In the Rye
I had another idea started for today that I will push to another post. But today, I need to pause to acknowledge the passing of J.D. Salinger.
My love of books and stories began as a child. Some of my oldest bits of memory are of my parents making up tales before bed or reading to us. And I am sure they are the ones who instilled a reverence for books: special items to be taken care of, treated appropriately, even loved.
The first book I can remember reading myself—long before Dick and Jane and Puff and Spot—is “Hop on Pop,” by Dr. Seuss. (Although I would suppose that I wasn’t so much reading at that point as repeating what had been read to us so many times.)
When I was a little older, but when doctors (medical not Seussian) still made house calls, I was once diagnosed as sick from reading too much. (I was very into the Mary Poppins series by P.L. Travers at the time.) And, embarrassing to note, one time in grade school, I bored a friend during a play date because I found Nancy Drew more riveting than her company.
After Nancy Drew (by the fictional Carolyn Keene) and the Hardy Boys (by the fictional Franklin W. Dixon), it was Judy Blume (didn’t every teenage girl read Judy Blume?); then, the ghost story/mystery/romance stage (Daphne du Maurier, Mary Stewart, and, yes, I admit it, those Harlequins); then, the fantasy/adventure genre, which I still enjoy as a treat now and then.
Somewhere in that mix, for a book report in 5th or 6th grade, I got a hold of a copy of “Catcher in the Rye” and presented it as my choice for a book report. This was in a Catholic grade school mind you, and I got pulled aside after class. But the wonderful Mrs. Robick only did so to tell me that the book was probably a little old for me but that she’d let me use it for my report. Her motivation was to encourage me to read it again when I was older. She didn’t want me to miss it. She, too, loved books. (And I have read it again, more than once. And likely again in the very near future.)
In college, thanks to the smart, funny, and inspiring Dr. Strojan, I also discovered Salinger’s other works: Franny and Zooey, Raise High the Roof Beam Carpenters, Seymour-an Introduction, and Nine Stories (which I re-read just a couple of months ago). All of his books sit top-shelf in my house, the place I put my favorites.
If you have never read any of his work and are curious, I’d recommend one of his short stories (The Laughing Man, Down at the Dinghy, or Just Before the War with the Eskimoes) for starters.
Mr. Salinger was one of the first authors who made me fall in love with the written word. Not just the story being told, the mystery being unveiled, the world being created, or the lesson being taught but the way in which any of those things could be written, the way the words sounded, rhythm, pace, the “perfect word,” some spectacular turn of phrase. Salinger could stop me in my tracks and just make me smile with wonder, savor the wordplay, and, yes, inspired me to be A Writer.
His passing cannot but stop me in my tracks again. To feel a selfish sorrow midway through this not so novel life of mine, but also a nudge toward an old dream.
With respect to this special life preserver, I say, Whatever drew you to a life of solitude, I am forever grateful for that which was shared.
Fare thee well Mr. Salinger. I hope they don’t put you in a cemetery.
Greg Stones’ Art
Every once in a while a total stranger can be a life preserver. Discovering, out there in the world, someone who is living life in a fun and creative way, making (I hope) a good living using a talent and a sense of humor that can only be one-of-a-kind, that delights and inspires me.
Some people, you don’t have to know them well to just be damn glad they are on the planet.
If you have never seen any of the wicked little masterpieces painted by Greg Stones, do yourself a favor and take a peek.
First saw this guy’s stuff at a local arts festival. Stood there and, the massive flow of glancing, mooing bumpers and nudgers be damned, I stayed and looked at just about every print in the booth. And kept snickering. And (agonizingly) selected a few prints out of the many I wanted to remember forever to take home. Looked for him the next year and bought a few more. All but one of the prints have been given as gifts. “The Sheep Don’t Care” (pictured here) 
is displayed on my dresser so I can see it every day. It’s been there for four or five years now, and it still inspires me, still makes me giggle.
The artist has also put together 3 books. The first was “Goodbye, Penguins,” which I purchased with blind anticipation, read (and re-read) with glee, and gifted with joy (while keeping a copy for myself, of course).
I changed jobs and have missed the arts festival for a couple of years, but, while adding some fun links to the blog here the other day, I discovered (and immediately ordered) two new Greg Stones books: “Zombies Hate Stuff” and “The Fort.” (“Goodbye, Penguins” and “Zombies Hate Stuff” are available from the website, linked above. “The Fort” I found on amazon.com.)
