A friend was telling me about the uplifting new documentary he's just seen. (Don't worry; this is not an ''up with people'' post. The words ''uplifting'' and ''documentary'' make my own lip curl in ordinary, healthy response, too.) Anyway, this documentary is called "Young at Heart", and it's about a band of seniors who tour the country, playing instruments and singing. I think they perform at rest homes, hospitals, churches; the usual B-list venues. So far, so good. I think plucky, I think defiant, I think, ''do not go softly into that good night". I feel indulgent towards them, maternal. I even feel a delicious poignant twinge at the inevitable loss of a few founding members, mid season. (Guess they were off to their own final tour.)
I wish them well, that is, until I learn their repertoire. Turns out that this band of graying oldsters have been straying from what I'd call an acceptable song list, to cover hits from such bands as Sonic Youth, The Clash, and Talking Heads. Say what? How do they even know this music? Is this some bizarre payback for listening to their own children blasting A sides through the stereo?
Granted, these bands were around long before the advent of ipods, but still--aren't these old people we're talking about? Gray haired, out of the loop, clinging charmingly to a long decayed youth? Shouldn't they be reminiscing about Big Band tunes? Reliving the glory days of the USO? I'm talking ''Soldier Boy", not ''Soulja Boy'', you know? I mean, they can have Barry Manilow and Air Supply. Maybe even Foreigner, if pressed. But--The Clash? Talking Heads? What's next? Janet Jacskon? Ben Folds Five?
It's not cute anymore, now that the old are encroaching on my turf. It means, uncomfortably, that I am encroaching on theirs. And I don't like that. It gives me that same spasm of fear I feel when I see parachute pants referred to as ''vintage''. I mean, I joke that the musack wafting through the halls of our nation's rest homes will one day be instrumental gansta rap. One day. A long time from now. The thought makes me snicker. But humor is distance, and the Young at Heart are shuffling awfully, uncomfortably, close.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Short Bus Blues
I was on the bus yesterday when the driver publicly shamed another rider. This was before we started moving, we had a couple of minutes yet, and the driver had stepped out of his seat to stretch. He noticed a girl sitting across from me on the partially filled bus, toward the back, listening to her headphones. Her feet were comfortably tucked up on the seat beside her. "Ma'am, could you come down here?" he called. The girl and I looked at each other. What did he want? For a fleeting moment, I felt disappointed that he hadn't chosen me. "I'm a good girl too," I thought; "I can help the driver!"
When the girl reached him, the driver pointed to a large sign taped to the wall by the door. "Read that aloud," he said. "This bus stops only at designated stops?" she asked. "The other one," he said, looking away. She read dutifully. "No food, no drink, no...feet on the seats. Oh. Sorry." The driver said nothing, waiting, I suppose, for the girl to consider her sin. She stood there for a moment, then returned to her seat, somehow diminished. This time she kept her feet pressed primly together on the floor. The driver lumbered back to his own seat, back straight, chin up, looking grim. The other riders pretended not to notice. I was embarrassed for us all.
That driver did other things right. He made the bus "kneel" so that I could load my bike on the rack more easily. When he drove, he didn't tailgate, or gun through yellow lights. Still. There had to be a better way of getting his point across, something gentler than this public calling out. He was puffed up with his own integrity, and it was so off-putting. It didn't make me want to do the right thing. It made me want to put my own feet on the seat, for spite. "What's more important, fatso," I taunted silently; "being right, or being kind?"
I spent the rest of the ride imagining the dressing down I could give him, had I balls enough, and the appropriate props. I'd wait til he brought the bus to a full and complete stop. Then, "Sir, could you come here, please?" I'd ask. I'd pull a handy poster of the Food Pyramid out of my backpack, and ask him how many servings of DingDongs and Hostess cupcakes he'd indulged in that day. "Just because it's at the top of the pyramid," I'd lecture sternly, "doesn't mean you should eat more of it." The driver would nod, stunned at my tough love revelation, shamed before the public congregation in their seats. "Now, go, and drive, and sin no more," I'd say. How smug that would make me feel. How good.
