Bening, Christie..." "Enough," he cut me off. "You don't actually know, do you?" I asked. "That's incredible. And sort of disgusting." "I'd like to speak to the manager," he demanded. "I am the manager." I love saying that. I've said it to Danny DeVito and Illeana Douglas and Rob Lowe. "Warren," I continued,"have you never sat with a cocktail napkin when you were really bored and listed your partners?" Warren Beatty has a very disconcerting gaze. It was evident in a few frames of "Dick Tracy," but most filmgoers probably aren't aware of it.
"Now, I remember you. My children were in a pageant at their preschool...." "Yes," I confirmed, "your youngest wore a pumpkin for a head." "I asked you to stop snapping pictures with your cellphone." "You did indeed." "But you persisted." He appraised me: "You're very persistent." "And you," I said as I handed him his chai latte, "are very observant."
I followed him to his booth: "Do you mind if I join you?" He looked up: "You want to have sex?" "Now, that's the Warren I know and admire," I laughed. "The Warren who wrote and directed 'Reds' and 'Bulworth.'"
"Don't sit down," he said.
"'Parallax View' is extremely underrated."
"You seem to know me pretty well," he said, "why don't you answer your own question?"
"Cryptic," I smiled, "I like that."
"Don't sit down."
"How about a scone on the house?"
"No."
"O.K. I will answer my own question: Adjani, Bening, Christie..."
"There's a line."
"And you're saying I've crossed it?"
"There's a line at the counter."
"It doesn't matter: I'm the manager."
"Why don't you answer your own question from behind the counter? You could reduce the line."
"Warren, at this point, it's your question. You asked me, 'Why don't you answer your own question?'"
"It wasn't a question. It was a request. Actually, more of a command."
"There are no commands at Starbucks. It's posted in the staff room. We're a team."
"The team seems to have its hands full with that queue."
"Let me explain something, Warren. I travel in coach. I'm not the last one to board the plane or whatever. I'm worth $38,000, $39,000 tops. There's no special booth for me at the Malibu Starbucks. I return my rental car on time like everybody else. There's a 59-minute grace period and then I get hit for two extra hours just like every other sucker...."
"Christ, you're hyperventilating."
"Because I've served you 1,236 chai lattes. Excuse me, 1,237, and you won't answer a simple question."
"1,237? You keep a tally?"
"That's my question for you, Warren: do you keep a tally?"
"No."
"Have you made use of a cocktail napkin?"
He was silent.
"At a family reunion, at a bar mitzvah, when Robert Evans was showing slides of his vacation in Gstaad, have you never found yourself tabulating, reminiscing, recollecting?"
"You're talking about mental calculations."
"Precisely."
"O.K., Tim, how many people have you slept with?"
"My name's not Tim. This is somebody else's name tag. Tim's."
"O.K., whatever your name is, how many people have you shagged?"
"That's a bit blunt, isn't it?"
His eyes narrowed. "All right, we'll go letter for letter. You offer up an 'A' for my 'A.'"
I stared at him.
"You linked me with Adjani."
"Right, but that 'A' is taken. Give me another."
"Fine. Andress."
My eyes bulged. "Ursula Andress? 'Dr. No'? The bathing suit, the conch shell, the scabbard?"
"I'm waiting for your 'A.'"
"That's easy," I told him. "My wife's named Amy."
"So you're not using surnames."
I frowned.
He sighed, "My wife's Annette. Annette Bening. A and B."
"You're lucky there," I told him.
"And your 'B' is?"
"Listen, Warren, I'm out of ammo."
He stared at me. "I've read about people like you. It's some sort of movement or something...."
"It's not that unusual," I told him. "If you have a sec, I'll explain..."
"Don't sit down."
I love when the Beattys come in as a family unit. That cracks me up. As I said to Warren one day when I handed him a scone, "Who'da thunk?" He seemed confused. I gestured to his brood: "Who'da thunk?" "Yeah," he deadpanned, "three girls and a boy. What are the odds?" "I get you," I said, "but I meant the odds of your having a family. Man to man, I mean, come on, you? 'Splendor in the Grass'? 'Shampoo'? 'Bonnie and Clyde'?" He tapped his scone on the counter: "I think I'm waiting on a chai latte." "O.K.," I nodded, "I'll catch you on the flip side."
The next time he stopped by, I was on him like white on rice. "You remember what we were talking about last time you were here?" He seemed confused: "When was that?" "March 26th, 11:38 A.M.," I informed him. "You have quite a memory," he said. "Our register has an internal clock," I explained, "all receipts are time-stamped." "No," he said. "They are," I insisted. "No," said Beatty, "I don't remember what we were discussing at 11:38 on March 26th."
"Let me ask you a question, Warren." "You don't have to," he responded, "I'll tell you: I'd like a chai latte." "Let me ask you a personal question." "Oh," he said warily, "I don't like those." "Because you're a movie star?" "Because I'm a person." "O.K., Warren, why don't you ask me a personal question?" "I just did: may I please have a chai latte?"
I smiled. I had to admit: the guy was sharp. Not like some of these stars who come in and still can't quite believe that someone with no talent and a gut is living in a $16 million house in Malibu. They love to talk. About their $16 million house. But not Warren. He's over himself. Way over himself. He's been famous for nearly fifty years. He turned down ten football scholarships to attend drama school at Northwestern. His life's been cake, but his body language tells me he's open to others.
I tried again: "You've probably never been asked this, but how much sex have you had?" He stared at me: "Can I just have my tea?" "C'mon," I said, "indulge me. How much sex have you had?" He paused for longer than I've ever seen a normal customer pause. Then he answered, "Enough."
"Oh, no, you don't," I said, "don't be coy. That's not an answer." "Well," he said tightly, "it's my answer." "That's a grade-school response," I told him. "I'm rubber; you're glue. Whatever you say bounces off me and sticks to you," I recited. "You seem to be both rubber and glue in this situation." he said. "In that each is an irritant to one who's seeking tea."
"Let's start alphabetically," I prodded, "Adjani, Bening, Christie..." "Enough," he cut me off. "You don't actually know, do you?" I asked. "That's incredible. And sort of disgusting." "I'd like to speak to the manager," he demanded. "I am the manager." I love saying that. I've said it to Danny DeVito and Illeana Douglas and Rob Lowe. "Warren," I continued,"have you never sat with a cocktail napkin when you were really bored and listed your partners?" Warren Beatty has a very disconcerting gaze. It was evident in a few frames of "Dick Tracy," but most filmgoers probably aren't aware of it.
"Now, I remember you. My children were in a pageant at their preschool...." "Yes," I confirmed, "your youngest wore a pumpkin for a head." "I asked you to stop snapping pictures with your cellphone." "You did indeed." "But you persisted." He appraised me: "You're very persistent." "And you," I said as I handed him his chai latte, "are very observant."
