JK: Jonathan, I'm very grateful you're taking the time to talk to our readers.
JK: It's no problem, Jonathan. I'm happy to do it.
JK: Good, then let's get right to it.
JK: Shoot.
JK: Some say you're a genius. How do you respond to that accusation?
JK: Well, first of all, Jonathan, I don't really take it as an accusation.
JK: Oh?
JK: No, I think it's intended as a compliment.
JK: But those calling you that -- they must mean it ironically.
JK: Yes, I agree, they mean it ironically. Still, I choose to take it as a compliment.
JK: That's cheating yourself out of an opportunity to get to know yourself better, isn't it?
JK: Yes.
JK: Fair enough. Then how do you respond to the compliment?
JK: With false modesty. Thus: If you talk to any of my friends, I'm sure they'd be happy to tell you that I'm no genius.
JK: Just the opposite of a genius.
JK: Exactly! So, although it's flattering, I suppose I have to say that I'm just lucky to be doing what I do -- writing plays -- and I'm just lucky that people respond to them.
JK: Are you avoiding the question, then?
JK: Yes.
JK: I thought you would. Let me ask you this: do you really think people are responding to your plays?
JK: I'd say yes, they are. After a performance, frequently people come up to me and pat me on the back and say things like, "I really enjoyed that," or "You're very funny, you should write for cable television."
JK: And you believe these people?
JK: Not really, actually, but I continue writing plays, anyway.
JK: You're a bit of a self-deluding sort, aren't you?
JK: Yes. But I believe a bit of self-delusion is necessary to get through life. If we honestly assessed ourselves every moment of every day, we'd probably jump off the Brooklyn Bridge.
JK: Ha ha!
JK: He he!
JK: What sorts of subjects inspire you?
JK: Hmm, that's a very interesting question.
JK: Thank you.
JK: Well, to begin with, I'm inspired by stories where the author creates his or her own world -- a place that lives in the author's head and only there -- in response to experiences in the real world. Sort of speculative/realistic? But maybe that describes all stories.
JK: Can you give examples?
JK: Sure. I really like the film Brazil.
JK: Oh, yes, of course.
JK: And Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. Or a comedy like Groundhog Day. I think the late great Billy Wilder was also something of a master of this sort of thing, though he was much subtler. Films like Double Indemnity, Some Like It Hot, The Apartment -- they take place in a universe that's eerily familiar, but where people talk and behave in a heightened manner. All of these stories explore existential issues in gripping, intriguing ways. At least, to me.
JK: So you're concerned with existence, then?
JK: Yes, I think that's fair to say. Even my comedies. Take Better Lucky Than Smart, for example -- on some simple levels it's about greed.
JK: I love that title, by the way.
JK: Oh, thank you.
JK: No problem.
JK: It's about greed, but it's also about who we are when we simply become striving, dreaming creatures. All the characters in the play strive for -- they desperately desire -- something that they think will make them happy. It's the American dream, if you will -- and they're trapped, ultimately, by their dreams. They can't enjoy what's right in front of them. They can't simply live.
JK: Yes, yes, and it's only the childlike Duke who can see what's going on.
JK: Very perceptive, Jonathan. Yes, Duke, expresses the play's theme in the scene where he talks with young Tyler about the difference between luck and reality.
JK: It's quite captivating.
JK: That was a joke, right, because Tyler is tied up?
JK: Am I trying too hard?
JK: Not at all. I appreciate a good pun as much as the next man.
JK: Anyway, it is a thrilling scene.
JK: Thank you. And I hope it's funny, too.
JK: It's not Seinfeld, but what is?
JK: Is that a rhetorical question?
JK: You can answer it if you'd like.
JK: Well, I love Seinfeld. Many people do. However, I'm deliberately trying to avoid writing sitcoms. I think sitcom-ish writing has become a plague in the playwriting community.
JK: What do you mean?
JK: Simply put, too many writers think they can substitute situational writing for character development. The writing ends up flat and uninteresting.
