Lost count/interest

I was rather pleased with all non-Walk the Line related results of the Golden Globes, weren’t you? Cousin Phillip, for example, finally got to hoist a statue above his head and roar out at the audience like the grizzly bear he is. Mary-Louise Parker, who mooned me once (true story!) and permanently won my heart, nabbed hers out of the mouths of those too-skinny Housewives. Rachel Weisz got one for The Constant Gardener — which, I gotta say, increasingly feels like one of the best movies of the year to me. It’s more memorable than the other so-called contenders.

And people were funny! Drunk, and funny, and mostly well-dressed. (Mostly.)

My work-in-progress (still haven’t seen Munich, Match Point or Cache) top ten consists of, in no particular order:

Brokeback Mountain
The Constant Gardener
Capote
Good Night, and Good Luck
The Squid and the Whale
Me, You, and Everyone We Know
Junebug
Pride & Prejudice

The last two spots are tricky. Harry Potter V, Mr. and Mrs. Smith, The Aristocrats, the 40 Year Old Virgin and Syriana were all interesting, engaging, and flawed to various degrees. I think I’ll hold off on filling them for a bit.

day 5 and holding

I forgot to blog about my priceless subway encounter from last week. Perhaps because I was afraid one of you minions would steal it and use it in YOUR book, whereas I want to save it and use it in mine. Nevertheless, it must be sacrificed on the altar of funny.

Setting: Heading uptown on the A train. All the crazies are on the A. Have you noticed? Subway car packed, me standing, looking out the window at nothing, ignoring men sitting, eye-level to my breasts; I am thanking god for my coat. Even if it does draw attention.

Subway Prophet appears. There are many of these in New York and they are almost all black. I don’t know where the white subway prophets are. Maybe Atlanta. Anyway, this one features hair slicked back with something so white his hair shines thickly with it, and small Malcolm X glasses. He is, unfortunately, not as articulate as Malcolm.

He parks himself about two people away from me and starts in about Jesus. Did we know Jesus was black?, he demands. (Yes.) Have we let Jesus into our hearts? (No.) Did we know Jesus was circumcised? (Yes. I mean no. I mean — what? The woman next to me starts chuckling too and I feel safer grinning.) Subway Prophet continues ranting. I am kind of tired and headachy, and despite grinning, I just want the crazy man to hush.

Suddenly though! A woman pipes up: “Sir, I’m sorry, but can you move somewhere else? You’re right in my face with this.”
Prophet gets pissed: “What? What did you say?”
Woman: “Sir, I asked if you could quiet down or else move over there — “
Prophet: “I am a prophet. No! I am a PROPHET, and you are my LAMB, woman. You are my LAMB. And I don’t take orders from no white women.”
Woman: “Sir, honestly — “
Prophet: “You are my LAMB.”

I would have loved it if, Tarantino style, he said, “you are my lamb, bitch!” Sadly. Perhaps in the spiced up book version, though.

approaching day 4: still not on the breadlines

To comfort me in my time of emotional turmoil, I turn to this group picture, taken in the sacred home of Wanakena over New Years. I’m about 3rd from the left, in the unfortunately-attention-grabbing coat (it was my grandmother’s and it’s VERY VERY warm!) holding up a “W” for Wanakena; and I’m in that coat because we were in the process of walking out the door. Oh, Wanakena. To be there still …

Well, as I’m stuck here, I’m doing the best I can. There’s something creepy about being left alone all day. It’s a bit like The Yellow Wallpaper, even if I’m not kept in one room on purpose, because, well, I live in one room. Luckily, my studio’s walls are white — and no one’s ever gone crazy in a white-walled room.

I’m doing what I’m supposed to do, reading, writing a lot, sending earnest cover letters. While I wait to either land a job or get a six figure advance on my book, I’m glad to learn that people retain the capacity to be surprised by the blazingly obvious. Observe what was considered “news” today: simmering sexpot Angelina Jolie — who has been having near constant intercourse with Brad Pitt for nigh on six months — has failed a pregnancy test; and former DC mayor and semi-rehabilitated felon Marion Barry has failed a drug test.

Oh, also? Anthony Lane is troubled by the state of contemporary American cinema. Don’t try to scrape me off the ceiling. It’s more comfortable up here.

On the Dole: Day 1

I’m still in my pajamas, curled up in bed with my laptop, blinds closed tightly but glowing with the sun, folk music trembling out of my speakers. No! I refuse to be so easily pigeonholed. It’s Monday: I will engage the world, even if I don’t have a job.

First, to return my book to the library. Yes, an excellent plan. There will be some satisfaction there: I didn’t like and I seem to be almost the only one. How can this be? How is everyone else so bowled over BY YET ANOTHER standard “satire” of college life where the male professors are self-obsessed preening student-fucking losers scared of the abysses within themselves and the female students are inarticulate post-feminist hypersexual vixens?

