Man Martin's Blog, page 224
May 25, 2011
Too Many Boobs in Forest Park
Forest Park passed an ordinance against breast feeding any child over two years old in public.
Honestly, our damn lawmakers have too much time on their hands.
They claim their stand is against public nudity, which misses the point because during breast feeding, the nipple is covered up, right? Their real agenda - which I do understand - is it's kind of icky watching a toddler slurp on mommy in a MARTA train. But why on earth pass a law against it?
Not counting Nancy, I can count on my fingers the number of times I've seen a woman publicly breast feed a child of any age in public. Is there really such an outbreak of public breast feeding that it has drawn the attention of legislators?
Dependably this lunatic law drew a storm of protest from breast feeders of toddlers, more than a hundred of whom showed up at City Hall to publicly flout the ordinance, so the lawmakers got precisely the thing they wished to avoid: a mass display of three-year-olds getting a good bellyfull of milk.
Do you think cops actually passed out citations? Really? Isn't there any possible better use of their time?
Yet another reason I'm a Libertarian. As Pogo said, forget making the world safe for democracy. We got to make democracy safe for the world.
Honestly, our damn lawmakers have too much time on their hands.
They claim their stand is against public nudity, which misses the point because during breast feeding, the nipple is covered up, right? Their real agenda - which I do understand - is it's kind of icky watching a toddler slurp on mommy in a MARTA train. But why on earth pass a law against it?
Not counting Nancy, I can count on my fingers the number of times I've seen a woman publicly breast feed a child of any age in public. Is there really such an outbreak of public breast feeding that it has drawn the attention of legislators?
Dependably this lunatic law drew a storm of protest from breast feeders of toddlers, more than a hundred of whom showed up at City Hall to publicly flout the ordinance, so the lawmakers got precisely the thing they wished to avoid: a mass display of three-year-olds getting a good bellyfull of milk.
Do you think cops actually passed out citations? Really? Isn't there any possible better use of their time?
Yet another reason I'm a Libertarian. As Pogo said, forget making the world safe for democracy. We got to make democracy safe for the world.
May 24, 2011
Why I Still Love the Marx Brothers
If you've never seen a Marx Brothers movie, you may be disappointed. By modern tastes, it will seem draggy in spots, the acting is third rate, and the script is cheesey. I don't care. I still love the Marx Brothers. As I was re-watching Night at the Opera the other evening, fast-forwarding through all the scenes with Zeppo and his love interest, I wondered why.
Let's start with Groucho. The Marx Brothers are frequently described as "anarchic" and Groucho is the main reason. In the opening scene, ostensibly he's trying to seduce his employer played by Margaret Dumont. A generation, maybe every generation, of actors based their smooth-talking shysters after Groucho's persona: Phil Silvers and Zero Mostel leap to mind instantly. But Groucho is so lunatic he can't even play a shyster straight. In the opening scene, he's stood Dumont up! He's sitting at an adjoining table with a peroxide blond! And just before leaving the blond to shmooze and insult Dumont (he never stops insulting her) he insults the blond. This isn't misogny, because Groucho has a zinger for everyone he meets. Nor are these insults in the crude Don Rickles sense. It's pun, wordplay, and innuendo. Groucho's character is such a loose cannon that it endangers the logic of the story.
And then comes Chico and Harpo. Movies don't feature musical interludes as they used to, and something's been lost by that. Chico is just a joy to watch at the piano; he literally plays it, the way you play with a toy. Harpo's musicianship is also wonderful, but for me he overplays the angelic bit as he strums his harp. Harpo is no angel. He's at his best producing an endless stream of geegaws, odds, and ends from his capacious coat, groping and chasing various women.
When people talk about the Marx Brothers, they usually bring up Duck Soup, which is a lot of fun, but I also like Coconuts and Animal Crackers. Go back and watch the Marx Brothers. They can teach you a lot about madcap.
Groucho's moustache was painted on with greasepaint. Chico's accent is absolutely unconvincing. The puns are attrocious. I don't care. I still love the Marx Brothers.