I followed him to his booth: "Do you mind if I join you?" He looked up: "You want to have sex?" "Now, that's the Warren I know and admire," I laughed. "The Warren who wrote and directed 'Reds' and 'Bulworth.'"
"Don't sit down," he said.
"'Parallax View' is extremely underrated."
"You seem to know me pretty well," he said, "why don't you answer your own question?"
"Cryptic," I smiled, "I like that."
"Don't sit down."
"How about a scone on the house?"
"No."
"O.K. I will answer my own question: Adjani, Bening, Christie..."
"There's a line."
"And you're saying I've crossed it?"
"There's a line at the counter."
"It doesn't matter: I'm the manager."
"Why don't you answer your own question from behind the counter? You could reduce the line."
"Warren, at this point, it's your question. You asked me, 'Why don't you answer your own question?'"
"It wasn't a question. It was a request. Actually, more of a command."
"There are no commands at Starbucks. It's posted in the staff room. We're a team."
"The team seems to have its hands full with that queue."
"Let me explain something, Warren. I travel in coach. I'm not the last one to board the plane or whatever. I'm worth $38,000, $39,000 tops. There's no special booth for me at the Malibu Starbucks. I return my rental car on time like everybody else. There's a 59-minute grace period and then I get hit for two extra hours just like every other sucker...."
"Christ, you're hyperventilating."
"Because I've served you 1,236 chai lattes. Excuse me, 1,237, and you won't answer a simple question."
"1,237? You keep a tally?"
"That's my question for you, Warren: do you keep a tally?"
"No."
"Have you made use of a cocktail napkin?"
He was silent.
"At a family reunion, at a bar mitzvah, when Robert Evans was showing slides of his vacation in Gstaad, have you never found yourself tabulating, reminiscing, recollecting?"
"You're talking about mental calculations."
"Precisely."
"O.K., Tim, how many people have you slept with?"
"My name's not Tim. This is somebody else's name tag. Tim's."
"O.K., whatever your name is, how many people have you shagged?"
"That's a bit blunt, isn't it?"
His eyes narrowed. "All right, we'll go letter for letter. You offer up an 'A' for my 'A.'"
I stared at him.
"You linked me with Adjani."
"Right, but that 'A' is taken. Give me another."
"Fine. Andress."
My eyes bulged. "Ursula Andress? 'Dr. No'? The bathing suit, the conch shell, the scabbard?"
"I'm waiting for your 'A.'"
"That's easy," I told him. "My wife's named Amy."
"So you're not using surnames."
I frowned.
He sighed, "My wife's Annette. Annette Bening. A and B."
"You're lucky there," I told him.
"And your 'B' is?"
"Listen, Warren, I'm out of ammo."
He stared at me. "I've read about people like you. It's some sort of movement or something...."
"It's not that unusual," I told him. "If you have a sec, I'll explain..."
"Don't sit down."
Friday, 13 November 2009
Stallin'
What possesses a seventeen-year-old boy to spend an entire Sunday afternoon in a catatonic trance on his bed, staring at the ceiling? I know it's not congenital; at my son's age, I was already canvassing for an ultimately successful congressional candidate. Thus it surprised and alarmed me that Derek was not even attempting to grapple with a crucial assignment: to pen a tribute to me for my Harvard 25th reunion class book.
When I initially mentioned this endeavor to Derek, his response was characteristically flip: "Aren't your classmates summing up their own lives for the reunion book?" I conceded that many undoubtedly were, but added that not all of their sons were applying to Harvard. Should Derek's loving and well-written essay find its way to the Admissions Office (or be spotted and flagged by an astute alum), it could only bolster his chances in what has become a relentlessly competitive process.
My son attempted to shirk his task and asked why his mother or sister couldn't do it. "Because," I responded, "Mom and Betsy don't feel the way you do about me." "Damn straight," he said, but gave no sign of moving forward.
"May I suggest a topic sentence?" I asked. He nodded glumly. "Dear Dad, you are admired and respected throughout the business world." For the next three weeks, I noted not the slightest effort on Derek's part to begin his essay. What I did observe was a habit which had lately driven my wife and me to distraction: his strolling about the house humming the tune to a Michael Jackson song while periodically erupting with the phrase "Beat it" in an uncomfortably menacing manner.
After two months, Derek, who is a day student at Milton Academy, had come up with this: "Dear Dad, you are admired and respected throughout ther business world. When I began my research to write this, I realized how many things you have done and how much you are admired."
I asked Derek point-blank, "Are you brain-damaged?" He indicated that he was not. "Because Harvard accepted seven percent of its applicants last year and none of them was brain-damaged."
This unfortunate outburst led to Derek's writing a hostile paragraph comparing me unfavorably with a genocidal maniac. I informed him that the reunion book would never publish such an effort and added that Stalin was spelled with one "l."
"I'm a successful entrepreneur and an avid golfer with a 12 handicap," I reminded Derek. "Can it really be so difficult to find something to say about me?" I believe he replied, "Beat it" (my wife heard "Eat it").
So we reached an impasse, not the first such we've encountered with Derek. In the past, we'd both "helped" him complete assignments, but this time something stuck in my craw. Of course I wanted to see Derek at Harvard, but first I needed to see him out of bed, at his desk, with the overhead light illuminating a clean sheaf of paper and a pencil at the ready.
I noticed he'd had time to affix a sticker ("Nazi-free Zone") to the headboard of his antique Hepplewhite bed, to down multiple cans of soda (but not time to dispose of them in a nearby trash receptacle), to text someone named Lucius non-stop at dinner for four nights running, and to use a stack of overdue library books as a pedestal for what is possibly the crudest clay depiction of an anatomical part I have seen in two decades as a parent.
"If you ever removed the iPod from your ears, you'd be halfway toward finishing your essay." "What?" Derek yelled, as I forcibly removed his iPod. I repeated what I had said. "You mean I'd be halfway toward finishing your essay."
Derek has always been overly preoccupied with what everyone else is doing instead of focusing on his own labors. Raking leaves as a young adolescent, he was forever casting glances at Betsy's pile. "Don't worry about Betsy," I told him, "it's not a race, which is fortunate for you since she's raked twice as many leaves." Our family spent a very tense fall as my wife and I left a series of reminders in Derek's room ("1984: Dad climbed Mt. Rainier";"Began Harvard Business School in 1990") which were less than gratefully received.
Finally, I ushered Derek into my study and pointed out a signed photo of me at the White House with George W. Bush: "Perhaps this will prompt some memories." "Why?" responded Derek, "I wasn't there." "No, but I was. Some are lucky enough to sup with presidents and kings...." "What is 'sup,'" he asked, "a verb?" "Yes," I said, "short for 'supper.'" "Then shouldn't it be to eat sup with presidents and kings?"
Derek's at college in Ohio now. He's not home for Thanksgiving and offered no excuse. But it doesn't take a genius to know what keeps him away: we've got two acres here in Belmont and that makes for an awful lot of leaves.