JK: That does sound bad.
JK: It is.
JK: What else are you working on?
JK: I have a reading of my play, The Beast in My Pants, coming up shortly with Emerging Artists Theater. When I have the details, I'll post them on Facebook, but I do know the reading will be Sunday, October 25th at noon.
JK: Is that really the title?
JK: Yes.
JK: Wow, that might the greatest title in the history of theater...
JK: Well, I don't know about that, but...
JK: I just peed my leg.
JK: You did pee your leg, I feel it trickling into my sock. Jesus, Jonathan.
JK: Well, that's a funny title.
JK: Control yourself!
JK: It's funny!
JK: Oy.
JK: What inspired that play and what's it about?
JK: Well, it's similar to Better Lucky Than Smart, in that it's about people full of unfulfilled desires. In this case, there are six characters and each is trying desperately to learn to love. And failing miserably.
JK: Sounds depressing.
JK: Not at all. It's just human nature. The way we fly at each other in various ways and miss connecting. It's actually quite funny. There's an inane therapist, Doctor Adam Applebaum, who is trying to seduce his patient, Steve, who is in love with his wife and wants to earn her respect, only she loves men who don't respect her. The protagonist, Marlon, is confused by it all and is trying to learn to love Pam, a pretty college student, but she can only love a genius, like Adam Applebaum. Meanwhile, Marlon's mother, Mrs. Rivington, is threatening to kill the therapist -- she's killed five husbands already -- because she's afraid Marlon will blame all his problems on her. Doctor Freud, a puppet that Applebaum talks to, tries to sort it all out, but of course fails.
JK: That sounds horribly sad.
JK: No, really, you'd like it. It's funny.
JK: I'm going to kill myself.
JK: Wait, what?
JK: I'm pointing a gun right now at my head.
JK: Put that down.
JK: I'll do it, don't come any closer.
JK: I said... On no! Jesus! No! Jonathan? Jonathan, speak to me! Jonathan! Jonathan! Jesus! Someone call an ambulance! Hurry! Jonathan!!!
9/27/2009
8/17/2009
Application to P.C.U.
I was applying to several writing programs a while ago and had trouble figuring out exactly the right tone to strike: Dignified? Brilliant? Sweet and lovable? How do you impress evaluators? Finally, I decided to just tell the truth. So here is my application letter to all the places looking for the perfectly P.C. candidate:
I was born a poor black child in the south. My mother was a lesbian and I think about lesbians a lot. My father was gay and black and Chinese and he traveled a lot with the circus and, sadly, he was a midget. But being a midget and black and Chinese and married to a lesbian, didn’t stop him from pursuing his dream of forming an all-midget, black, Chinese, lesbian elephant taming troupe. His drive and determination has inspired me to pursue my own goals of helping poor, black, Chinese, lesbian midgets with my writing. I’ve been in writing groups before, but they’ve been made up mostly of tall, white, straight people and they have rarely been able to help me find my voice. I am hoping the Writers Program can help me find my midget, black, Chinese, lesbian voice, as I heard a rumor that the workshop will be comprised of a diverse group of Americans. And diversity is what I need – in spades! – to write about black, Chinese lesbian midgets.
Did I mention that I have a lisp? Well, I do, and it generally makes people feel sorry for me. But people with lisps are people too, and I hope, with the aid of the black, Chinese, lesbian midgets I’ll meet in your program, to teach a larger audience (teaching is what writing is all about!) that lisps are nature’s way of saying, “you’re thspecial.”
So in summary: lisps and diversity equal goodness. I equal goodness.
p.s. I own a monkey and sometimes I touch it in inappropriate ways. But people need to learn that monkey molesters… well, you get the picture! WINK WINK!