Yes, there is too much theory in colleges now. The long passage about no professor being able to say “I like the tomato” is the most memorable in the book for me. (Instead, each professor makes the sentence into overintellectual gibberish in their own particular way.) That, to me, is a valid critique.

The thing is, I LIKE Zadie Smith. I continued to like White Teeth even as the backlash hit. Some of her observations are astute. I like her writing, though not the dialogue, punctuated to death with ellipses, italics, and dashes. There was not a single character in this mess of a novel that I could identify with or admire. Worse, I got the distinct sense she didn’t much value her characters either; she certainly didn’t describe them charitably, especially the overweight women. Which means, to my mind, that she fell into her own trap of not being able to see beauty except in its conventional forms.

But, enough. Off I go to return it. Maybe I wouldn’t have been so disappointed if I hadn’t had some high hopes, and anyway, I have plenty to take my mind off it, as varied as The Eustace Diamonds and Kafka on the Shore. Not to mention job apps.

“Up and ATOM!“
“Up and AT THEM!”
“Up and ATOM!”
“Up and AT THEM!”
” … better.”

and so on.

waking to car alarms

Lest there be any doubts, the car alarms blasting off the intersection at 8:30 AM this morning communicated that I was definitely back in the city. Mr. Ben and I have finished our whirlwind tour of our families & friends, which took us to Westchester, loaded with Christmas/Hannukah presents; to Washington DC, loaded with high-end cheese; and to a serenely otherworldly log cabin in the Adirondacs, where we just got loaded. Oh, it was wonderful, except for the travelling.

The best part was that the cabin is situated on a small wooded penninsula that, in the winter, juts into expanses of beautiful frozen lake. The family that built the cabin thoughtfully bought up the penninsula too, and when that family’s young heir K-Ross gathers up friends by the bushel and takes us up there with him we can wander right off the land and onto the water. There is no more peaceful feeling than walking in complete silence and possible defiance of several natural laws into the middle of a lake before an audience of glazed fir trees.

Only twice did someone’s foot slip through the ice, which, considering, seems pretty good. And neither time was it mine.

I also got to experience my parents’ new apartment as a pretty impressive reimagining of the house I grew up in. That was a relief. And I was showered with enough quality gifts to make me consider rethinking my personal War on Christmas, including the So, So Cool Complete New Yorker, which has, on DVDs, every page of every issue of the magazine, dating back to its inception in the 20s. Played games (pinochle, Taboo), ate excellent food everywhere I went, took pictures, had blissful swattie conversations, and, despite talking about it a lot, managed to forget emotionally that I’ve just lost my job.

Also on the plus side, Mr. Ben had two opportunities to leave me for smart, engaging blondes we met while travelling. He elected not to, at least for now. We sailed through Scylla and Charybdis and here we are once again, safe on the other side, on the temptation-free island of Manhattan.

So here’s to a better 06! Cheers to you all: may your sig figs stay faithful, may you stay interested, may your jobs be stimulating and your internal organs steady, and may you have nothing to regret. And if you hear of employment opportunities, feel free to send them my way.

ester weighs in on the controversies of the day

#1) Transit strike over! But: Bloomberg racist?

Three cheers for being able to use the subway again. I hope sincerely that the union folks get something in return for this craziness (whose inconvenience I do believe affected them as strongly if not more than the rest of us.) On the other hand, accepting a deal in which they begin to receive pension benefits at 62 instead of 55 isn’t exactly comparable to going back to the 10 hour workday.

That aside, naturally race poked its head out of the mess like Nessie from the Loch. Bloomberg gave a speech in which he accused the union of acting “thuggishly.” Immediately, the heads of the union, which is majority-minority, shouted RACISM, a cry picked up by the echo chamber. Far be it from me to deny anyone the right to be offended; in our victim happy society, somehow even members of the majority-race and the majority-religion get to cry discrimination when Target doesn’t do exactly what they want. But to my mind, describing a behavior as “thuggish” is not the same as calling individuals “thugs.” To put it a Christian way, it’s condeming the sin, not the sinner.

Does Bloomberg, deep in his Republican, businessman, billionaire consciousness, think of most black men as thugs? Perhaps; and in any case he should probably take a workshop just to make sure. In this particular case, however, I think that calling the union leaders’ tactics “thuggish” simply went along with the general administrative theme of their holding the city hostage & he would have used the same description whether the striking workers were Italian-American or Irish-American or plain old Mayflower borne. Inasmuch as he accidentally caused offense, he should apologize, the way any of us would. And Touissant and Sharpton should make sure that their knee-jerk reactions played out loudly in the press don’t give them a black eye.

#2) Kong is king! — And racist?

Maybe. More importantly: the movie is too damn long, tonally inconsistent (are we in the 30s or aren’t we?) and kind of boring, actually. Lots of soulful staring into eyes. If you’re in the mood for a tension-saturated love story, I recommend Brokeback Mountain, or even Mr. and Mrs. Smith.

Kong was my favorite character. They did do him proud.