When I initially mentioned this endeavor to Derek, his response was characteristically flip: "Aren't your classmates summing up their own lives for the reunion book?" I conceded that many undoubtedly were, but added that not all of their sons were applying to Harvard. Should Derek's loving and well-written essay find its way to the Admissions Office (or be spotted and flagged by an astute alum), it could only bolster his chances in what has become a relentlessly competitive process.
My son attempted to shirk his task and asked why his mother or sister couldn't do it. "Because," I responded, "Mom and Betsy don't feel the way you do about me." "Damn straight," he said, but gave no sign of moving forward.
"May I suggest a topic sentence?" I asked. He nodded glumly. "Dear Dad, you are admired and respected throughout the business world." For the next three weeks, I noted not the slightest effort on Derek's part to begin his essay. What I did observe was a habit which had lately driven my wife and me to distraction: his strolling about the house humming the tune to a Michael Jackson song while periodically erupting with the phrase "Beat it" in an uncomfortably menacing manner.
After two months, Derek, who is a day student at Milton Academy, had come up with this: "Dear Dad, you are admired and respected throughout ther business world. When I began my research to write this, I realized how many things you have done and how much you are admired."
I asked Derek point-blank, "Are you brain-damaged?" He indicated that he was not. "Because Harvard accepted seven percent of its applicants last year and none of them was brain-damaged."
This unfortunate outburst led to Derek's writing a hostile paragraph comparing me unfavorably with a genocidal maniac. I informed him that the reunion book would never publish such an effort and added that Stalin was spelled with one "l."
"I'm a successful entrepreneur and an avid golfer with a 12 handicap," I reminded Derek. "Can it really be so difficult to find something to say about me?" I believe he replied, "Beat it" (my wife heard "Eat it").
So we reached an impasse, not the first such we've encountered with Derek. In the past, we'd both "helped" him complete assignments, but this time something stuck in my craw. Of course I wanted to see Derek at Harvard, but first I needed to see him out of bed, at his desk, with the overhead light illuminating a clean sheaf of paper and a pencil at the ready.
I noticed he'd had time to affix a sticker ("Nazi-free Zone") to the headboard of his antique Hepplewhite bed, to down multiple cans of soda (but not time to dispose of them in a nearby trash receptacle), to text someone named Lucius non-stop at dinner for four nights running, and to use a stack of overdue library books as a pedestal for what is possibly the crudest clay depiction of an anatomical part I have seen in two decades as a parent.
"If you ever removed the iPod from your ears, you'd be halfway toward finishing your essay." "What?" Derek yelled, as I forcibly removed his iPod. I repeated what I had said. "You mean I'd be halfway toward finishing your essay."
Derek has always been overly preoccupied with what everyone else is doing instead of focusing on his own labors. Raking leaves as a young adolescent, he was forever casting glances at Betsy's pile. "Don't worry about Betsy," I told him, "it's not a race, which is fortunate for you since she's raked twice as many leaves." Our family spent a very tense fall as my wife and I left a series of reminders in Derek's room ("1984: Dad climbed Mt. Rainier";"Began Harvard Business School in 1990") which were less than gratefully received.
Finally, I ushered Derek into my study and pointed out a signed photo of me at the White House with George W. Bush: "Perhaps this will prompt some memories." "Why?" responded Derek, "I wasn't there." "No, but I was. Some are lucky enough to sup with presidents and kings...." "What is 'sup,'" he asked, "a verb?" "Yes," I said, "short for 'supper.'" "Then shouldn't it be to eat sup with presidents and kings?"
Derek's at college in Ohio now. He's not home for Thanksgiving and offered no excuse. But it doesn't take a genius to know what keeps him away: we've got two acres here in Belmont and that makes for an awful lot of leaves.
Tuesday, 10 November 2009
The Moralist Discusses Travel
Dear Moralist:
When we travel through Asia, my wife insists on leaving the mosquitoes she has killed squashed against her face as a badge of honor. There is frequently blood, never mind the splayed body of the mosquito. I carry moist towlettes for the express purpose of removing such insects, but she refuses to use them. Your thoughts?
Greg
Dear Greg:
I understand your feelings, but Asia is an exasperating continent and often taking the life of a bug proves to be the sole satisfaction of one's day; it's natural to want to gloat. I also believe moist towlettes can be put to better use and as for the blood that mars your wife's face, it is most likely her own.
Dear Moralist:
Why is England so expensive?
Mark and Trudy
Dear Mark and Trudy:
Excellent question. The cost of things in England has astonished visitors for many decades. It's usually difficult to get the English to admit to their stratospheric prices as many have never left the island. Those who have mutter something about their nation being isolated, etc. When in Jolly Old, the only items I purchase are a Mason-Pearson brush and a jar of Tiptree jam. If embarking on a short stay, I bring food in my luggage. And I never, ever buy a grapefruit in England.
Dear Moralist:
During a five-week trip through Italy last summer, my husband refused to utter a single word of Italian. He would not even deign to say "grazie" to waiters, announcing, "If I do, I'll sound stupid."
Grace
Dear Grace:
No, your husband wouldn't have sounded stupid in Italian saying "thank you"; he sounds stupid in English saying that he would.
Dear Moralist:
My boyfriend is from New Hampshire and I never hear the end of it. He claims to hail from one of the "most important" states given that Dixville Notch is the first town in the nation to vote. Give me a break.
Sharon
Dear Sharon:
Yes, every four years during primary season we hear about the Sheraton-Wayfarer in Bedford and about the 23 votes cast in Dixville Notch. For those interested in New England, I recommend Maine.
Dear Moralist:
We live in Tucson, which, as you know, has its share of border strains. My husband has difficulty holding his liquor, never more so than last Thursday when I'm afraid he offended a Syrian couple by playfully recommending we solve our immigration problems by regularly mowing down with a machine gun all applicants for citizenship queuing outside the federal building.
Phyllis
Dear Phyllis:
Correct me if I'm wrong, but aren't most of Tucson's "border strains" Mexican in nature? Nor do you explain the presence of your Syrian friends in Arizona (a Fulbright perhaps?). Nonetheless, it's possible that amends are in order. May I suggest you make a "hajj" to their door bearing foods Syrians enjoy such as lamb and, I believe, stuffed grape leaves?
Dear Moralist:
My wife and I each hold Ph.D.s in art history from leading research universities and are somewhat prominent in the Manhattan art world. We recently joined a group of like-minded scholars on a three-week bicycle trip through the Netherlands. By the first afternoon, it was apparent that two scholars were pedalling exceedingly slowly. To wit, we lost sight of them for more than an hour and a half and when they finally appeared they were panting and wheezing. As a result of their tardiness, we missed seeing many precious Vermeers at the Mauritshuis in The Hague. The next morning, one of the scholars expired and the second accompanied his body back to Wisconsin. Nevertheless, we feel the tour operator should issue us a refund for that first catastrophic afternoon.