I was born a poor black child in the south. My mother was a lesbian and I think about lesbians a lot. My father was gay and black and Chinese and he traveled a lot with the circus and, sadly, he was a midget. But being a midget and black and Chinese and married to a lesbian, didn’t stop him from pursuing his dream of forming an all-midget, black, Chinese, lesbian elephant taming troupe. His drive and determination has inspired me to pursue my own goals of helping poor, black, Chinese, lesbian midgets with my writing. I’ve been in writing groups before, but they’ve been made up mostly of tall, white, straight people and they have rarely been able to help me find my voice. I am hoping the Writers Program can help me find my midget, black, Chinese, lesbian voice, as I heard a rumor that the workshop will be comprised of a diverse group of Americans. And diversity is what I need – in spades! – to write about black, Chinese lesbian midgets.
Did I mention that I have a lisp? Well, I do, and it generally makes people feel sorry for me. But people with lisps are people too, and I hope, with the aid of the black, Chinese, lesbian midgets I’ll meet in your program, to teach a larger audience (teaching is what writing is all about!) that lisps are nature’s way of saying, “you’re thspecial.”
So in summary: lisps and diversity equal goodness. I equal goodness.
p.s. I own a monkey and sometimes I touch it in inappropriate ways. But people need to learn that monkey molesters… well, you get the picture! WINK WINK!
5/13/2009
31 Days to a better blog Day 7
Since I started writing in my blog again (after traveling into the vast reaches of space over the last year), many of you have written and asked me to destroy my computer and return to Uranus. But there were two of you (thanks Mom and Dad) who wanted to know what this whole 31 days to a better blog dealio is. Mom, Dad, meet Darren Rouse. He has a blog called Problogger.net, which, coincidentally, is designed to help people write better blogs. Very lucky he picked the name Problogger when you stop to think about it.
Today's assignment is... oh, wait. I'm a day late. This is day 7 and it's day 8, so CrankyPants is actually catching up on missing a day of improving his blog. Yesterday's assignment was to link to another blog and say a few nice words about it. I did that above, as you can see. And most days CrankyPants would be satisfied with doing the absolute minimum so he could spend the rest of his day doing valuable things, like daydreaming and watching NBA basketball games and thinking deep thoughts (examples of deep thoughts: why do I exist? Is that really Dirk Nowitski's haircut? Does anyone not find Drew Barrymore adorable?). But today is not just any day. Today is the day after the day I was supposed to do this assignment, which makes today yesterday. And yesterday was a special day, because it's not today. Confused? Don't be. Or, as my Grandpa Schlomo likes to say, "Get to the point, you putz." My point is: I'm going to link to TWO blogs. That's right, two. Could you ask for a better deal? You could, but then you'd be greedy and I'd have to kick you in the shins. So here's the second link: Heymarci.com (You gotta click on "blog" to get to the blog, but I'm going to assume you can figure that out because you're a genius). Marci, a former New York Times blogger (yes, that's impressive) is the lovely and amazing and inspiring former lawyer turned journalist/teacher who convinced me to improve my blog. You should visit her site if you're interested in any of the following:
--Writing;
--Changing your career;
--Short women who grew up on the Jersey Shore;
--Blogging;
--Classes in journalism;
--Drew Barrymore.
Go ahead. Check out her site. I dare you: http://heymarci.com/ Or check out Darren's if you have a hankering to improve your blog (or to make a living from blogging): http://www.problogger.net/
Now, one last very important... oh, wait. Grandpa Schlmo has gotten into the cole slaw again. I gotta run. Until next time, have a Cranky day...