Let's start with Groucho. The Marx Brothers are frequently described as "anarchic" and Groucho is the main reason. In the opening scene, ostensibly he's trying to seduce his employer played by Margaret Dumont. A generation, maybe every generation, of actors based their smooth-talking shysters after Groucho's persona: Phil Silvers and Zero Mostel leap to mind instantly. But Groucho is so lunatic he can't even play a shyster straight. In the opening scene, he's stood Dumont up! He's sitting at an adjoining table with a peroxide blond! And just before leaving the blond to shmooze and insult Dumont (he never stops insulting her) he insults the blond. This isn't misogny, because Groucho has a zinger for everyone he meets. Nor are these insults in the crude Don Rickles sense. It's pun, wordplay, and innuendo. Groucho's character is such a loose cannon that it endangers the logic of the story.
And then comes Chico and Harpo. Movies don't feature musical interludes as they used to, and something's been lost by that. Chico is just a joy to watch at the piano; he literally plays it, the way you play with a toy. Harpo's musicianship is also wonderful, but for me he overplays the angelic bit as he strums his harp. Harpo is no angel. He's at his best producing an endless stream of geegaws, odds, and ends from his capacious coat, groping and chasing various women.
When people talk about the Marx Brothers, they usually bring up Duck Soup, which is a lot of fun, but I also like Coconuts and Animal Crackers. Go back and watch the Marx Brothers. They can teach you a lot about madcap.
Groucho's moustache was painted on with greasepaint. Chico's accent is absolutely unconvincing. The puns are attrocious. I don't care. I still love the Marx Brothers.
May 23, 2011
Mazeltov
Yesterday I had to install a new mailbox. A power line had fallen on our old one and bent it permanently out of shape, servicable enough to hold letters, but not up to the Martin standard. I'd had a full day and was going to squeeze in installing the mailbox before rushing off to attend my high school's graduation ceremony.
I was just pulling out of the driveway on my way to the hardware store when Nancy flagged me down. Drew, my daughter's boyfriend, was on the phone and wanted to come over and "talk to us."
It's the moment every father... "Dreads" is the wrong word. It isn't something you dread. It's more like awaiting with apprehension, the day a young man asks for your daughter's hand. The unspecified "talk to us" also created a certain amount of suspense as we waited for Drew to arrive.
I won't keep you in suspense. Drew indeed had asked my daughter to marry him.
As a father you wonder what sort of man your daughter will choose and what sort will choose her. Not to put too fine a point on it, there are a lot of losers out there, and I can't help noticing that women sometimes seem mysteriously attracted to them. What if my daughter brings home some sullen dimwit with bad teeth and a backward-facing baseball cap? How will I sit there and force a smile as I contemplate her years yoked to some cruel-minded clown?
Thank you, Lord, I needed have no such fear. Drew is a splendid man. He is joyous, he is kind, he is intelligent, he is curious about the world and the things inside it. He is in love with my daughter.
There is no firm date for the wedding yet. Nancy and I will be shaking coins out of piggybanks and looking under couch cushions for change between now and then.
In the meantime, I am looking forward to having a son. I never had a son.
Mazeltov.
Oh, by the way, the mailbox turned out great.
I was just pulling out of the driveway on my way to the hardware store when Nancy flagged me down. Drew, my daughter's boyfriend, was on the phone and wanted to come over and "talk to us."
It's the moment every father... "Dreads" is the wrong word. It isn't something you dread. It's more like awaiting with apprehension, the day a young man asks for your daughter's hand. The unspecified "talk to us" also created a certain amount of suspense as we waited for Drew to arrive.
I won't keep you in suspense. Drew indeed had asked my daughter to marry him.
As a father you wonder what sort of man your daughter will choose and what sort will choose her. Not to put too fine a point on it, there are a lot of losers out there, and I can't help noticing that women sometimes seem mysteriously attracted to them. What if my daughter brings home some sullen dimwit with bad teeth and a backward-facing baseball cap? How will I sit there and force a smile as I contemplate her years yoked to some cruel-minded clown?
Thank you, Lord, I needed have no such fear. Drew is a splendid man. He is joyous, he is kind, he is intelligent, he is curious about the world and the things inside it. He is in love with my daughter.
There is no firm date for the wedding yet. Nancy and I will be shaking coins out of piggybanks and looking under couch cushions for change between now and then.
In the meantime, I am looking forward to having a son. I never had a son.
Mazeltov.
Oh, by the way, the mailbox turned out great.