Paul
Dear Paul:
I agree. Sorry you missed those Vermeers: "Girl With A Pearl Earring" is a must (and I say that independent of the book and subsequent movie). Now that you're back in, presumably, New York, you can view three Vermeers at the Frick and five at the Met (two of which are worth seeing).
Dear Moralist:
My fiancée has in her living room a map of the world into which she presses push pins to indicate places she has visited. She then connects blue thread from these pins to the central pin, representing Minneapolis, where we reside. I recently noticed a pin in Tokyo, but know for a fact that she merely changed planes there. I'd be interested in your opinion.
Derek
Dear Derek:
There are two possibilities. The first is that the pins on your fiancée's map represent places where she has changed aircraft. The second is that your fiancée feels that visiting a place is synonymous with passing time in its airport. Confronting your fiancée may cause her to remove the map, which could be detrimental should you move into her home after marriage and find yourself lamenting its absence.
Dear Moralist:
When we travel abroad, my husband insists on looking like a grub. He wears dirty, tacky clothing, shaves in a sloppy manner or not at all, etc. I believe we are ambassadors for our country and our appearance should reflect that.
Sylvia
Dear Sylvia:
No, your husband is not an ambassador unless he happens to have donated a substantial sum to the American political party in power and to have been rewarded with a sinecure which, I'll grant you, does require shaving and a clean shirt. Ask yourself if your husband will ever again see any of the people you meet oversees. The answer, in the case of a train conductor in Hyderabad, is "probably not." Essentially, it doesn't matter how we Americans are seen by others. They still all want to be us whether we have gravy stains on our trousers or not. Our personal grooming and appearance are irrelevant except in the following locations: the entire nation of France, London, Gloucestershire, Oxfordshire, and the north-east quadrant of Sardinia (between July 1st and September 15th).
When we travel through Asia, my wife insists on leaving the mosquitoes she has killed squashed against her face as a badge of honor. There is frequently blood, never mind the splayed body of the mosquito. I carry moist towlettes for the express purpose of removing such insects, but she refuses to use them. Your thoughts?
Greg
Dear Greg:
I understand your feelings, but Asia is an exasperating continent and often taking the life of a bug proves to be the sole satisfaction of one's day; it's natural to want to gloat. I also believe moist towlettes can be put to better use and as for the blood that mars your wife's face, it is most likely her own.
Dear Moralist:
Why is England so expensive?
Mark and Trudy
Dear Mark and Trudy:
Excellent question. The cost of things in England has astonished visitors for many decades. It's usually difficult to get the English to admit to their stratospheric prices as many have never left the island. Those who have mutter something about their nation being isolated, etc. When in Jolly Old, the only items I purchase are a Mason-Pearson brush and a jar of Tiptree jam. If embarking on a short stay, I bring food in my luggage. And I never, ever buy a grapefruit in England.
Dear Moralist:
During a five-week trip through Italy last summer, my husband refused to utter a single word of Italian. He would not even deign to say "grazie" to waiters, announcing, "If I do, I'll sound stupid."
Grace
Dear Grace:
No, your husband wouldn't have sounded stupid in Italian saying "thank you"; he sounds stupid in English saying that he would.
Dear Moralist:
My boyfriend is from New Hampshire and I never hear the end of it. He claims to hail from one of the "most important" states given that Dixville Notch is the first town in the nation to vote. Give me a break.
Sharon
Dear Sharon:
Yes, every four years during primary season we hear about the Sheraton-Wayfarer in Bedford and about the 23 votes cast in Dixville Notch. For those interested in New England, I recommend Maine.
Dear Moralist:
We live in Tucson, which, as you know, has its share of border strains. My husband has difficulty holding his liquor, never more so than last Thursday when I'm afraid he offended a Syrian couple by playfully recommending we solve our immigration problems by regularly mowing down with a machine gun all applicants for citizenship queuing outside the federal building.
Phyllis
Dear Phyllis:
Correct me if I'm wrong, but aren't most of Tucson's "border strains" Mexican in nature? Nor do you explain the presence of your Syrian friends in Arizona (a Fulbright perhaps?). Nonetheless, it's possible that amends are in order. May I suggest you make a "hajj" to their door bearing foods Syrians enjoy such as lamb and, I believe, stuffed grape leaves?
Dear Moralist:
My wife and I each hold Ph.D.s in art history from leading research universities and are somewhat prominent in the Manhattan art world. We recently joined a group of like-minded scholars on a three-week bicycle trip through the Netherlands. By the first afternoon, it was apparent that two scholars were pedalling exceedingly slowly. To wit, we lost sight of them for more than an hour and a half and when they finally appeared they were panting and wheezing. As a result of their tardiness, we missed seeing many precious Vermeers at the Mauritshuis in The Hague. The next morning, one of the scholars expired and the second accompanied his body back to Wisconsin. Nevertheless, we feel the tour operator should issue us a refund for that first catastrophic afternoon.
Paul
Dear Paul:
I agree. Sorry you missed those Vermeers: "Girl With A Pearl Earring" is a must (and I say that independent of the book and subsequent movie). Now that you're back in, presumably, New York, you can view three Vermeers at the Frick and five at the Met (two of which are worth seeing).
Dear Moralist:
My fiancée has in her living room a map of the world into which she presses push pins to indicate places she has visited. She then connects blue thread from these pins to the central pin, representing Minneapolis, where we reside. I recently noticed a pin in Tokyo, but know for a fact that she merely changed planes there. I'd be interested in your opinion.
Derek
Dear Derek:
There are two possibilities. The first is that the pins on your fiancée's map represent places where she has changed aircraft. The second is that your fiancée feels that visiting a place is synonymous with passing time in its airport. Confronting your fiancée may cause her to remove the map, which could be detrimental should you move into her home after marriage and find yourself lamenting its absence.
Dear Moralist:
When we travel abroad, my husband insists on looking like a grub. He wears dirty, tacky clothing, shaves in a sloppy manner or not at all, etc. I believe we are ambassadors for our country and our appearance should reflect that.
Sylvia
Dear Sylvia:
No, your husband is not an ambassador unless he happens to have donated a substantial sum to the American political party in power and to have been rewarded with a sinecure which, I'll grant you, does require shaving and a clean shirt. Ask yourself if your husband will ever again see any of the people you meet oversees. The answer, in the case of a train conductor in Hyderabad, is "probably not." Essentially, it doesn't matter how we Americans are seen by others. They still all want to be us whether we have gravy stains on our trousers or not. Our personal grooming and appearance are irrelevant except in the following locations: the entire nation of France, London, Gloucestershire, Oxfordshire, and the north-east quadrant of Sardinia (between July 1st and September 15th).
Wednesday, 4 November 2009
Early Action
One good thing about professionally tutoring students for the SAT in the Midwest is that no one asks if I was admitted Early Action (no) to a school like Stanford (no). Queries from parents here tend to be along the lines of, "Did you yourself graduate from an accredited four-year institution?" (Yes.)