“The Fort” arrived today. I opened the box, removed the book from the cellophane wrapping, and, with the intention of heading to the couch, ended up just standing, transfixed, in the middle of the room to have my first look through it. (And, I’m real lazy. And the couch was only about four feet away.)
Love it! Recommend it! Want everyone I know to read it! (But, uh, no; there is no way you’re borrowing my copy so don’t even ask.)
“Zombies Hate Stuff” has also arrived. But I have not read it yet. Like the last homemade chocolate chip cookie or the bottle of wine I carried home from Italy, I’m saving it for later. (But also as with those other things, I doubt I will be able to wait too long ’cause I know it’s going to be so good.)
If you’ve got a wicked sense of humor (and/or if you like the idea of supporting someone truly original, funny, and creative in this crazy, conformist, copycat, chew-it-up-spit-it-out, grind-them-down, toe-the-line world we oddballs and secret champions masquerade in), well, then, check him out for yourself. As in, go ahead, you do it, I’ve done as much as I can here and also as in do it for yourself, as a treat.
Happy Friday folks.
Know a great artist or otherwise original being who inspires you? Post them in the comments box.
Ah Technology
Inventions and the human imagination have enabled us to do many new and amazing things, but I think perhaps technology has jumped the shark.
I made it through college (as a writing major mind you) with a manual typewriter. Went from that, giddily, to one that typed like a player piano, to a desktop computer, to a laptop, to (if I could figure it out) a way to create and send documents on my cell phone.
My brother and sister and I grew up watching a black-and-white Zenith with about 4 channels and a National Anthem end to the programming day. Tonight I can watch a gazillion programs on a big ol’ color TV, a VCR, a DVR, a DVD, or (if I could figure it out) my cell phone.
I once had thee coolest electric-blue AM radio shaped like a donut. Later I had a gargantuan glass-fronted cabinet that stored a turntable, receiver, and my albums. Then cassette player, double cassette player, CD player, 5-disk CD player. Now it’s a recordable CD drive and itunes, plus (if I could figure it out) a way to listen to my tunes on my cell phone.
Yes, a cell phone is a huge improvement over the wall-bound rotary dial, and it has been a godsend during a couple of emergency situations—like being stranded at night with a flat tire or getting separated from my friends at a Jimmy Buffett concert. But there was a time when you never heard a phone ring in a theater, in the grocery store, or (not making this up) at a funeral. There was a time, not so very long ago, when you could actually get away from it all because the hotel didn’t have cell service or internet. There was a time when you never had to listen carefully to the options for pressing 1, 2, 3, 4, star, or pound.
Yesterday I pushed a bunch of those buttons to activate my new ATM card, and the recording told me I had to hold the line to confirm something (sounded official). And . . . ah, ohhhh . . . I had to dodge the advances of a zealous, rude, pitbull of a telemarketer—without the hang-up option—before being “approved” to have access to my own money.
I will concede that, despite a real nostalgia for gas station attendants who would saunter up to the driver’s side window and chat pleasantly, wash the windshield, put air in the tires, and check the oil, there are times when being able to pump the gas myself when rolling home on fumes at midnight has had its advantages. Today at lunchtime, before they would actually allow gasoline to flow, I had to answer 2,735 questions to (apparently) explain why I was standing in a gas station freezing my ass off while parked next to a gas pump with my gas cap off.
Technology has not made our lives easier. It has given new ideas to the Evil Bastards. And they learn faster than my middle-age brain.
In high school, I learned to type in a class that lasted an entire semester. When desktop computers were new, I attended a two-day training seminar to learn WordPerfect. These days, with absolutely no formal training, I can’t get through my day without Word, Excel, PowerPoint, Photoshop, Diskus, InDesign, iCalendar, iMovie, three different voicemail systems, three different email programs, two different IM programs, a bit of Illustrator, a CRM system, and two different web/CMS systems. And, oh yeah, the programs to manage my blog, my facebook page, and my Twitter tweets.
As technology has made it possible to accomplish more and more tasks more and more quickly, we have, quite simply, become accustomed to having more tasks on the to-do list, doing more things ourselves, providing more information, reading more manuals . . . and expanding our vocabulary to include phrases like stress headache, hyper-tension, and Why does it say paper jam when there is no paper jam?