When the girl reached him, the driver pointed to a large sign taped to the wall by the door. "Read that aloud," he said. "This bus stops only at designated stops?" she asked. "The other one," he said, looking away. She read dutifully. "No food, no drink, no...feet on the seats. Oh. Sorry." The driver said nothing, waiting, I suppose, for the girl to consider her sin. She stood there for a moment, then returned to her seat, somehow diminished. This time she kept her feet pressed primly together on the floor. The driver lumbered back to his own seat, back straight, chin up, looking grim. The other riders pretended not to notice. I was embarrassed for us all.
That driver did other things right. He made the bus "kneel" so that I could load my bike on the rack more easily. When he drove, he didn't tailgate, or gun through yellow lights. Still. There had to be a better way of getting his point across, something gentler than this public calling out. He was puffed up with his own integrity, and it was so off-putting. It didn't make me want to do the right thing. It made me want to put my own feet on the seat, for spite. "What's more important, fatso," I taunted silently; "being right, or being kind?"
I spent the rest of the ride imagining the dressing down I could give him, had I balls enough, and the appropriate props. I'd wait til he brought the bus to a full and complete stop. Then, "Sir, could you come here, please?" I'd ask. I'd pull a handy poster of the Food Pyramid out of my backpack, and ask him how many servings of DingDongs and Hostess cupcakes he'd indulged in that day. "Just because it's at the top of the pyramid," I'd lecture sternly, "doesn't mean you should eat more of it." The driver would nod, stunned at my tough love revelation, shamed before the public congregation in their seats. "Now, go, and drive, and sin no more," I'd say. How smug that would make me feel. How good.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Spin Cycle
I bought a couple of new printer cartridges the other day. My husband asked me if the office supply store recycles the used ones. "Sure they do," I said. "They take them to the special dumpster out back." Pardon the cynicism. I'm fresh from a recent disappointment involving plastics.
For a short, blissful while, it had seemed that our local grocery store was expanding its already admirable recycling program to include, my husband whispered in awe--every kind of plastic. I tried hard to picture it; plastic wrap, shampoo bottles, plastic clam shells, soft plastic, bendable plastic, the hard plastic husks of the endless yogurts I consume--all, regardless of number and chemical composition, jumbled into one happy mass and trundled off merrily to Oz (or in this case, an uber recycling center, somewhere in Atlanta).
Needless to say, I was skeptical. "Who sorts it out?" I asked, picturing a gang of miminum wage workers in hazmat suits, burrowing through furry mounds of Numbers 1, 3, and 7. But my husband didn't have any details. He was too giddy at the thought of reducing our already minimal waste. "Between this and the composting," he crowed, "we'll be down to two small bags a month!"
He designated a special (plastic) tub for the offerings and, when it was full, we made a ceremonial trip to the grocery store. And indeed, there, just outside the airlock, like a line of small altars before the temple, stood the bins. One for paper, one for clear glass, one for batteries; one for, incredibly, all plastics. Unbelieving, I stuffed a plastic grocery sack full of Saran Wrap, plastic clamshells, frozen food containers, and baggies into its welcoming maw.
Alas, our bliss was short-lived. A few weeks later my husband told me, crestfallen, that the store was ending its plastic recycling program. Turns out that the loaded 18 wheeler wasn't going all the way to the Wizard, but veering left into a landfill near the palace. Just as I'd suspected. Apparently it was a case of mis-communication and not outright fraud. Someone had thought, and someone had claimed, and someone had wanted so badly to believe....I'm glad my own skeptic's-radar is sharp. Still, it's been a disappointment.
I'm off to the office supply store, now, with my used printer cartridges. I choose to believe that the store refills, or reuses, or recycles them. That excessive plastic packaging? I'm on my own.
