February 28, 2006
Does anyone remember how this is done? I seem to remember using these things all the time . . . but they seem counter-intuitive now.
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10:31 PM
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Show of hands, please.
(Dear Mom:
Stand down. You're an athiest, remember? It oughtn't to matter at all what I do in this regard. Not that I'm defensive, although I'm aware that I've disappointed you deeply by not joining the Church of There Isn't Anything.
Please know that I respect the spiritual traditons of No, No God Anywhere, Nosirree Bob.
Have you heard the one about the First Unitarian Church of Kensington?)
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10:22 PM
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Turns out the way to write about a road trip is under stress and on the fly.
If today's the last day for a while, Harrell, you'd better make it good.
UPDATE: "You didn't tell me you were going to kill it!"
Silly me, thinking The Shape of Days would stay on the web, and simply not be updated. Oh, well. If you didn't read my link this morning, you're SOL. We can only hope you-know-who resurfaces someday, with more verbal crack.
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11:25 AM
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We got rid of slavery in the 19th Century; I wonder if the Middle East will manage it in the 21st. If so, it will be just as bloody a process.
The way a country treats women often tells you all you need to know about it: beyond that, the news rarely gets any better.
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01:35 AM
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01:27 AM
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Well, once in a while I go outside and this stuff is like, everywhere. So I figure the sprinkler's broken and I should talk to the gardener so it will get fixed.
But then I get into my car, and it's like everyone's sprinklers are broken. I mean, the plant-food stuff is all over the place. Just rampant.
I mean, it's on the streets. In vacant lots. Like it's just coming out of the sky or something. The kooky thing is, it tends to get cold when this happens.
I'm afraid the gardener is going to charge us extra again to fix it, like he did last year. I'm not sure how he manages to fix all the neighborhood sprinklers at once, but he always manages to get it done sooner or later.
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01:24 AM
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(Via Insty.)
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12:55 AM
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February 27, 2006
His most recent pitch was not 100% successful, since the girl—an Israeli—turned out to already have a boyfriend. Nonetheless, he liked her, and became friends with both her and the guy—who is also Israeli.
And now these two need help with a marketing piece, which already exists in Hebrew.
"She can send it to me in Hebrew," I tell him. "But it'll cost her more, since before I even start editing it I'll have to get Mr. Linguistics to translate it. Fortunately, I know he'll do it for a bottle of premium vodka, so I'll just add that cost to their bill."
"Okay, then," he replies. "I'll give her your number, and you can all work it out. Just one thing."
"Yeah?" I'm getting impatient, of course, as he pauses. And then:
"Don't let them Jew you down on the price."
Now if a fellow Anglo-Saxon had said such a thing, I'd probably be furious—depending on how they meant it. But I busted up.
Context is everything, no?
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05:25 PM
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Though I must say my reaction to the idea of barring gays, bisexuals, TS's, etc from adoption was that it truly was "homophobic."
Still, Jeff has a point: debate the thing on its merits. Engage.
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03:23 PM
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And the tenor of the sexy dreams has changed so much that I wonder if the alterations in my hormonal cocktail, post-40, have some bearing. In particular, I wonder whether my testosterone levels are going up. As a chick I associate estrogen low points with bitchiness and the desire to snipe at those around me. Sex is usually the farthest thing from my mind at such times.
Then the estrogen comes back, life is beautiful, and I have that "happy, horny" week.
With Prozac in the mix I can weather that estrogen drop a bit better. But there are moments that I'm convinced my dreams are giving me a vision of a more masculine sexual drive than I ever had when I was young. As a kid (teens, 20s, 30s) my sex dreams featured individuals. Now there are, um, more individuals. And not all have such distinct faces, characters, and identities. They feel like the dreams of a 17-year-old boy.
And I know hormonal interactions are a lot more complicated than estrogen vs. testosterone, but I slept late that week in physiology class, so I don't remember them all and I'm operating on yin-yang caricatures.
Still: a friend of mine had a daughter who went through a gender-identity crisis, and eventually elected to become a man. As she started the testosterone shots, she—he—called dad up to say, "I had no idea what you've been coping with all these years. I am unbelievably horny and restless."
Bottom line: by the time I'm done with menopause, my male characters will be the envy of my writer's group.
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02:37 PM
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February 26, 2006
Naturally, when Jayson Blair was exposed, it renewed interest in the Stephen Glass saga because of the overlap in the two situations.