Today's assignment is... oh, wait. I'm a day late. This is day 7 and it's day 8, so CrankyPants is actually catching up on missing a day of improving his blog. Yesterday's assignment was to link to another blog and say a few nice words about it. I did that above, as you can see. And most days CrankyPants would be satisfied with doing the absolute minimum so he could spend the rest of his day doing valuable things, like daydreaming and watching NBA basketball games and thinking deep thoughts (examples of deep thoughts: why do I exist? Is that really Dirk Nowitski's haircut? Does anyone not find Drew Barrymore adorable?). But today is not just any day. Today is the day after the day I was supposed to do this assignment, which makes today yesterday. And yesterday was a special day, because it's not today. Confused? Don't be. Or, as my Grandpa Schlomo likes to say, "Get to the point, you putz." My point is: I'm going to link to TWO blogs. That's right, two. Could you ask for a better deal? You could, but then you'd be greedy and I'd have to kick you in the shins. So here's the second link: Heymarci.com (You gotta click on "blog" to get to the blog, but I'm going to assume you can figure that out because you're a genius). Marci, a former New York Times blogger (yes, that's impressive) is the lovely and amazing and inspiring former lawyer turned journalist/teacher who convinced me to improve my blog. You should visit her site if you're interested in any of the following:
--Writing;
--Changing your career;
--Short women who grew up on the Jersey Shore;
--Blogging;
--Classes in journalism;
--Drew Barrymore.
Go ahead. Check out her site. I dare you: http://heymarci.com/ Or check out Darren's if you have a hankering to improve your blog (or to make a living from blogging): http://www.problogger.net/
Now, one last very important... oh, wait. Grandpa Schlmo has gotten into the cole slaw again. I gotta run. Until next time, have a Cranky day...
5/07/2009
a GREAT list
For the past year, CrankyPants has been traveling on a spaceship to the outer reaches of the galaxy. For those of you who have swamped this blog with letters begging for more posts, I have bad news for you: you don't exist (although I did get one letter from my Aunt Edwina asking me to leave my Uncle Abe out of my posts, because he's getting a swelled head). For those of you who have not swamped this blog with letters, I have this to say: I love letters. Who doesn't love letters? No one doesn't, that's who. So write me. According to my doctor, I do exist. And I'm lonely. Which brings me to the point of today's blog: blogs.
I'm writing today because I'm taking part in a "31 days to a better blog" program and even though there's no way my blog could be better, I have acknowledged that one way it could be better is if I wrote in it more than once a year (although several of my therapists vehemently disagree). So here I am. Today's assignment is to create a list. Thus, with no further ado, drumroll please... Here's a list of eight things CrankyPants could have been writing about the last year, but didn't because he was busy fliring with alien lifeforms:
1) Barack Obama. I love the guy. Except lately he reminds me a little of George Bush, who I love as much as I love that kid on Winslow Drive who used to beat me up every Saturday morning just to keep his nails short. More and more Barack seems like a member of the club. You know, THAT club. I'm no financial expert, but being a blogger and a jerk, I feel qualified to say that the financial system isn't going to get fixed by rewarding bankers who make money out of nothing in the first place. Give money to people who make useful stuff. Maybe stuff to improve our environment. Or solve our energy problem. Or keep dogs from pooping on my front stoop. Whomever! Just give it to someone who produces something good and useful in the world. Maybe give it to, say, a fabulous blogger playwright? I'm just thinking out loud here...
2) Slumdog Millionaire. A few years ago I made the claim that Crash was the worst Academy Award winner since Gigi. I was, of course, correct. But this year's winner has me pulling out my teeth and clipping my nose hairs. The nicest thing I can say about Slumdog is this: it's a heck of a good episode of Who Wants to be a Millionaire. At least that's what I told people for the first few months after viewing that sentimentalist, dreary, cynical crapfest (the kid plummeting into the shit got off easy since he didn't have to sit through the movie). But I've come around on my thinking: Who Wants to be a Millionaire has had some interesting guests. Some real people with real personalities. It's actually better than Slumdog most days. So why did the movie win? Because it's simple, stupid and really, really stupid. It's just stupid. It's... well, it's stupid.
3) The decay of modern civilization. See above. Plus, the closing of newspapers and the decline of the publishing industry, and the decline of the environment, and the rise of emotionalism and the decline of Tom Brady's knee.
4) Television. Amidst the decline of modern civilization, television has hit a golden age: Battlestar Gallatica, The Wire, Freaks and Geeks (okay, that's going back a bit), The Sopranos. And I'm leaving out a handful of others.
