December 2005 Archives

I read two short Loorie Moore stories from "Birds of America" for my literature seminar and thought they were great. I ended up reading the whole book cover to cover, which I rarely do for a collection of short stories. But she's got such a clever voice, it's a mix of sarcasm and sincerity, and I loved just about every one of her characters. The second to last story, "People Like That Are The Only People Here," with its combination of humor and personal tragedy, is about the second saddest short story I've ever read. (The first being "No One Writes to the Colonel" by Marquez.)

I'm working on a short story of my own right now that has been heavily influenced by this collection. Though, really, I think my style has alwasy been a bit along the lines of Loorie Moore, with a slightly absurd world and a cynical viewpoint that covers kindness. Or, at least, that's what I TRY to do and what I think Moore does successfully. Anyway...

For my last class-assigned book of the semester I read "The Dead Father" by Donald Barthelme. I've read it before and found it enjoyable though I didn't quite understand it, and, to be honest, I had a similar reaction this time. Though it's not a book that is grounded in any reality or meant to be understood. It's about a bunch of people dragging a giant dead father (who is at times very much alive) through the countryside by means of a large cable. It's an abstract emotional story about what it means to be a father and what it means to be a son. But, also, (as we discussed in class) it is Donald Barthelme's discussion about the plight of the writer trying to throw off previous, better writers he both admires and envies. Donald Barthelme's dead father was Samuel Beckett, whose dead father was James Joyce. In an attempt to do more than just a pale mimicking of a previous, better author a writer has to create something new while still giving credit to the old. And eventually become a Dead Father himself. It's something I really struggle with. A lot of my writing at this point is influcenced stylistically by other writers I'm currently reading, and I do this intentionally. But at some point I have a desire to really do something new and different, to somehow make a tiny dent on literature by not just adding a couple of good stories but by changing something. How? I don't know. For the moment I'm working on the couple of good stories part, and then if I can get that down I'll work on doing something that's really new.

I was going to post something about the mass transit strike but then the mass transit strike ended before I had a chance. Anything now would be too retro. Besides, there's no way I could write a funnier article than this.

Instead of starting this post off with a witty but redundant riff about how everything is more expensive in New York City (it's true) I'm going to jump right to my point: everything is more expensive in New York City... except, because of a what is apparently a strange economic phenomenon, bagels. Bagels here are, unlike every single other thing in the city, cheap. It's about forty cents to get a bagel. With cream cheese? Forty three cents. With eggs and cheddar? A dollar ten. If you just wanted a plain slice of cheddar cheese it would be two dollars, but on a bagel it's suddenly a dollar ten. To save money I buy all my cheese on bagels, then I peel off the cheese and throw away the bagels.

It's because bagels are everywhere here. You can't find a store without them. The bagels at the super market too expensive? Go next door to the convenience mart. Those bagels too expensive? Go next door to the other convenience mart. Third and fourth convenience marts still too expensive? Try the sushi place. Or the guy with the cart selling shish-ka-bob and bagels. Bagels have saturated the market. People use bagels instead of currency. Four dollars and twenty three bagels, please. Instead of leave-a-penny-take-a-penny we have leave-a-bagel-take-a-bagel. I tried to give a bagel to a homeless guy and he refused, he already had enough bagels. He'd constructed a make-shift shelter out of bagels.

Why are bagels so popular here? Everyone who lives here will tell you the bagels taste better in this city than anywhere else. Do they? Well, I live here, and I will therefore tell you that the bagels taste better in this city than anywhere else. Don't believe me? Give a New Yorker a bagel from another city. He'll take one bite and say, "Where did you get this bagel? This bagel isn't from around here." But don't try to do this if you're not from New York City, you'll only hurt yourself. The right question to ask is why do they taste better in this city than anywhere else? Perhaps it's the water. Perhaps it's simply the taste boost that comes with the knowledge that you are eating a bagel in the city that invented the bagel. You say bagels were purportedly invented in Poland in 1610? Well then how come those bagels don't taste as good as the ones made in New York City? I thought so.

For some reason the cheap bagel theory only holds true if you're trying to buy one bagel at a time. If you order a dozen you're screwed. One bagel: eight cents. Twelve bagels: Twenty two dollars. Why? Because they know if you want to buy twelve bagels then you really need bagels. And don't try to buy twelve individual bagels; they're too smart for that. The eleventh bagel, eight cents. The twelfth? Twenty one dollars and twelve cents. You'll have to buy eleven and then go next door for the twelfth bagel if you want to avoid the surcharge. Of course all your coworkers will know something's up. They'll say, "Wait a minute? Is this twelfth bagel from a different store? Yes, yes I think it is. You bought eleven bagels at Murray's and the twelfth bagel at Rick's Convenience Market! You cheapskate!" Because not only can New Yorkers tell whether a bagel has been made in New York City, they can narrow it down to the street, to the store. It's like fine wine - this bagel has been infused with the hint of fruit from the nearby vendor and just a touch of Italian spices from Famous Ray's next door.