May 22, 2011
Re-Read Any Good Books Lately?
I seem to be re-reading books lately. I'm currently re-reading Titmuss Regained by John Mortimer, and before that, I re-read Lancelot by Walker Percy.
Nabokov claims you can't really enjoy a book until you re-read it. The first time, you're caught up in the momentum of what-happens-next? It's only after returning to a book, you begin to appreciate the writer's artistry. This seems true for me. Titmuss Regained, a very witty political novel, I found hilarious for the first half. The second half is dragging for me. The reason is because all the delight I took in re-reading came from watching how cleverly Mortimer set up all the reversals and recognitions to take place later in the book. I already knew what would happen, so I could sit back and appreciate watching how Mortimer would make it happen. Now that he's laid all his groundwork, though, I'm less interested in watching him spring his various traps. Of course, on my first reading, when the outcome was still unexpected, the ending was what I primarily enjoyed.
Lancelot is a different experience. That book took me by the throat and shook me the whole way through. Again, though, the parts that stunned me the first time, I read through, not with disappointment, but disinterest. It was the connecting tissue, the way it was written, that so enthralled me this time. I swear, Lancelot is not merely good, it's William Faulkner good.
The books we choose to read say a lot about us as writers. Man and boy, I have read Huck Finn more times than I can tell you. If I've read Code of the Woosters once, I've read it five times. Decline and Fall, Handful of Dust, and The Loved One, I've read at least twice apiece, although Loved One seemed very watery the second go-through. The first two remained outstanding to me.
Of course, it's all a matter of taste. I happen to have a sweet tooth for humor. I've read Candide multiple times. Once in a French class, I had to translate a passage from French into English. Even through the haze of my weak comprehension, it was still hilarious.
So, my fellow-writers, two questions. What books have you re-read? More importantly, what will you write worth re-reading?
Nabokov claims you can't really enjoy a book until you re-read it. The first time, you're caught up in the momentum of what-happens-next? It's only after returning to a book, you begin to appreciate the writer's artistry. This seems true for me. Titmuss Regained, a very witty political novel, I found hilarious for the first half. The second half is dragging for me. The reason is because all the delight I took in re-reading came from watching how cleverly Mortimer set up all the reversals and recognitions to take place later in the book. I already knew what would happen, so I could sit back and appreciate watching how Mortimer would make it happen. Now that he's laid all his groundwork, though, I'm less interested in watching him spring his various traps. Of course, on my first reading, when the outcome was still unexpected, the ending was what I primarily enjoyed.
Lancelot is a different experience. That book took me by the throat and shook me the whole way through. Again, though, the parts that stunned me the first time, I read through, not with disappointment, but disinterest. It was the connecting tissue, the way it was written, that so enthralled me this time. I swear, Lancelot is not merely good, it's William Faulkner good.
The books we choose to read say a lot about us as writers. Man and boy, I have read Huck Finn more times than I can tell you. If I've read Code of the Woosters once, I've read it five times. Decline and Fall, Handful of Dust, and The Loved One, I've read at least twice apiece, although Loved One seemed very watery the second go-through. The first two remained outstanding to me.
Of course, it's all a matter of taste. I happen to have a sweet tooth for humor. I've read Candide multiple times. Once in a French class, I had to translate a passage from French into English. Even through the haze of my weak comprehension, it was still hilarious.
So, my fellow-writers, two questions. What books have you re-read? More importantly, what will you write worth re-reading?
May 21, 2011
Birthday plus Fifty-Two
On this day was Man Martin born.
Well, that's not exactly true. My birthday was yesterday, but today I celebrate.
I'm fifty-two, which is a remarkable age. Somehow I imagine Odysseus was around this age when he finally returned to Ithaca, still hearty, but with gray hair on his chest. I won't say there's a wisdom that comes with this age, but there's a degree of comfort in one's own skin that comes of long aquaintance with it. I spent the morning my favorite way, working in the garden. I wore a red tee-shirt from my daughter's old sorority, green bathing shorts with a drawstring, white socks, shoes similar to crocs - easy to slip on and off - and a stained Panama Jack hat. I toted buckets of water from our rain barrels to tomato plants and foxgloves.