For a short, blissful while, it had seemed that our local grocery store was expanding its already admirable recycling program to include, my husband whispered in awe--every kind of plastic. I tried hard to picture it; plastic wrap, shampoo bottles, plastic clam shells, soft plastic, bendable plastic, the hard plastic husks of the endless yogurts I consume--all, regardless of number and chemical composition, jumbled into one happy mass and trundled off merrily to Oz (or in this case, an uber recycling center, somewhere in Atlanta).
Needless to say, I was skeptical. "Who sorts it out?" I asked, picturing a gang of miminum wage workers in hazmat suits, burrowing through furry mounds of Numbers 1, 3, and 7. But my husband didn't have any details. He was too giddy at the thought of reducing our already minimal waste. "Between this and the composting," he crowed, "we'll be down to two small bags a month!"
He designated a special (plastic) tub for the offerings and, when it was full, we made a ceremonial trip to the grocery store. And indeed, there, just outside the airlock, like a line of small altars before the temple, stood the bins. One for paper, one for clear glass, one for batteries; one for, incredibly, all plastics. Unbelieving, I stuffed a plastic grocery sack full of Saran Wrap, plastic clamshells, frozen food containers, and baggies into its welcoming maw.
Alas, our bliss was short-lived. A few weeks later my husband told me, crestfallen, that the store was ending its plastic recycling program. Turns out that the loaded 18 wheeler wasn't going all the way to the Wizard, but veering left into a landfill near the palace. Just as I'd suspected. Apparently it was a case of mis-communication and not outright fraud. Someone had thought, and someone had claimed, and someone had wanted so badly to believe....I'm glad my own skeptic's-radar is sharp. Still, it's been a disappointment.
I'm off to the office supply store, now, with my used printer cartridges. I choose to believe that the store refills, or reuses, or recycles them. That excessive plastic packaging? I'm on my own.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Dwelling Place
The damp gray days of November make me appreciate my snug little house, the cozy place where I am grateful to dwell. That word, "dwell", is delicious. It evokes images of fairytale cottages with golden lit windows, and the smell of warm bread, and a hearth. Home. It makes me feel secure, and deeply content, the way the cat looks when she's burrowed into a pile of my wool sweaters on a narrow shelf in the closet. It's a good word, even if it is sometimes co-opted by the upscale housing market, and furniture-lifestyle stores like Domicile (which I like to pronounce Italian style, for maximum snootiness).
You don't need money to dwell. You don't need 900 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets and handplucked eiderdown comforters. It is entirely possible to dwell in a trailer, or a cabin, or a yurt furnished with castoffs from Goodwill. It is impossible to dwell in anything furnished with molded plastic. (Thus my dismay with Dwell the magazine, a publication concerning itself with mid-century modern architecture, a style which leaves me cold as one of Harlow's monkeys).
I've always been sensitive to my living space. Once upon a time I lived in the second ugliest house in Raleigh. It was just up the street from the first place winner, a lopsided shack down at the bottom of the hill, where the rainwater festered and pooled. Its original shoebox shape had been accessorized by small, alarming protrusions emerging from random walls like warts; thin, chopstick-like stilts propped up a sagging second-floor porch, shingles peeled like sunburned skin from an uneven roof, and the small, overgrown front yard was graced with a toilet in lieu of a birdbath. The sort of house that made me wonder, uneasily, if my tetanus shot was up to date.
But my own house was ugly enough. It had the usual quota of cockroach infested cupboards, cracked linoleum, and well-intentioned but amateurish "improvements", like an enclosed porch that turned the back bedroom into an airless tomb, and a paneled garage-office carpeted with what looked and felt like putt-putt turf and smelled urgently of mold. And it had mean little windows, divided just at eye level by a thick horizontal bar, the kind of window that slants open mere inches, and begrudgingly, as though reluctant to permit the release of any stale air. I slept in this house. I paid rent for the privilege. But I did not dwell there.
My little house now is small, and snug. It has high ceilings and big windows. It looks out, this time of year, on brown trunks and yellow leaves. It's furnished, as are most people's houses, with a mix of the worn and new. It is not magazine ready. Let's hold off on the photo shoot. But it is home, and it is where I dwell.