Pick a technological advancement in your lifetime. Tell me why you love it and/or hate it.
I Was a Sentimental Child
It’s January 17, and I have yet to make the great back-breaking trek of a thousand steps, eight steps at a time, to put the boxes of Christmas decorations back into the attic. The lights; the Santas; the ornaments; the wrapping paper, tags, and ribbon; the garland; the wreath; the stockings. It is all bubble-wrapped, gum-banded, tissue-papered, de-tangled, packed in boxes, and . . . stacked up in my living room. It sits there, only about 8 feet (as the crow flies) from where it should be.
I was a sentimental child. And I could, if I chose to, make a pretty convincing argument that these boxes remain un-put-away because I hate to see Christmas go. And you’d believe me. And maybe even think it quirky or sweet. And you’d look past the pile of boxes.
However. As your eyes looked past that pile of boxes, they’d alight on the un-done laundry, the dishes piled in the sink, the un-made bed, and the precarious stack of mail, likely including soon-to-be-overdue bills.
I have online banking and I’m late when I used to write out checks and lick stamps and have every bill sent on time. I used to be organized. I used to do my nails. I used to exercise regularly. I used to polish my shoes. I used to get my oil changed every 3,000 miles. I used to wash, wax, and vacuum my car–and my house–on a weekly basis. I used to make it into work on time with makeup on, my hair done, and a good cup of coffee in hand. I used to have a calendar. I used to keep track of people’s Birthdays. Hell, I used to iron! I used to feel, at least on an occasional basis, caught up.
I tell you true, there was a time when I was a Type-A person, but my average slipped to a B sometime in the ’90s. And I would guess that someone somewhere is about to mail my Mom a note telling her I’m failing Adulthood.
It’s Sunday night. The cupboard is bare, and dinner isn’t made. While writing this, I realized I have already missed three 2010 Birthdays. And it’s garbage night.
It’s January 17, and my Christmas decorations aren’t put away. I guess I’m just way too sentimental.
In the Nutshell
In what seems like a lifetime ago (but is recent enough that the twitching hasn’t completely abated), I worked in an agency.
An agency is a place where really creative brilliant people come up with amazing, delightfully unique ideas and hand them to management (the people who are in charge because of their creativity in lying, manipulation, and sunshine insertion) who place these ideas into a shredder, bag them up, throw them into the trunk of a ridiculously expensive car, and drive to meetings with clients who, if smart (as many of them are) will be disappointed or, if idiots, will say things like, “It’s great. It’s fabulous. I love it. But what if we change the concept, revise the headline, swap out the picture, tweak the layout, and make the logo bigger?” at which point management will grin and nod and say things like, “That’s a great idea. Sure. No problem. May I lick your feet. And we’ll have it back to you by end of day.” because they are too busy imagining the (misguided and mathematically impossible) profitability equation of multiple major revisions to think of anything like project management, common sense, responsibility, or the parameters of the space-time continuum that can make it somewhat difficult to complete 2 weeks of work in under an hour.
And that’s the agency world. In a nutshell.
So, where’s the life preserver here? Ah, I am about to tell you a secret.
Please don’t tell the management monkeys; they believe Their Employees would jump on a grenade or donate a kidney for them because they have rubber-stamped their name on the building, the letterhead, some pens, and the paychecks (which, by the way, they do not consider trade for talent but money they earned all by themselves which would be better spent on a big screen TV for their beach house).
Truth be told we’d rather see the kidney accidentally replaced with the grenade. But I do digress.
Here’s the secret. The only reason creative people stay in agencies (aside from love of the craft and an astoundingly robust hope) (and, paying rent) . . . okay, let me start that sentence over. The only reason you don’t hear about creative people throwing themselves from tall buildings on a daily basis is because of other creative people. Creatives are hilarious and smart and talented, and you will never in your life laugh so hard at the horrible, the absurd, and the searing pain of your soul’s rendering as when you are surrounded by these magnificent goddamn geniuses.
I do not miss the agency life. But I do miss the people. (I would venture to guess that it is not completely unlike how a soldier, home from war, misses the men he served with, fought with, dug latrines with.) I miss the wit; the crazy-awesome brains; and the home-made stuff.
Secret alternative layouts, really intricate practical jokes, costumes for Pez dispensers, etc., helped us survive our daily exsanguination.