I looked - still look, because minus the shoes, I'm still dressed the same - the total dweeb. In my adolescence, I would never dressed this way. As a teenager, I wore jeans even in the heat of summer because I was embarrassed by the sight of my own hairy legs. Now it's all about comfort and practicality. I am no wiser, but I know when life is good and to be grateful for that.
When Odysseus is found by the Princess Nausicaa on the shore of Phaecia he compliments her by comparing her to a tree. An odd sort of flattery, "Yore prettier na magnolia!", but the sort of thing a sailor who had spent years at sea would understand: "Yet in Delos once I saw such a thing by Apollo's altar. I saw the stalk of a young palm shooting up...And as when I looked upon the tree, my heart admired it long; since such a tree had never yet sprung up from the eart, so now, lady I admire you and wonder..."
Odysseus probably would have eaten lamb on his homecoming. When the Odyssey mentions "cattle," it's usually sheep. Nancy's making me her special leg of lamb tonight as well.
The last part of Odysseus' life was not without misfortune. Even after killing the suitors and making peace with their families, he got into some sort of fracas sooner or later, and ended up dying far away from home, dispossessed of his kingdom. The wisdom of the Greeks to know no happy ending is ever permanent. Jason returns in triumph with the Golden Fleece only to have his dreams blighted and sons murdered by the woman who helped him obtain it. Call no man fortunate, Sophocles says, until he is dead. Still. The wise man, or the man who passes for wise, knows when life is good and when to be grateful. My wife has just stepped out of the door, and the sight of her is as gracious to me as the crown of a familiar magnolia to someone who has been long away from home. Life is good. I am grateful.
Well, that's not exactly true. My birthday was yesterday, but today I celebrate.
I'm fifty-two, which is a remarkable age. Somehow I imagine Odysseus was around this age when he finally returned to Ithaca, still hearty, but with gray hair on his chest. I won't say there's a wisdom that comes with this age, but there's a degree of comfort in one's own skin that comes of long aquaintance with it. I spent the morning my favorite way, working in the garden. I wore a red tee-shirt from my daughter's old sorority, green bathing shorts with a drawstring, white socks, shoes similar to crocs - easy to slip on and off - and a stained Panama Jack hat. I toted buckets of water from our rain barrels to tomato plants and foxgloves.
I looked - still look, because minus the shoes, I'm still dressed the same - the total dweeb. In my adolescence, I would never dressed this way. As a teenager, I wore jeans even in the heat of summer because I was embarrassed by the sight of my own hairy legs. Now it's all about comfort and practicality. I am no wiser, but I know when life is good and to be grateful for that.
When Odysseus is found by the Princess Nausicaa on the shore of Phaecia he compliments her by comparing her to a tree. An odd sort of flattery, "Yore prettier na magnolia!", but the sort of thing a sailor who had spent years at sea would understand: "Yet in Delos once I saw such a thing by Apollo's altar. I saw the stalk of a young palm shooting up...And as when I looked upon the tree, my heart admired it long; since such a tree had never yet sprung up from the eart, so now, lady I admire you and wonder..."
Odysseus probably would have eaten lamb on his homecoming. When the Odyssey mentions "cattle," it's usually sheep. Nancy's making me her special leg of lamb tonight as well.
The last part of Odysseus' life was not without misfortune. Even after killing the suitors and making peace with their families, he got into some sort of fracas sooner or later, and ended up dying far away from home, dispossessed of his kingdom. The wisdom of the Greeks to know no happy ending is ever permanent. Jason returns in triumph with the Golden Fleece only to have his dreams blighted and sons murdered by the woman who helped him obtain it. Call no man fortunate, Sophocles says, until he is dead. Still. The wise man, or the man who passes for wise, knows when life is good and when to be grateful. My wife has just stepped out of the door, and the sight of her is as gracious to me as the crown of a familiar magnolia to someone who has been long away from home. Life is good. I am grateful.
May 20, 2011
My (Glorious) Place in Posterity
Breathes there an artist so humble he doesn't dream of immortal fame?This month I received my copy of
The Corvette in Literature and Culture
, Jerry Passon's fascinating survey of the symbolic dimensions of this American icon. In it, there's an ENTIRE CHAPTER devoted to Days of the Endless Corvette! Holy Cow! If I'd known it was that important, I'd have proofread more carefully.Then last week, I got a letter from Katherine Pope asking me to donate any personal papers and photographs to the Special Collections archive at Georgia College.My head is so big right now, I find it difficult squeezing through the front door.