Of course, if you try to get smoked salmon on your bagel: a hundred and eighty seven dollars.

Anyone who has spent any time driving or walking with me in a downtown setting knows of my deep hatred for bicyclists. Specifically, I mean urban law-breaking cyclists, the ones who ignore red lights, jump from sidewalks to pavement and burst through pedestrians yelling, "Bicyclist!" as if that excuses them.

I also, for that matter, am annoyed by pedestrians who cross in front of moving cars, though usually only when I'm the one in the car they're crossing in front of. But there's a big difference: Law-breaking pedestrians put their own lives at risk. Law-breaking bicyclists put everyone's life at risk. I've seen many near-accidents because of bicyclists zipping across a busy road. I thought it was bad in Austin (a very bike-friendly pro-Lance Armstrong town) but it's nothing compared to the Kamikaze bikers in NYC.

So yesterday I got to live out my wildest fantasy: I beat up a bicyclist. Seriously. Read on for the story.

I'm walking down the street. I'm stopped at the corner of Broadway and E Houston (there are both major NY streets) waiting, like a good pedestrian, for the "walk" signal so I can cross Broadway. The walk signal comes. I check again to make sure those last cars zipping through the red light have gone safely by (there are always at least three), and I begin to cross. Note: I am NOT the first person to step into the road. I'm probably the third or fourth.

At that moment time slows down and out of the corner of my eye I see a bicyclist hurtling towards me. A bicyclist who has sped across Houston through moving traffic, a bicyclist who has gone BEHIND three other pedestrians who have already begun crossing the street, a bicyclist who is just in time to crash into me. He yells (pointlessly) "watch out" as he jams the breaks and his tire hits my leg.

This is where it gets good... Some anti-bicycle self-preservation instinct kicks in (probably a genetic leftover from the cavemen days when wild bicycles stalked the plains) and I thought to myself that either I was going down or this goddamn bicyclist was going down. So I reached my arms out, put both hands on his upper body, and shoved him over. He and his bike went sprawling, and he slid under a car.

Okay, so he didn't really go sliding under a car, but I did shove him hard, keeping the bike from hitting me directly and using the force to regain my balance. He managed to keep his feet on the ground, though his bike fell down underneath him. He yelled at me, "Look where you're going!" and I yelled back, "You were the one doing something illegal!" Then I hustled across the street because he was a lot bigger than me.

Oh, it was a glorious day for pedestrian rights!

I'm currently working on a novella/novel that is half art history and half spy story. Someone from my class recommended I read the novel "Fletch" because it too is an odd take on the spy novel genre. It's a little bit more whimsical than what I'm going for, though, then again, whenever I'm not trying to be funny everyone else seems to think I'm at my funniest. Anyway, I did get something out of the book, maybe a reminder not to take my character too seriously as he prances around Eruope looking for stolen Nazi loot, perhaps. Plus, "Fletch" is a quick read, I pretty much zipped through the whole thing on a train from Pennsylvania to Washington, DC.

December is well underway and, like every year, 'tis the season for non-stop awful music, for giant light-draped trees and holly and poinsettias and nativity scenes plus that one slightly-torn paper menorah that gets taped up in the shop window. Thanks for that paper menorah, by the way. Yeah, it really makes me feel better about patronizing your store. Throw me another bone, why don't you?

I promised my girlfriend (who does, in fact, celebrate Christmas) that I would try not to be so Grinchy this year. But I can't help it. I'm acting as Grinchy as ever. The very concept of the Grinch inspires Grinch-like feelings. Apparently it's so evil to not love Christmas with all of your heart that you are labeled a bad, ugly person. Calling someone a Grinch for not loving Christmas is like the Bush administration calling anyone who criticizes the war a traitor. Don't you people realize anything? Someone can criticize the war and still be a patriot. And someone can dislike Christmas and still be a normal human being.

This year there's an interesting twist, because conservative Christian groups are "fighting back" against the "war on Christmas." No more holiday cards, they say. No more holiday trees, they say. No more holiday sales, they say. They want Christmas cards and Christmas trees and Christmas sales. Well, guess what? I AGREE! The only thing worse than tying up traffic for hours in every direction to light a damn tree is pretending somehow this tree-lighting event is inclusive of non-Christmas-celebrators. I don't WANT to be associated with the tree and I, like conservative Christian groups, also consider it offensive to call it a holiday spruce. While I appreciate the attempt at inclusivity it is misguided. Instead of making the "holiday season" more diverse it is actually a way of tricking people into celebrating Christmas.