I am a statuesque redhead in her early 30s with stunning blue eyes and a supple (possible SAT word) and lithe (probable SAT word) body. A delicate tracery of veins shows through my nearly translucent skin, particularly around my neck and upper chest when aroused: a veritable road map of desire.
Jeremy was my first tutee. A tall, well-built high school junior, with tufts of dark hair peeking through the collar of his Pendleton work shirt, he hoped to attend Carleton. We initiated our sessions in the Berkowitz living room, but soon moved to Jeremy's bedroom for reasons of enhanced lighting and space.
One day after running through a few rudimentary vocabulary warm-ups, he confided that he felt a special connection to me. I was standing near his bedroom window, autumnal light silhouetting my leggy physique, a slightly too-short kilt encasing my girlish waist. "How," I asked, "do you explain this affinity? (definite SAT word)" "I think it's because you're Jewish." I stared at him. He clarified: "You know, Stanley Kaplan." I laughed and moistened my index finger in the corner of my mouth like a sweat-slaked Burmese maiden tentatively tasting her first dew-drenched sugar-cane shoot. "Oh, Jeremy, I'm not Jewish; Kaplan is just the organization for which I work."
"Still," he said and looked down, his full eyelashes accentuating the vulpine shape of his eyes. "Jeremy," I whispered, "have I hurt or confused you in any way?" I placed my hands at the base of his broad neck and began to slowly rotate my thumbs in a circular motion in order to alleviate any tension I may have spawned in my young charge.
I continued to comfort him while inhaling his scent of rain-washed grapes and purring softly that I felt sure his chances of admission to Carleton were rock solid. "Let's continue our drill," I coaxed, "write the following words as I dictate: prowess, glisten, hilt, stimulate, nexus."
I noticed Jeremy's pencil trembling as he turned and gazed up at me. I looked down at him and parted my lips, emphasizing a prominent overbite which has led many to mistakenly think me French: "Yes?" "I'm not sure," he confessed, "of the difference between prostate and prostrate." "Jeremy," I offered, "why don't you lie on the floor and I'll show you."
Eddie Phillips had a wrestler's torso: taut and muscular with what I can only call torque. His weakness was math and my weakness was allowing him to see me in an angora sweater my second husband claimed should be registered as a weapon. That Tuesday in November, I was extremely tired: stifling yawns and stretching my arms in such a manner as to arch my back and make evident my fatigue. "You seem exhausted," Eddie said. "Concentrate on your rigid protractor, Eddie." "I like your sweater."
"Eddie," I asked, "do you know what will soon be long and hard?" He stared at me, the downy hairs on his forearms glinting in the glow of his desk lamp. I answered my own question: "The math section of the SAT if you don't focus."
"I'm having trouble finding the hypotenuse," he explained. "Many do," I responded, tossing my coppery coils like a young lioness surprised in the midst of a morning bath by a stealthy intruder. "Shall I help you?" "Please," he said in a throaty rasp.
"If you want to measure the hypotenuse, there's a little trick they taught me at Princeton." "You went to Princeton?" he asked incredulously. "No, silly," I said as I ran my finger from his clavicle to the base of his sternum (two probable SAT words), "Princeton Review: my previous employer." "All you have to do," I explained, as I lifted a sheet of paper from his work surface and wetted its very tip with the edge of my tongue, "is take your test booklet and use it as a strong, straight edge to measure all sides of a given triangle."
He gaped at me, his eyes coming to rest in a field on angora. "It's a shortcut, Eddie. Not strictly legal, but certainly...admissable. Let's just call it a lesser sin."
"I'm not sure I get it," he replied. "Remember, I'm not good in math." I yawned again with the concomitant arching of my back. "It's all in the angles." He looked confused. "Proportions, Eddie, proportions. If one side of a right-angled triangle is six inches, and another is eight, then my question for you, mister," I said as I breathed damply against his freshly-shaven cheek, "is how long is your hypotenuse?" His eyes grew wide, as if in awe of his answer: "The length of my hypotenuse is ten inches."
I am a statuesque redhead in her early 30s with stunning blue eyes and a supple (possible SAT word) and lithe (probable SAT word) body. A delicate tracery of veins shows through my nearly translucent skin, particularly around my neck and upper chest when aroused: a veritable road map of desire.
Jeremy was my first tutee. A tall, well-built high school junior, with tufts of dark hair peeking through the collar of his Pendleton work shirt, he hoped to attend Carleton. We initiated our sessions in the Berkowitz living room, but soon moved to Jeremy's bedroom for reasons of enhanced lighting and space.
One day after running through a few rudimentary vocabulary warm-ups, he confided that he felt a special connection to me. I was standing near his bedroom window, autumnal light silhouetting my leggy physique, a slightly too-short kilt encasing my girlish waist. "How," I asked, "do you explain this affinity? (definite SAT word)" "I think it's because you're Jewish." I stared at him. He clarified: "You know, Stanley Kaplan." I laughed and moistened my index finger in the corner of my mouth like a sweat-slaked Burmese maiden tentatively tasting her first dew-drenched sugar-cane shoot. "Oh, Jeremy, I'm not Jewish; Kaplan is just the organization for which I work."
"Still," he said and looked down, his full eyelashes accentuating the vulpine shape of his eyes. "Jeremy," I whispered, "have I hurt or confused you in any way?" I placed my hands at the base of his broad neck and began to slowly rotate my thumbs in a circular motion in order to alleviate any tension I may have spawned in my young charge.
I continued to comfort him while inhaling his scent of rain-washed grapes and purring softly that I felt sure his chances of admission to Carleton were rock solid. "Let's continue our drill," I coaxed, "write the following words as I dictate: prowess, glisten, hilt, stimulate, nexus."
I noticed Jeremy's pencil trembling as he turned and gazed up at me. I looked down at him and parted my lips, emphasizing a prominent overbite which has led many to mistakenly think me French: "Yes?" "I'm not sure," he confessed, "of the difference between prostate and prostrate." "Jeremy," I offered, "why don't you lie on the floor and I'll show you."
Eddie Phillips had a wrestler's torso: taut and muscular with what I can only call torque. His weakness was math and my weakness was allowing him to see me in an angora sweater my second husband claimed should be registered as a weapon. That Tuesday in November, I was extremely tired: stifling yawns and stretching my arms in such a manner as to arch my back and make evident my fatigue. "You seem exhausted," Eddie said. "Concentrate on your rigid protractor, Eddie." "I like your sweater."
"Eddie," I asked, "do you know what will soon be long and hard?" He stared at me, the downy hairs on his forearms glinting in the glow of his desk lamp. I answered my own question: "The math section of the SAT if you don't focus."
"I'm having trouble finding the hypotenuse," he explained. "Many do," I responded, tossing my coppery coils like a young lioness surprised in the midst of a morning bath by a stealthy intruder. "Shall I help you?" "Please," he said in a throaty rasp.