5) Angela Rommelcurd. She's this hot babe that hangs out around Jupiter. We had a little tryst last year, but I don't like to kiss and tell. (Hold up your hands if you thought I was going to use "Uranus" in the first sentence of this paragraph. You make me sick).
6) Dating. Actually, in a meta sort of way, I have written about dating. That is to say, I've said, by saying nothing, all there is to say about my romantic life. (Except for Angela Rommelcurd, of course, who exists only in my brain). Why is dating so difficult? I thought it was because I have high standards: half a brain, a whole body, emotional stability. But it turns out I have too-high standards. Oh, and apparently women have standards, too. Who knew?
7) Hair. How is it that the hair on my face seems to be getting grayer all the time? And my hip is aching? And don't tell me it's because I'm aging, because I'm not.
8) Bunions.
I'm writing today because I'm taking part in a "31 days to a better blog" program and even though there's no way my blog could be better, I have acknowledged that one way it could be better is if I wrote in it more than once a year (although several of my therapists vehemently disagree). So here I am. Today's assignment is to create a list. Thus, with no further ado, drumroll please... Here's a list of eight things CrankyPants could have been writing about the last year, but didn't because he was busy fliring with alien lifeforms:
1) Barack Obama. I love the guy. Except lately he reminds me a little of George Bush, who I love as much as I love that kid on Winslow Drive who used to beat me up every Saturday morning just to keep his nails short. More and more Barack seems like a member of the club. You know, THAT club. I'm no financial expert, but being a blogger and a jerk, I feel qualified to say that the financial system isn't going to get fixed by rewarding bankers who make money out of nothing in the first place. Give money to people who make useful stuff. Maybe stuff to improve our environment. Or solve our energy problem. Or keep dogs from pooping on my front stoop. Whomever! Just give it to someone who produces something good and useful in the world. Maybe give it to, say, a fabulous blogger playwright? I'm just thinking out loud here...
2) Slumdog Millionaire. A few years ago I made the claim that Crash was the worst Academy Award winner since Gigi. I was, of course, correct. But this year's winner has me pulling out my teeth and clipping my nose hairs. The nicest thing I can say about Slumdog is this: it's a heck of a good episode of Who Wants to be a Millionaire. At least that's what I told people for the first few months after viewing that sentimentalist, dreary, cynical crapfest (the kid plummeting into the shit got off easy since he didn't have to sit through the movie). But I've come around on my thinking: Who Wants to be a Millionaire has had some interesting guests. Some real people with real personalities. It's actually better than Slumdog most days. So why did the movie win? Because it's simple, stupid and really, really stupid. It's just stupid. It's... well, it's stupid.
3) The decay of modern civilization. See above. Plus, the closing of newspapers and the decline of the publishing industry, and the decline of the environment, and the rise of emotionalism and the decline of Tom Brady's knee.
4) Television. Amidst the decline of modern civilization, television has hit a golden age: Battlestar Gallatica, The Wire, Freaks and Geeks (okay, that's going back a bit), The Sopranos. And I'm leaving out a handful of others.
5) Angela Rommelcurd. She's this hot babe that hangs out around Jupiter. We had a little tryst last year, but I don't like to kiss and tell. (Hold up your hands if you thought I was going to use "Uranus" in the first sentence of this paragraph. You make me sick).
6) Dating. Actually, in a meta sort of way, I have written about dating. That is to say, I've said, by saying nothing, all there is to say about my romantic life. (Except for Angela Rommelcurd, of course, who exists only in my brain). Why is dating so difficult? I thought it was because I have high standards: half a brain, a whole body, emotional stability. But it turns out I have too-high standards. Oh, and apparently women have standards, too. Who knew?
7) Hair. How is it that the hair on my face seems to be getting grayer all the time? And my hip is aching? And don't tell me it's because I'm aging, because I'm not.
8) Bunions.