Overall, it was very nicely done. Naturally, I was torn up to watch Michael Kelly portrayed on film; afterward, the husband and I started swapping quotes from our favorite Michael Kelly columns (his: the parody of Al Gore's childhood, spent splitting rails in the farm on the top floor of a five-star hotel in Washington, D.C.; mine: the piece about the chilling effect the Bush Administration was having on free speech, that ends up as a laundry list of political voices in this country—from mainstream papers through niche publications and on down to the blogs that were just becoming popular at that time).
This flick explains how Hayden Christensen ended up playing Darth Vader. Not very well, of course: it's like getting the guy who portrayed a terrific Judas taking on the part of Satan. Wrong freakin' fall from grace, guys. For the Star Wars prequels, more of an epic feel was needed. (Although with Lucas' dialogue, it might not have made much of a difference to get the right actor in that role: it was sort of Dick and Jane in the Eternal Struggle Between Good and Evil. Not that there's anything wrong with that.)
But, Shattered Glass. Depressing, of course, on a certain level. There are magazines I worked at where one might be able to get by with some fabrication (though perhaps not the level Glass managed), and magazines where one definitely couldn't. Hint: the process is more rigorous at publications that have research departments, versus those that simply direct the copy editors to work overtime, verifying the spellings of proper nouns and checking on people's titles.
I've worked at magazines wherein the only things that really got checked were the sidebars that had contact information for companies and organizations. After all, it's important that advertisers be able to sell things to the readers. Who do you think pays for all those glossy pictures? And that (usually crappy) coated stock they're printed on? Four-color photography doesn't grow on trees, you know. (At least, it didn't before the internet became ubiquitous.)
Can't we all just be honest, here? A lot of magazines are just picture books for older kids (kids in their 30s/40s/50s/60s, a lot of the time). The actual text doesn't get the attention it deserves because visually driven editors can't convince themselves—deep down—that anyone actually reads this stuff. They figure that at most it gets skimmed. What are a few typos and awkward phrases between friends?
But Shattered Glass isn't about journalistic ethics. Nor is it about partying at CPAC, though it was nice to see how creative that old libel was—and how stale the stereotypes were of young conservatives in "Spring Breakdown." (It turns out they're sexists! Imagine! I'm still looking for a version of that story online; if anyone is in journalism class and knows where to find it, let me know. The snippets I've seen quoted are hilarious.)
The whole tale is a tragedy, and Christensen shows us a con man who exploits his youthful looks as part of his act. But Peter Sarsgaard really steals the movie. He's something special, and I wish I were willing to see Jarhead in order to watch him develop as an actor. I'm not, of course.
The movie is about what happens in the human soul when it isolates itself. It's how a person might behave—did behave—when he becomes addicted to the adulation and approval of others. And we're all capable of this: placing the need for strokes above the need to make true connections.
Everyone has to come out of the cave sometime. Try it—and leave your ego inside, okay?
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11:46 PM
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He tells us to get our blog on while we still can. And, being from Texas, he thinks Virginia is mountainous; he should see the Sierra Nevadas. That's some topography for you there, Buddy.
Via con Dios, Jeff. I always knew you had guts.
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10:42 PM
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And no more rush jobs, okay? It interrupts my indolence. I came awfully close to having to work on that project, which of course makes me quake in fear.
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04:54 PM
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12:00 PM
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04:26 AM
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February 25, 2006
And the fact that they are due tomorrow doesn't really change that.
The mood thing, I mean.
Perhaps I could trick myself: you know. "Whatever you do, Joy, don't proofread that marketing material for Dad. And if you really, really must do that, don't make sure they'll print correctly. Whatever you do. That would be very wicked indeed."
Surely there's a fence around here I could whitewash . . . now that would be a good time.
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11:57 PM
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03:57 AM
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03:50 AM
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Hitchens remarked that if time permitted, they should march to the Iraqi Embassy, to support the government there and condemn the saboteurs who bombed the Shia Shrine. It's a lovely thought.
My favorite pic from Schwarz' post, featuring a sign made out of Legos:
Insty's main roundup is here, and he runs this pic, among others:
And elsewhere Glenn runs an update, which documents the presence of Danishes among the supporters of Danes:
Malkin also has some links.
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03:34 AM
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