"If you want to measure the hypotenuse, there's a little trick they taught me at Princeton." "You went to Princeton?" he asked incredulously. "No, silly," I said as I ran my finger from his clavicle to the base of his sternum (two probable SAT words), "Princeton Review: my previous employer." "All you have to do," I explained, as I lifted a sheet of paper from his work surface and wetted its very tip with the edge of my tongue, "is take your test booklet and use it as a strong, straight edge to measure all sides of a given triangle."
He gaped at me, his eyes coming to rest in a field on angora. "It's a shortcut, Eddie. Not strictly legal, but certainly...admissable. Let's just call it a lesser sin."
"I'm not sure I get it," he replied. "Remember, I'm not good in math." I yawned again with the concomitant arching of my back. "It's all in the angles." He looked confused. "Proportions, Eddie, proportions. If one side of a right-angled triangle is six inches, and another is eight, then my question for you, mister," I said as I breathed damply against his freshly-shaven cheek, "is how long is your hypotenuse?" His eyes grew wide, as if in awe of his answer: "The length of my hypotenuse is ten inches."
Monday, 2 November 2009
Situational Awareness
Those investigating why a Northwest Airlines flight overshot its destination by 150 miles and did not respond to radio calls from controllers were told by crew members that "they were in a heated discussion over airline policy and lost situational awareness"--The Times
It all started with my captain's name tag. "Good morning, Greg," I greeted him, "I'm First Officer today." "My name's not Greg," he responded. "This is someone else's name tag. Greg's." We then began earnestly to debate how mistakenly donning another pilot's name tag could affect airline operations, particularly since real-life Greg turned out to be an unusually inept union representative who had made a number of ill-advised concessions during recent negotiations.
Issues of identity preoccupied us as we took off from San Diego and I mentioned that I'd been reading some Nietzsche lately and had become interested in his philosophy of masks. I put the following question to my co-pilot, "Is it proper to 'put on a mask' for the purpose of your own entertainment?" "You misunderstood me," he replied, "I didn't want to assume Greg's persona. In fact, I loathe him for spinelessly capitulating to management." I clarified: "In 'Beyond Good and Evil,' Nietzsche writes, 'Every profound spirit needs a mask: even more, around every profound spirit a mask is continually growing, owing to the constantly false, namely shallow interpretation of every word, every step, every sign of life he gives.'" At this point, the captain began fooling around with a spare oxygen mask and I abandoned what I could see would be a fruitless discussion.
We flew in silence over the Arizona desert and I could tell he felt chastened. Finally, he burst out, "What do you want me to do? Stand in the corner?" I observed that there was no corner as the cockpit was spherical in shape, but told him that matters of perception and role-playing were of paramount importance. "All the world's a stage," I reminded him, which led to his confessing that he had always wanted to be an actor: "Like Leonardo DiCaprio. Wasn't he fantastic in 'Catch Me If You Can,' impersonating a pilot?" "Look," I noted casually, "the Rockies. You are, by the way, a certified pilot, right?" "Absolutely," he laughed, "14,000 hours in the air. But my true passion is cereal."
It emerged that my co-pilot had a vast collection of vintage cereal boxes with an emphasis on Kellogg's Snack Packs. I admitted I never bought these miniature offerings as I found them hideously expensive and did not like Apple Jacks, which seemed to be present in whatever medley I saw. "And another thing," I asked, "Can you truly perforate the box, add milk, and have the cardboard function as an actual bowl?" He told me he had no idea as he'd been reluctant to tamper with his collection and thereby damage its resale value.
"What sort of price would you place on your collection?" I asked. He appeared nonplussed: "Do you want to buy it?" "No," I told him, "I'm just interested in its value." His next comment led me to believe I'd underestimated him: "What is the true value of anything?" he sighed.
"Ah," I said, "the old conundrum: worth versus value. What is it Oscar Wilde said, 'A cynic knows the price of everything and the value of nothing'?" He responded: "Then Greg must be a cynic: he certainly didn't seem to know the value of our pensions." We had a good laugh over that as we passed over golden fields of corn.
Eventually, the captain began toying again with the spare oxygen mask. "Do you know what I'm doing?" he asked. "Annoying me?" "I'm doing connected breathing." "Is that so?" I remarked with disinterest. "Yes. I've completed my practitioner training." "Great," I replied, "and you are a certified pilot?""Hilary Swank was phenomenal as 'Amelia,'" he answered. "Right," I told him, "great at playing a pilot."
"I'm certified in rebirthing," he told me: "reliving the birth experience through connected breathing." "What's the point?" I asked. "To heal the trauma of one's own birth. Notice how I'm not pausing between inhale and exhale. This causes a build up of oxygen in the blood and a subsequent accumulation of prana or life energy."
"Prana," I ventured, "what is that? Hindi?" We began to talk about India and he corrected my pronunciation of the word "Himalayas." "I know it's singular," I said, "but it's like pronouncing the Cyclades kih-klah-dez: you feel like an asshole. Particularly if you haven't been to either place."
After a while, he inquired if I'd like to experience rebirthing. "What does that entail?" "Well," he explained, "breathing sessions are done lying down and usually last 1-2 hours." "We're due in Minneapolis in 80 minutes," I observed, "do you think we have time?" He thought for a moment: "Let me ring the stewardess for a pillow."
Thus it began: the most intense period I've spent on this earth. Or, actually, above it. It all flooded through me: my insecurity as a boy, my overbearing father, two years at a substandard military academy, a skein of intimacy issues with my first three wives....
I was sobbing, gasping for breath, shaken to my core. Tears streamed down my face like marbles and I was suddenly awash in metaphorical amniotic fluid, the crown of my head pressing out through my mother's pulsing pelvis, the bright lights of the OR and the kindly face of the attending doctor now visible as I heard the steady beat of my newborn heart amplified by his stethoscope. It was a rude jolt to realize this was, in fact, a flight attendant pounding on the cockpit door. "What is going on in there?" she demanded. "Glory of glories," I shouted in response as my eyes rolled back in my head, "I've arrived."
It all started with my captain's name tag. "Good morning, Greg," I greeted him, "I'm First Officer today." "My name's not Greg," he responded. "This is someone else's name tag. Greg's." We then began earnestly to debate how mistakenly donning another pilot's name tag could affect airline operations, particularly since real-life Greg turned out to be an unusually inept union representative who had made a number of ill-advised concessions during recent negotiations.
Issues of identity preoccupied us as we took off from San Diego and I mentioned that I'd been reading some Nietzsche lately and had become interested in his philosophy of masks. I put the following question to my co-pilot, "Is it proper to 'put on a mask' for the purpose of your own entertainment?" "You misunderstood me," he replied, "I didn't want to assume Greg's persona. In fact, I loathe him for spinelessly capitulating to management." I clarified: "In 'Beyond Good and Evil,' Nietzsche writes, 'Every profound spirit needs a mask: even more, around every profound spirit a mask is continually growing, owing to the constantly false, namely shallow interpretation of every word, every step, every sign of life he gives.'" At this point, the captain began fooling around with a spare oxygen mask and I abandoned what I could see would be a fruitless discussion.