May 19, 2011
Prescriptivism vs Descriptivism (Again!)
This is one of those blogs wherein I debate vociferously an issue no one could possibly care about but me.
I've been watching James McWhorter's lectures on linguistics on a series of DVDs from The Learning Company. It really is fascinating, and McWhorter is not only tremendously bright and knowledgeable but witty and genuinely fun to watch. Near the end of the lectures, he brings up the Descriptivist/Prescriptivist debate, weighing in on the side of Descriptivism. (For those of you who don't know about this and who have persisted reading this blog anyway, Descriptivists are folks content to describe how language is actually used, whereas Prescriptivists describe how it ought to be used. We're the folks who prigishly tell you, "'No, Tim and I went to the store'")
There's something slightly inconsistent about the Descriptivist position, but maybe I'm just imagining it. I can't picture a Prescriptivist saying it was wrong to study how language is actually used in common talk. That seems good and interesting and worthwhile. The Prescriptivist would say to the Descriptivist, "Go forth and describe! God speed you!" But the Descriptivist tells the Prescriptivist he should oughter go around Prescribing stuff. The Prescriptivist is content to let the Descriptivist be, but not the other way around. The Descriptivist says we have no right to prescribe how language ought to be, but feels perfectly justified prescribing how the study of language ought to be.
McWhorter gives several persuasive arguments why Prescriptivism is a waste of time that could be better spent, say, darning socks. 1. It is the nature of language to change, and if we don't object to the thousands of years of change that brought about English as we speak it today, we shouldn't be troubled that it's continuing to change right now. 2. Many of the solipsisms we object to today would not have troubled Thomas Jefferson while Jefferson would have considered many of our commonly accepted usages vulgar. 3. Some usages we object to most strongly have really been around for a very long time. For example - and I was unaware of this - using "they" as a singular in a sentence like "Someone left their book on my desk." Another example "verbing," making a verb out of a noun. Shakespeare himself has a gorgeous line, "Uncle me no uncles!" And last, 5. In all the long history and prehistory of language, there is not one example of a language degenerating to the point people were unable to express themselves with perfect - relatively perfect - clarity to one another.
The first two are really one argument so I'll lump them together. Just because a process is natural and perhaps unavoidable doesn't mean we should abet or even tolerate it. I can contemplate the extinction of the dinosaurs with perfect equanimity, knowing I wouldn't be here if they hadn't died out. But that doesn't mean I'm equally nonchalant about human extinction or consoled thinking we'll be replaced by some organism just as adapted to its environment as we are to ours.
That some usages continue to be decried in spite of long standing is interesting, and I'm not sure what to say about it. "Ain't" has been around forever as far as I can tell but never been considered standard, and I don't think it ever would be. I'm pondering the singular "they," and I'll get back to you on that.
As for the future generations being perfectly intelligible to each other, that's all well and good, but I want to be intelligible to them. Beowulf is unreadable except in translation to anyone not trained in Old English. Chaucer is reasonably opaque to anyone not versed - pun intended - in Middle English. Many people groan at how difficult Shakespeare is, and he's Modern English, and a popular writer of his time! Austen and even Dickens seem creaky to us today. I'm a writer, and I fondly and stupidly imagine someone picking up a book of mine in five hundred years and saying, "Dang, that Martin was pretty good." This admittedly farfetched fantasy is even more farfetched if language changes as rapidly as it did between 900 and 1400. This is why those 18th Century grammarians cooked up our grammatical rules in the first place. They wanted to "fix" the language, hold it still, retard, and if possible, stop its change.