You don't need money to dwell. You don't need 900 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets and handplucked eiderdown comforters. It is entirely possible to dwell in a trailer, or a cabin, or a yurt furnished with castoffs from Goodwill. It is impossible to dwell in anything furnished with molded plastic. (Thus my dismay with Dwell the magazine, a publication concerning itself with mid-century modern architecture, a style which leaves me cold as one of Harlow's monkeys).
I've always been sensitive to my living space. Once upon a time I lived in the second ugliest house in Raleigh. It was just up the street from the first place winner, a lopsided shack down at the bottom of the hill, where the rainwater festered and pooled. Its original shoebox shape had been accessorized by small, alarming protrusions emerging from random walls like warts; thin, chopstick-like stilts propped up a sagging second-floor porch, shingles peeled like sunburned skin from an uneven roof, and the small, overgrown front yard was graced with a toilet in lieu of a birdbath. The sort of house that made me wonder, uneasily, if my tetanus shot was up to date.
But my own house was ugly enough. It had the usual quota of cockroach infested cupboards, cracked linoleum, and well-intentioned but amateurish "improvements", like an enclosed porch that turned the back bedroom into an airless tomb, and a paneled garage-office carpeted with what looked and felt like putt-putt turf and smelled urgently of mold. And it had mean little windows, divided just at eye level by a thick horizontal bar, the kind of window that slants open mere inches, and begrudgingly, as though reluctant to permit the release of any stale air. I slept in this house. I paid rent for the privilege. But I did not dwell there.
My little house now is small, and snug. It has high ceilings and big windows. It looks out, this time of year, on brown trunks and yellow leaves. It's furnished, as are most people's houses, with a mix of the worn and new. It is not magazine ready. Let's hold off on the photo shoot. But it is home, and it is where I dwell.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Submission
I sent out a piece of flash fiction yesterday, to 8 different journals, some of whom warn, ''we do not accept simultaneous submissions.'' Uh huh. You know, I used to take that admonition seriously. I used to send my little pieces out to one journal at a time, then wait, patient as a maiden in a fairytale, for 3 to 6 months, until the mailman delivered my own self-addressed envelope back to me, with an anonymous, typewritten rejection inside. Such fun. Kind of like getting dressed up and asking someone to dance, and standing there just shivering with anticipation, awaiting their reply. And that person responding with a scripted ''no'', not even something personalized, just a vague, ''you do not meet my needs,'' or, ''best of luck finding a dance partner elsewhere!" That's a real confidence boost, let me tell you.
I've long since decided that it's much more fun to blitz-submit, and then write condolence notes to the losers. As in, ''Dear Editor of minor, shoestring journal X, I am withdrawing my submission of 'Fantastic Essay Y', as it has been accepted for publication in Prestigious Journal Z'. Best of luck meeting my needs better, next time!"
And what's with this word ''submission'', anyway? It's so craven. So weak. I much prefer the word ''launch''. As in, ''watch out world; I'm launching this baby!'' There's energy to that, and confidence. And, yeah, it might be a NASA launch (meaning, it might not make it into orbit), but it's just so much easier to consider a new launch, rather than a new submission, now isn't it? With that in mind, I've got some more launches to plan.
I've long since decided that it's much more fun to blitz-submit, and then write condolence notes to the losers. As in, ''Dear Editor of minor, shoestring journal X, I am withdrawing my submission of 'Fantastic Essay Y', as it has been accepted for publication in Prestigious Journal Z'. Best of luck meeting my needs better, next time!"
And what's with this word ''submission'', anyway? It's so craven. So weak. I much prefer the word ''launch''. As in, ''watch out world; I'm launching this baby!'' There's energy to that, and confidence. And, yeah, it might be a NASA launch (meaning, it might not make it into orbit), but it's just so much easier to consider a new launch, rather than a new submission, now isn't it? With that in mind, I've got some more launches to plan.
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