We flew in silence over the Arizona desert and I could tell he felt chastened. Finally, he burst out, "What do you want me to do? Stand in the corner?" I observed that there was no corner as the cockpit was spherical in shape, but told him that matters of perception and role-playing were of paramount importance. "All the world's a stage," I reminded him, which led to his confessing that he had always wanted to be an actor: "Like Leonardo DiCaprio. Wasn't he fantastic in 'Catch Me If You Can,' impersonating a pilot?" "Look," I noted casually, "the Rockies. You are, by the way, a certified pilot, right?" "Absolutely," he laughed, "14,000 hours in the air. But my true passion is cereal."
It emerged that my co-pilot had a vast collection of vintage cereal boxes with an emphasis on Kellogg's Snack Packs. I admitted I never bought these miniature offerings as I found them hideously expensive and did not like Apple Jacks, which seemed to be present in whatever medley I saw. "And another thing," I asked, "Can you truly perforate the box, add milk, and have the cardboard function as an actual bowl?" He told me he had no idea as he'd been reluctant to tamper with his collection and thereby damage its resale value.
"What sort of price would you place on your collection?" I asked. He appeared nonplussed: "Do you want to buy it?" "No," I told him, "I'm just interested in its value." His next comment led me to believe I'd underestimated him: "What is the true value of anything?" he sighed.
"Ah," I said, "the old conundrum: worth versus value. What is it Oscar Wilde said, 'A cynic knows the price of everything and the value of nothing'?" He responded: "Then Greg must be a cynic: he certainly didn't seem to know the value of our pensions." We had a good laugh over that as we passed over golden fields of corn.
Eventually, the captain began toying again with the spare oxygen mask. "Do you know what I'm doing?" he asked. "Annoying me?" "I'm doing connected breathing." "Is that so?" I remarked with disinterest. "Yes. I've completed my practitioner training." "Great," I replied, "and you are a certified pilot?""Hilary Swank was phenomenal as 'Amelia,'" he answered. "Right," I told him, "great at playing a pilot."
"I'm certified in rebirthing," he told me: "reliving the birth experience through connected breathing." "What's the point?" I asked. "To heal the trauma of one's own birth. Notice how I'm not pausing between inhale and exhale. This causes a build up of oxygen in the blood and a subsequent accumulation of prana or life energy."
"Prana," I ventured, "what is that? Hindi?" We began to talk about India and he corrected my pronunciation of the word "Himalayas." "I know it's singular," I said, "but it's like pronouncing the Cyclades kih-klah-dez: you feel like an asshole. Particularly if you haven't been to either place."
After a while, he inquired if I'd like to experience rebirthing. "What does that entail?" "Well," he explained, "breathing sessions are done lying down and usually last 1-2 hours." "We're due in Minneapolis in 80 minutes," I observed, "do you think we have time?" He thought for a moment: "Let me ring the stewardess for a pillow."
Thus it began: the most intense period I've spent on this earth. Or, actually, above it. It all flooded through me: my insecurity as a boy, my overbearing father, two years at a substandard military academy, a skein of intimacy issues with my first three wives....
I was sobbing, gasping for breath, shaken to my core. Tears streamed down my face like marbles and I was suddenly awash in metaphorical amniotic fluid, the crown of my head pressing out through my mother's pulsing pelvis, the bright lights of the OR and the kindly face of the attending doctor now visible as I heard the steady beat of my newborn heart amplified by his stethoscope. It was a rude jolt to realize this was, in fact, a flight attendant pounding on the cockpit door. "What is going on in there?" she demanded. "Glory of glories," I shouted in response as my eyes rolled back in my head, "I've arrived."
Friday, 30 October 2009
Night at the Museum
Scene: Metropolitan Museum of Art, the Temple of Dendur
Vivian: Oh, my God, look who's at our table.
Frederick: Who? Who's at our table?
Vivian: Shh.
Frederick: Don't shush me, goddamnit.
Vivian: Smile.
Frederick: Why?
Vivian: Smile, goddamnit. Pia, how are you?
Pia: Vivian! What a surprise!
Frederick: Hello, Simon.
Simon: Frederick. Didn't expect to see you here.
Frederick: Why not?
Simon:: Um, I don't know. I heard you were....
Frederick: Dead?
Vivian: We're certainly not dead.
Simon: Pia and I are glad you're not dead. We're delighted.
Frederick: Thank you.
Pia: It's true.
Frederick: One rolls with the punches.
Simon: Absolutely.
Vivian: You know where we've spent the past two weeks? The Seychelles.
Pia: Isn't that where Eliot Spitzer went after...?
Simon: You're thinking of Thailand.
Vivian: We have two words for you: Cousine Island.
Simon: Private?
Frederick: Extremely.
Pia: I've heard of it. I do think Eliot Spitzer went.
Simon: He didn't.
Frederick: We didn't see him.
Pia: This was after.
Simon: Stop saying that. So, Frederick, any irons in the fire?
Frederick: Not really, no.
Simon: Good. Great. That's wonderful.
Pia: It is.
Vivian: It's terrific having Fred home.
Pia: I'll bet.
Vivian: The kids love it too.
Frederick: They're adjusting. We all are.
Vivian: What's to adjust to? We love having you around the house. He fixed an Imari vase the other morning.
Pia: Wow. I'm impressed.
Vivian: You know what we said to each other on Cousine Island? "Before we had everything money could buy. Now we have everything money can't buy."
Pia: Isn't Cousine Island...?
Vivian: What?
Pia: Costly?
Frederick: Christ, yes.
Vivian: Rates do include a complimentary foot and leg massage.
Pia: So didn't you "buy" Cousine Island?
Simon: They didn't buy it; they stayed two weeks.
Pia: Didn't the Cousine Island experience cost money?
Frederick: Christ, yes.
Simon: Vivian means time. Now they have time.
Pia: So you're selling the place in Connecticut?
Frederick: Yes.
Vivian: No.
(Extended silence)
Pia: Doesn't the Temple look nice?
Vivian: Yes.
Frederick: Very nice.
Simon: I just want to say, Frederick: We miss you at the firm.
Frederick: I miss you too.
Vivian: But he doesn't miss the firm.
Frederick: I do.
Vivian: You told me on Cousine Island that you didn't.
Frederick: I didn't miss it when I was on Cousine Island. I miss it now that I'm in Manhattan.
Pia: This lobster bisque is divine.
Frederick: I miss the comaraderie, the joking.
Simon: There's no joking now. It's a morgue.
Frederick: I even miss the wastebasket next to my desk.
Vivian: Frederick and I made jam yesterday.
Simon: Isn't that swell!
Frederick: She made it; I watched.