I've been watching James McWhorter's lectures on linguistics on a series of DVDs from The Learning Company. It really is fascinating, and McWhorter is not only tremendously bright and knowledgeable but witty and genuinely fun to watch. Near the end of the lectures, he brings up the Descriptivist/Prescriptivist debate, weighing in on the side of Descriptivism. (For those of you who don't know about this and who have persisted reading this blog anyway, Descriptivists are folks content to describe how language is actually used, whereas Prescriptivists describe how it ought to be used. We're the folks who prigishly tell you, "'No, Tim and I went to the store'")
There's something slightly inconsistent about the Descriptivist position, but maybe I'm just imagining it. I can't picture a Prescriptivist saying it was wrong to study how language is actually used in common talk. That seems good and interesting and worthwhile. The Prescriptivist would say to the Descriptivist, "Go forth and describe! God speed you!" But the Descriptivist tells the Prescriptivist he should oughter go around Prescribing stuff. The Prescriptivist is content to let the Descriptivist be, but not the other way around. The Descriptivist says we have no right to prescribe how language ought to be, but feels perfectly justified prescribing how the study of language ought to be.
McWhorter gives several persuasive arguments why Prescriptivism is a waste of time that could be better spent, say, darning socks. 1. It is the nature of language to change, and if we don't object to the thousands of years of change that brought about English as we speak it today, we shouldn't be troubled that it's continuing to change right now. 2. Many of the solipsisms we object to today would not have troubled Thomas Jefferson while Jefferson would have considered many of our commonly accepted usages vulgar. 3. Some usages we object to most strongly have really been around for a very long time. For example - and I was unaware of this - using "they" as a singular in a sentence like "Someone left their book on my desk." Another example "verbing," making a verb out of a noun. Shakespeare himself has a gorgeous line, "Uncle me no uncles!" And last, 5. In all the long history and prehistory of language, there is not one example of a language degenerating to the point people were unable to express themselves with perfect - relatively perfect - clarity to one another.
The first two are really one argument so I'll lump them together. Just because a process is natural and perhaps unavoidable doesn't mean we should abet or even tolerate it. I can contemplate the extinction of the dinosaurs with perfect equanimity, knowing I wouldn't be here if they hadn't died out. But that doesn't mean I'm equally nonchalant about human extinction or consoled thinking we'll be replaced by some organism just as adapted to its environment as we are to ours.
That some usages continue to be decried in spite of long standing is interesting, and I'm not sure what to say about it. "Ain't" has been around forever as far as I can tell but never been considered standard, and I don't think it ever would be. I'm pondering the singular "they," and I'll get back to you on that.
As for the future generations being perfectly intelligible to each other, that's all well and good, but I want to be intelligible to them. Beowulf is unreadable except in translation to anyone not trained in Old English. Chaucer is reasonably opaque to anyone not versed - pun intended - in Middle English. Many people groan at how difficult Shakespeare is, and he's Modern English, and a popular writer of his time! Austen and even Dickens seem creaky to us today. I'm a writer, and I fondly and stupidly imagine someone picking up a book of mine in five hundred years and saying, "Dang, that Martin was pretty good." This admittedly farfetched fantasy is even more farfetched if language changes as rapidly as it did between 900 and 1400. This is why those 18th Century grammarians cooked up our grammatical rules in the first place. They wanted to "fix" the language, hold it still, retard, and if possible, stop its change.
May 18, 2011
Buying Things for Your Other Things
Last weekend my wife and I bought some new patio chairs. The old ones are plastic and admittedly somewhat tacky, so we'll donate them somewhere or just store them. Nancy was considering repainting the chairs, but saw these nice ones at Kroger and picked them up. She needed some new chairs partly because we're also getting a new umbrella; the old one is getting really shabby and the other day fell apart and had to be repaired.
Once we got home with the new chairs, Nancy had to decide wheter to spraypaint the table black (to match the chairs) or bronze (to match the new umbrella). Finally she hit on spraypainting the new chairs bronze to match the umbrella and also to fit in better with plastic bins we keep on the patio for pool towels and floats.
I was fully on board with all this, and still am, because after all, Nancy is only trying to make our surroundings as comfortable and comodious as possible.
Still.
I am thinking just now of my great-great grandfather, who, according to legend, owned a single pair of overalls. To save these from wear, he would hang them on a nail each day while he plowed the field wearing... something less than overalls.
The story may be apocryphal and probably is, but there's no doubt Gene Hambrick - was that his name? - got by on a whole lot less than we do. Spraypainting patio furniture to match the umbrella was probably never an issue he faced. Surely he'd be happy for me. Surely he'd say he labored so that one day his great-great grandson could enjoy such opulence. Wouldn't he?