“here’s your bonus, happy holidays — oh, and you’re fired”

Things I am grateful for:

I never acquired expensive habits (cocaine, which I hear is fun, for example. Or gym memberships.)

I didn’t run up credit card debt.

I’m only on one prescription medication. (Still, health insurance is the worst habit to have to kick. It feels so great to know that even if you step on a crack and you fall and break your back, or your kidney’s suddenly throbbing and you have to go to the ER, you’ll be covered.)

They’re going to pay me for the next two weeks, during which I don’t have to come into work because, duh, it’s vacation time anyway.

Mr. Ben, who, like a good daddy bird while mommy bird recovers in the nest from her 1.5-hour-long 32-degree walk of shame, went to fetch some hot food.

My friends and family who I’m sure will be very supportive and love me even though i’ve just been “let go.” In their position, I wouldn’t be, that’s for sure. I’d be like, “Bitch, get you to an ice floe. Space is valuable in this city. Shit, even air is valuable, and it’s for winners only, okay? Thanks.”

At least I have tomorrow off now. And gosh darn it, I can do whatever I want.

If only I could figure out what I want to do. Well, except this: they stressed how smart I am — how responsible, but mostly how smart. Maybe I can find a job that will actually value that.

from the front lines

My radio alarm went off at 7:15: “… first transit strike in 25 years and it is 22 degrees outside! Plus wind chill! Ester, it sure is a good thing you have that amazing, cold-defeating Russian Shearling coat and those fleece-lined Canadian boots for your trek across the bridge!”

I made it to work almost an hour early, still riding the adrenaline. The thing is, this shit is kinda fun for the first day, but if it continues, I’m going to lose my sense of humor right quick. MTA, Transit Workers, I feel your pain; now feel mine. Get your selves back to that negotiating table before we have to hear Bloomberg make another speech about how “determined” he is.

To Minnesota …

Dear Minnesota,

How are you doing? Great, great. Listen, we seem to have gotten some of your weather by mistake. I know, crazy, right? What are the odds, considering we’re like half a country away from you and on a completely different latitude. So, um, I’m sure you’re enjoying the unusually temperate winter but if you wouldn’t mind dropping off ours and letting us return yours we’d be super grateful. Especially because the transit workers might be going on strike at midnight tonight and some of the 7 million of us left without means of transportation will have to WALK OVER THE BROOKLYN BRIDGE AT DAWN IN THE SNOW in order to make it to work in Manhattan on time. And that’s frikkin harsh, man. So harsh that we might have to take a flask with us, get loaded, beat the shit out of Ohio and say you did it.

Thanks! Love the cheese hats (or is that Wisconsin …?)
New York City

PS – A certain new inhabitant of the city has misplaced her good luck. Maybe it went the way of the weather? Would you mind checking, and, if you find it, sending it back to her, posthaste, at [address redacted]? She’ll be waiting for it expectantly while she searches the want ads and moans periodically to herself.

xoxo,
nyc

a happy day ends in a muddle

It is impossible for me to regard the success of another without it throwing my mental processes into disarray. After I first heard Bernadette Peters sing for the first time at the age of 11, it was years before I could listen without weeping or raging (inside) that I’d never have a voice like hers. For example. Conversely, I overidentify very strongly with those who try and fail: it took a long time for me to recover from Bobby Baseball, a kid’s book about a kid who wanted more than anything to be a pitcher but he couldn’t, he just couldn’t, he wasn’t any good. And that’s how it ended! No fake reassurances, no hope, just plain truth.

The book The Princess Bride — though not the movie, which is why the book is better — makes the same point: life isn’t fair, some people don’t get what they want or deserve. I remember being shocked by its matter-of-factness. Yet somehow I think fairness was never an illusion I had. Against all evidence of my well-cushioned childhood, I knew that into every life some hailstones must fall.

Applause in general, being antithetical to hailstones, still makes me tear up. Semiotically. It represents achievement — and to my brain, recognition of same connotes that maybe whoever produced it will never be on such a peak again. Maybe I’ll never be there at all.

The most recent trigger of this sort of embarrassing outpour of emotion is the novel Prep by Curtis Sittenfeld, which I heard about while still working at the Very Important Talent Agency. (Before I had to, you know, flee like the Hebrews from Egypt.) The fact that it’s been on top five lists piqued my interest in a way that its initial buzz didn’t — because, again, applause does that to me. You know how good it is? I read it all day today, from beginning to end. I scarcely did anything else. When I finished, before I finished even, I wailed.

Then I read Curtis Sittenfeld’s pedigree off the back jacket and wailed some more. Stanford. Iowa Writer’s Workshop. Prizes, fellowships. It made me start researching graduate MFA programs again and only the intense exhaustion that came back to me as I recalled how awful the experience was the first time around swatted my fingers from the keyboard.

I think my life needs to be about more than office work. For some people, I think the more is their children, and more power to them — I just can’t imagine that being enough for me. Oh dear. Life is going to be awfully disappointing for me unless I can wake up tomorrow morning trilling like Bernadette Peters.