One small thing I contributed was “Write The Headline.” If someone found a particularly odd piece of stock art, it would get posted on a wall on a piece of flip chart paper. And the graffiti could begin.
The bosses didn’t like it because the flip chart paper didn’t go with the “look how cool I am” artwork and custom lighting that was placed for aesthetics not for, say, easing the eye strain of dozens of people staring at computer screens 37 hours a day. I also think, like whispers of the emperor’s clothes, the scribbles made them nervous. They didn’t get it, but they can catch the scent of fun quicker than the child catcher in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang could find a crying toddler in a dirty diaper, and they don’t like it.
So. For Fun. I’ve added “Write The Headline” to my blog.
So, click on the tab above. Look at the picture. Put a headline in the comments section. Be creative. Keep on keeping on. And cheers.
Overnight Fun Night
It’s Saturday and I’m preparing the house for the arrival of Alex and Hannah, my niece and nephew. (Two of my most favorite “life preservers.”)
I am neatening up. (Why is it exactly that we adults feel the need to portray ourselves as tidy? Why do we try to set a good example even though, we now know better?) I know the kids don’t care, and they will soon fill this house with messes of their own. Within minutes of their arrival, every surface in my house will be scattered with items unfamiliar to a childless woman’s life. Transformers, Lego, and Star Wars action figures sitting precariously near antique depression glass; stuffed animals among the Pier 1 throw pillows. Tiny shirts, tiny pants, tiny socks flung about. Craft kits. Board games. Model planes. Cars. DVDs. DSi.
The little suitcases they travel with are like Mary Poppins’ carpet bag.
They are 10 and 12 now, which is a very cool age. The moments when they talk, act, think like small adults come more often. But, they are still young enough to be giddy with excitement to come sleep on my floor.
I would like to point out that there is an extra bed and a couch for them, but they actually prefer to sleep on couch cushions on the floor around my bed. And I enjoy that, too, because we inevitably fall asleep giggling. And, in the morning, they climb up into the bed and we snuggle and giggle some more–and that’s a pretty darn fine way to start any day.)
Having them here is less like babysitting and more like a slumber party. With midgets.
We’ll play video games, rent a movie, and probably make snow angels. (I’ve been wanting to all week, and the kids are my cover.) We’ll eat stuff like pancakes and hamburgers (instead of Lean Cuisine, canned soup). And we’ll have Lorna Doones.
There will always be Lorna Doones when they come visit. (My grandparents once lived in this house. And when my brother, sister, and I would come visit, my gram would stand near the back door with a cookie jar. We’d file by and she’d hand each of us a couple of Lorna Doones, and we’d go out back and sit in the yard and eat them like chipmunks. Quickly gnawing the little squares of shortbread. )
So the first time that Alex and Hannah came to visit, I bought some Lorna Doone cookies. Their father, my brother, and I smiled at each other as I ceremoniously handed them each a Lorna Doone. I told the story of why they were important to me, why it was the first thing they received upon arrival. You don’t think kids get that stuff. But, about an hour later, Alex (who was probably about 5 at the time), walked up to me and inquired, “May I please have another of the special little cookies?”
They got it. And it is now a tradition for them as well.
Today’s question: What’s your favorite tradition to pass on to the kids in your life? Or. Have you ever had a slumber party with a midget?
Begin Anywhere
There is more interesting stuff on the outside of my refrigerator than on the inside.
Outside there are magnets, quotes, a poem called “Earl” by Louis Jenkins, the warped humor of Happy Bunny and Goodbye Kitty, photos of my family, and a prayer of protection for my little house (provided by a dear aunt after the Ford 350 van made an unplanned left into my bathroom–but that’s another story).
Inside there’s juice, water, condiments, olives (to go with the vodka, which is about the only thing in the freezer), bread, maybe eggs, usually one or two pieces of fruit and/or vegetable that may be fresh or shriveled to an unidentifiable state, and generally some container of odd leftover something.
TANGENTIAL ADVICE. Mac and cheese is one of the truly great comfort foods and may even have magical properties of healing, happiness, and goodwill. But magic has its price. Mac and cheese is also thee stinkiest food gone bad. If you discover a container in your ‘fridge that has lurked beyond its expiration, do not–I repeat, do not–(no really, don’t) open it and smell it. Throw. It. Away. Oh, yes, container, too. I don’t care if it is your best piece of Tupperware. Either it’s a goner or you are. Trust me on this.