Vivian: We bought paraffin and wore aprons.
Pia: Wonderful! We all need projects.
Frederick: I don't like unemployment.
Simon: That's understandable.
Frederick: I loathe it. We have three kids at Dalton.
Pia: Wow.
Vivian: We're crazy about Dalton.
Frederick: I'm not; not anymore.
Vivian: You said you were crazy about it on Cousine Island.
Frederick: I was crazy about Cousine Island; not Dalton.
Pia: They both sound wonderful.
Frederick: They're both too expensive.
Vivian: Frederick, please.
Frederick: We shouldn't be eating this soup: it's too expensive.
Vivian: Shh.
Frederick: Do you know how much paraffin costs?
Simon: I really don't.
Frederick: It's exorbitant. I mean, what is it actually? It's wax for Christ's sake. Are candles expensive?
Pia: They can be.
Simon: Pia, please.
Frederick: I told Vivian: each jar of jam is going to end up costing fourteen dollars.
Vivian: Frederick, may I speak with you privately?
Frederick: That's all we do: speak privately. We don't see anyone. No one calls. We have the rest of our lives to speak privately.
Vivian: Let's start now. Excuse us please.
Frederick: I haven't finished my costly soup.
Simon: I've been meaning to call.
Frederick: I very much doubt it.
Simon: I think I did phone....
Frederick: Trust me, you didn't. I'd know: I'm always home.
(Extended silence)
Frederick: We bought tickets for this shindig last September. Tonight, I tried to scalp them.
Pia: You're too funny.
Frederick: I'm serious. In front of the Stanhope. I almost had a couple of takers, but they weren't in black tie.
Pia: Listen, if we can help....
Frederick: You want to put three kids through Dalton? Two of whom have low grades?
Vivian: I love our kids. They're wonderful.
Simon: Of course.
Vivian: They're...what was the word you used, Simon? They're...swell.
Pia: We're here for you.
Frederick: Are you offering to buy a jar of jam?
Pia: No, but if you're serious about the place in Connecticut....
Vivian: Oh, my God, look who's at our table.
Frederick: Who? Who's at our table?
Vivian: Shh.
Frederick: Don't shush me, goddamnit.
Vivian: Smile.
Frederick: Why?
Vivian: Smile, goddamnit. Pia, how are you?
Pia: Vivian! What a surprise!
Frederick: Hello, Simon.
Simon: Frederick. Didn't expect to see you here.
Frederick: Why not?
Simon:: Um, I don't know. I heard you were....
Frederick: Dead?
Vivian: We're certainly not dead.
Simon: Pia and I are glad you're not dead. We're delighted.
Frederick: Thank you.
Pia: It's true.
Frederick: One rolls with the punches.
Simon: Absolutely.
Vivian: You know where we've spent the past two weeks? The Seychelles.
Pia: Isn't that where Eliot Spitzer went after...?
Simon: You're thinking of Thailand.
Vivian: We have two words for you: Cousine Island.
Simon: Private?
Frederick: Extremely.
Pia: I've heard of it. I do think Eliot Spitzer went.
Simon: He didn't.
Frederick: We didn't see him.
Pia: This was after.
Simon: Stop saying that. So, Frederick, any irons in the fire?
Frederick: Not really, no.
Simon: Good. Great. That's wonderful.
Pia: It is.
Vivian: It's terrific having Fred home.
Pia: I'll bet.
Vivian: The kids love it too.
Frederick: They're adjusting. We all are.
Vivian: What's to adjust to? We love having you around the house. He fixed an Imari vase the other morning.
Pia: Wow. I'm impressed.
Vivian: You know what we said to each other on Cousine Island? "Before we had everything money could buy. Now we have everything money can't buy."
Pia: Isn't Cousine Island...?
Vivian: What?
Pia: Costly?
Frederick: Christ, yes.
Vivian: Rates do include a complimentary foot and leg massage.
Pia: So didn't you "buy" Cousine Island?
Simon: They didn't buy it; they stayed two weeks.
Pia: Didn't the Cousine Island experience cost money?
Frederick: Christ, yes.
Simon: Vivian means time. Now they have time.
Pia: So you're selling the place in Connecticut?
Frederick: Yes.
Vivian: No.
(Extended silence)
Pia: Doesn't the Temple look nice?
Vivian: Yes.
Frederick: Very nice.
Simon: I just want to say, Frederick: We miss you at the firm.
Frederick: I miss you too.
Vivian: But he doesn't miss the firm.
Frederick: I do.
Vivian: You told me on Cousine Island that you didn't.
Frederick: I didn't miss it when I was on Cousine Island. I miss it now that I'm in Manhattan.
Pia: This lobster bisque is divine.
Frederick: I miss the comaraderie, the joking.
Simon: There's no joking now. It's a morgue.
Frederick: I even miss the wastebasket next to my desk.
Vivian: Frederick and I made jam yesterday.
Simon: Isn't that swell!
Frederick: She made it; I watched.
Vivian: We bought paraffin and wore aprons.
Pia: Wonderful! We all need projects.
Frederick: I don't like unemployment.
Simon: That's understandable.
Frederick: I loathe it. We have three kids at Dalton.
Pia: Wow.
Vivian: We're crazy about Dalton.
Frederick: I'm not; not anymore.
Vivian: You said you were crazy about it on Cousine Island.
Frederick: I was crazy about Cousine Island; not Dalton.
Pia: They both sound wonderful.
Frederick: They're both too expensive.
Vivian: Frederick, please.
Frederick: We shouldn't be eating this soup: it's too expensive.
Vivian: Shh.
Frederick: Do you know how much paraffin costs?
Simon: I really don't.
Frederick: It's exorbitant. I mean, what is it actually? It's wax for Christ's sake. Are candles expensive?
Pia: They can be.
Simon: Pia, please.
Frederick: I told Vivian: each jar of jam is going to end up costing fourteen dollars.
Vivian: Frederick, may I speak with you privately?
Frederick: That's all we do: speak privately. We don't see anyone. No one calls. We have the rest of our lives to speak privately.
Vivian: Let's start now. Excuse us please.
Frederick: I haven't finished my costly soup.
Simon: I've been meaning to call.
Frederick: I very much doubt it.
Simon: I think I did phone....
Frederick: Trust me, you didn't. I'd know: I'm always home.
(Extended silence)
Frederick: We bought tickets for this shindig last September. Tonight, I tried to scalp them.
Pia: You're too funny.
Frederick: I'm serious. In front of the Stanhope. I almost had a couple of takers, but they weren't in black tie.
Pia: Listen, if we can help....
Frederick: You want to put three kids through Dalton? Two of whom have low grades?
Vivian: I love our kids. They're wonderful.
Simon: Of course.
Vivian: They're...what was the word you used, Simon? They're...swell.
Pia: We're here for you.
Frederick: Are you offering to buy a jar of jam?
Pia: No, but if you're serious about the place in Connecticut....
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