In my darker moments I can't help but feel that our lives have take an immense wrong turn, that we are trapped in an endles pursusit of stuff. Buying things. And then buying things for our other things. And buying things for them.
Once we got home with the new chairs, Nancy had to decide wheter to spraypaint the table black (to match the chairs) or bronze (to match the new umbrella). Finally she hit on spraypainting the new chairs bronze to match the umbrella and also to fit in better with plastic bins we keep on the patio for pool towels and floats.
I was fully on board with all this, and still am, because after all, Nancy is only trying to make our surroundings as comfortable and comodious as possible.
Still.
I am thinking just now of my great-great grandfather, who, according to legend, owned a single pair of overalls. To save these from wear, he would hang them on a nail each day while he plowed the field wearing... something less than overalls.
The story may be apocryphal and probably is, but there's no doubt Gene Hambrick - was that his name? - got by on a whole lot less than we do. Spraypainting patio furniture to match the umbrella was probably never an issue he faced. Surely he'd be happy for me. Surely he'd say he labored so that one day his great-great grandson could enjoy such opulence. Wouldn't he?
In my darker moments I can't help but feel that our lives have take an immense wrong turn, that we are trapped in an endles pursusit of stuff. Buying things. And then buying things for our other things. And buying things for them.
May 17, 2011
Valerie Storey's Rule of Twelve Expanded
At Kennesaw State University I had a class under Valerie Storey, who taught me some of the most essential practical information I ever gleaned. Not that I didn't learn something valuable in all my classes, but Valerie gave very practical insights. For example, for our final project, we had to prepare a manuscript for submission, Self-Addressed Stamped Envelope and all. Now there's a lesson for a beginning writer! If I ever have a writing workshop, I'll do that with all my classes.
Another thing that stuck with me is she said if you send 12 manuscripts out at the same time, you'll get a positive response from at least one of them. Not necessarily an acceptance, but at least an encouraging rejection that will keep you going.
In a recent blog, she's expanded her rule of 12 to include other things, such as "If you wrote just 12 lines a day..." I'm appending her blog in toto here so you can see for yourself, but Valerie's approach shows a lot of common sense. Sometimes when attempting something overwhelming such as, say, writing a novel or losing ten pounds,we think we're supposed to jump into it all at once, swallow the elephant whole, to mix metaphors. Instead, the best way to eat an elephant is one very thin slice at a time, storing the restin the chest freezer until needed.
Another teacher, Tony Grooms once remarked that if you wrote two hundred words a day, at the end of a year you'd have a seventy-thousand word novel. Think of that! A mere two hundred words a day! You could do that! I've done it myself.
There's an African proverb that goes, "Little and little wears away the stone," which bears the same message.
Dream big, by all means dream big. But don't hesitate to start small.
Here's Valerie's post:
http://valeriestorey.blogspot.com/2010/02/take-twelve.html
Another thing that stuck with me is she said if you send 12 manuscripts out at the same time, you'll get a positive response from at least one of them. Not necessarily an acceptance, but at least an encouraging rejection that will keep you going.
In a recent blog, she's expanded her rule of 12 to include other things, such as "If you wrote just 12 lines a day..." I'm appending her blog in toto here so you can see for yourself, but Valerie's approach shows a lot of common sense. Sometimes when attempting something overwhelming such as, say, writing a novel or losing ten pounds,we think we're supposed to jump into it all at once, swallow the elephant whole, to mix metaphors. Instead, the best way to eat an elephant is one very thin slice at a time, storing the restin the chest freezer until needed.
Another teacher, Tony Grooms once remarked that if you wrote two hundred words a day, at the end of a year you'd have a seventy-thousand word novel. Think of that! A mere two hundred words a day! You could do that! I've done it myself.
There's an African proverb that goes, "Little and little wears away the stone," which bears the same message.
Dream big, by all means dream big. But don't hesitate to start small.
Here's Valerie's post:
http://valeriestorey.blogspot.com/2010/02/take-twelve.html
May 16, 2011
Paradise Dogs Video
Hard to believe, but Paradise Dogs hits bookstores in a mere three weeks! Just for fun I'm re-posting a video I made last summer. This one, alas, doesn't feature the superlative cover art by Young Jim Lin who did a masterful job with the actual book.