Okay, the point I was headed for is the outside of the refrigerator, which is cluttered. I couldn’t tell you why exactly, but I need these reminders. Words and pictures. Touchstones. Things to make me laugh. Things to make me think. Things to help me focus on what matters most in life. Bits of inspiration. Colorful, odd, beautiful, quirky flotsam (i.e., little life preservers).
This morning, the thing that caught my eye was the front of a greeting card that I had cut and hung. It says simply and profoundly: Begin anywhere.
It would likely be more profound had I hung this for the New Year. But, to be honest, it’s been hanging there for most of 2009. (Life is rarely logical or all that linear and, quite often, a long and winding road precedes the starting line.)
But. Here I am. Beginning a blog with almost no idea what the heck I’m doing. Note: If anyone actually sees this, tips and suggestions (low-tech, kind language preferred) are welcome.
Today, tell me about the most interesting thing inside or on the outside of your refrigerator.
Never Tailgate is a gift book with car photos and tips for new drivers. Dare to be Happy is a gift book with advice about life (and doodles). Both are available on amazon.
Life Preservers 
2000s to the Curb
A few posts back, I bemoaned the avalanche of disorganization in my life, especially in my home. I missed that feeling of being caught up or, more aptly, that feeling of feeling as if, should I want to, I could get caught up.
I would have said it’s been this way for a couple of years, max. But, the more I thought about it, the more I realized that this snowball started rolling somewhere around-about the year 2000.
Now, we all have our own set of troubles and I’m not here to unload mine, but, for the sake of explanation, let me just note that the 2000s have been difficult, trying, and surprising (in the bad way). Said good-bye to some really good, significant people. I had three really really (really) bad boyfriends followed by (on the insistence of well-meaning friends who I may never forgive) the bizarro world of online dating that led me to dates with dreamboats like Psycho Businessman, Racist Dwarf, Creepy Dog Owner, and Guy With a Dent in His Head. Said good-bye to my beloved Mustang, which I miss more than the boyfriends. Got laid off (twice). Blew out my knee. A pipe broke. The roof leaked. The air conditioner died. The furnace and water heater got red-tagged due to a gas leak. Had to put my cat to sleep. My purse was stolen (twice). A van hit my house. And. I turned 40.
The past decade has been, pardon my French, a real torrentielle de merde.
Maybe I gave up. Maybe I was depressed. Maybe I was lazy. Maybe my priorities shifted. Whatever it was, I got behind on stuff. Stop. Sit. Repeat. My behinder got bigger.
And soon, instead of doing a tidy-up once a week (or even every other week), what little energy you manage to gather is spent on the development of more creative ways to hide The Junk That Doesn’t Go There because someone is at the door. You use one arm to sweep everything on your dresser into a drawer; you jam dirty laundry into a closet hoping the door doesn’t explode behind you; you put dirty dishes in the oven. You know what I mean.
(You do know what I mean, don’t you?)
This past weekend, I don’t know how or why, but I awoke early on Saturday and thought, “I should do some laundry.” Amazingly, I did not shove the thought under a couch cushion and sit on it. Instead, I put on shoes, which is a rare accomplishment in or around my house at any time of year.
I pushed on.
I cleared a path to the washer and dryer and began sorting. And laundry inevitably led me to all the places that laundry goes. And beyond. Drawers, closets, cupboards. The garbage bags piled up. Stack by stack, room by room, upstairs, downstairs, bit by bit. It got done.
By the time the playoffs started on Sunday, the summer clothes were packed away in the basement and the winter clothes were wearable. Cupboards and drawers are neat. The bills are paid. A wardrobe or two await a trip to Goodwill. A big ol’ broken chair went to the curb, and I’ve got some special things lined up to leave the garbage men for the next few weeks. The dishes in the dishwasher are dirty. The sheets on the bed are clean. I threw caution to the wind and threw away all of the single socks! And, yes, all of the Christmas decorations are back in the attic.
Now, lest you be too amazed, I should point out that the car did not get washed or driven to the grocery store. The garage remains very garage-like. And one-fourth of my basement remains overrun by misfit furniture sitting on the cracked up floor that was under the carpet I had to pull up when the basement flooded a bit in 2004.
Good-bye decade. It’s been fun, but I’m kickin’ you to the curb.
Got a dirty house secret? Wanna share?
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January 25, 2010 at 2:47 pm 2 comments