That being said, I do have some concerns about the "War on Christmas Conservatives" (henceforth known as WoCC):

1) WoCC's seems to be blaming non-Christians for the "War on Christmas." I think 99% of the "War on Christmas" is led by politically correct Christians trying to be inclusive, which, as I said above, is misguided. But it's especially offensive to blame ME for trying to edge my way into the holiday action. I don't want forced to be included, but I also don't like when WoCC assumes I am trying to force my way into the hot Christmas action. I want nothing to do with it. Don't start burning Jews because the White House calls the Christmas tree a holiday spruce. I might not like the trees and the holly and the poinsettias and the music, but as long as you keep the government-sponsored nativity scenes to a minimum I'll deal with it.

2) WoCC's are attacking shopkeepers for calling December a "holiday season" instead of the "Christmas season." I agree that Christmas trees should be called Christmas trees. I agree that when you send a holiday card to a Christian it should say Merry Christmas. But these shopkeepers have a legitimate reason for calling December the holiday season: Not all of their clients celebrate Christmas. WoCC has called for a boycott of any store that has a "holiday" sale instead of a "Christmas" sale. Boycotting a store because they encourage Jews and other non-Christians to shop there? That smacks of something other than Christmas spirit.

This has taken me off-point, which is that I promised my girlfriend not to be a Grinch. So, in that light, I'll end this post as follows: Merry Christmas!

Here's the sign posted near just about every elevator in the country:

"In case of fire use stairs"

Is it just me or does that sentence mean something different than it's supposed to mean? The intended warning is actually:

"In THE case of fire use stairs."

In my polluted mind there is a big difference between "in case of" and "in the case of". Every time I read one of these signs I interpret it to mean I should NEVER use the elevator because while I am on the elevator there might be a fire. A similar sentence might be "In case of rain bring an umbrella." The implication isn't that you should only bring an umbrella if it is already raining but that you should bring your umbrella no matter what, IN CASE it rains.

Now, according to dictionary.com, "in case of" means "if there should happen to be," which would point towards the "in case of fire" interpretation, and NOT the "in case of rain" interpretation. Right? "If there should happen to be a fire use the stairs," makes sense. "If there should happen to be rain bring an umbrella," also makes sense, but it isn't making the sense originally intended. My rain sentence should be "In case it rains..." and NOT "In case of rain..."

It turns out I was wrong and all those signs warning me to take the stairs in case of fire are correct. Way to go elevator sign makers!

I first read King Lear back in high school and I've always claimed it to be my favorite Shakespeare play, but recently I remembered that I didn't actually read the play in high school, I only read the Cliff Notes. Now, let me be clear: I was a good high school student and usually did all of the reading. I was, in fact, the only person in my class to actually read "Great Expectations" all the way through. Everyone else claimed the book's surprises were "obvious" and said I was dumb if I couldn't have guessed them, and I was pretty annoyed when I found out that no one else actually read the book. Of course the surprises are obvious if you read a summary of them in the beginning of the Cliff Notes! Anyway, my point is, I finally got around to actually reading "King Lear," and, lo and behold, it has been upheld as my favorite Shakespeare play. The ending is a bit anticlimactic, mainly because a lot of the exciting stuff (a battle between France and England) happens off stage, but back in Will's day there weren't special effects.

I've always been a bit conflicted about Shakespeare. Sure, he's the greatest writer who ever lived, but ever since having read "Merchant of Venice" I sort of look at him in a different way. "Merchant of Venice" is anti-Semitic. And I don't just mean anti-Semitic. Considering this is Shakespeare, it's the greatest (or worst, depending on how you want to phrase it) piece of anti-Semitic writing in the history of the English language. "King Lear" is probably one of the greatest pieces of anti-bastard writing in the history of the English language, but, to be honest, I don't care as much about bastards as I do about Semitics.

Raymond Carver's short stories, in dust jacket terminology, are classics of the form. Minimally emotional characters find themselves in financial or relationship trouble and sense but can't quite put into words the moth-ball stirrings of creaky machinery in their hearts and heads. It's hard not to admire Carver's writing and at the same time I have no desire to write like him. Well, okay, it's not that I don't want to write like Carver, it's that there are other authors who I would rather write like. Or, really, I don't want to just emulate and reproduce another authors writing, of course, but I want to follow in the footsteps so to speak. You know what I mean. Anyway... Carver: a classic of the form.