3/26/2008
Three Bad Words
Being an American and a genius, I'm entitled to stomp on the rights of others while trumpeting the benefits of secular ideals, like free speech. That is to say, there are three words that I think should be stricken from the English language. I'm sick of hearing them. Young people today (and by "young", I mean anyone who uses a cell phone) have as much verbal dexterity as your average goat. Not that I have anything against goats: they're really cute and if they didn't insist on shitting all over my living room floor, I'd adopt one. But I prefer goats that are...well, goats. Not humans. Human goats are a plague on our society that must be stopped. Which gets me back to my original point: banning words. Without further ado, then, here's my list of three words that should be stricken from the English language. Those overheard violating this rule will be strung up by their shoelaces and forced to watch reruns of Sex in the City until there's nothing left of their brains except mucus and high heel shoes, which we'll then drain and feed to farm animals.
Word #1: "Like." I was, like, talking to my Grandpa Schlomo about this word and we got into a really bad argument. I was like, Man, the word "like" is used a lot nowadays, and he was like, Vat?, and I was like, Grandpa I think I peed my pants, and he was like, Save some of your Grandma's rice pudding for me, and I was like, Do you think we should, like, ban that word from the English language, and he was like, You ask me another stupid question and you know where this boot's gonna wind up? Like, it was intense.
Word #2: "Literally." Literally is literally the most overused word on the planet! Literally! Later, after our intense argument over the word "like," I asked my Grandpa Schlomo if he'd chilled out at all and he was literally madder than a Dad on Mother's Day. He was like, I don't know what you people are saying most of the time. He was literally crazy! I was like, No problem Grandpa, you're just old and so you've lost track of what's hip, and he was like, I wasn't even born in this country and I talk better than most college graduates. He was literally kicking my ass. I was like, Do you think people are just stupid now, and he was like, What do you tink, Einstein? He was literally awesome.
Word #3: "Awesome." The word awesome is literally awesome. After my Grandpa Schlomo removed his boot from my buttocks, I was like, That was an awesome butt-kicking, Grandpa, and he was like, Do you even know what the word "awesome" means, and I was like, Aww, Grandpa Schlomo, you're so funny and then he had a heart attack and I rushed him to the hospital. I was literally scared. The doctor who saw Grandpa Schlmo was like, You didn't have a heart attack, you just ate too much rice pudding, and I was literally shocked, and Grandpa Schlomo was like, Take me to a porno, and I was like, you're soooo awesome! Like, it was literally the most awesome moment in the history of man!
I'm guessing there are other words that deserve banishment, but I'm not thinking of them right now. Although I must admit, after writing this, that it's not a word's fault when it's used incorrectly. It's the speaker's. So maybe we should just ban free speech altogether. At least the sidewalks would be quieter.
Word #1: "Like." I was, like, talking to my Grandpa Schlomo about this word and we got into a really bad argument. I was like, Man, the word "like" is used a lot nowadays, and he was like, Vat?, and I was like, Grandpa I think I peed my pants, and he was like, Save some of your Grandma's rice pudding for me, and I was like, Do you think we should, like, ban that word from the English language, and he was like, You ask me another stupid question and you know where this boot's gonna wind up? Like, it was intense.
Word #2: "Literally." Literally is literally the most overused word on the planet! Literally! Later, after our intense argument over the word "like," I asked my Grandpa Schlomo if he'd chilled out at all and he was literally madder than a Dad on Mother's Day. He was like, I don't know what you people are saying most of the time. He was literally crazy! I was like, No problem Grandpa, you're just old and so you've lost track of what's hip, and he was like, I wasn't even born in this country and I talk better than most college graduates. He was literally kicking my ass. I was like, Do you think people are just stupid now, and he was like, What do you tink, Einstein? He was literally awesome.
Word #3: "Awesome." The word awesome is literally awesome. After my Grandpa Schlomo removed his boot from my buttocks, I was like, That was an awesome butt-kicking, Grandpa, and he was like, Do you even know what the word "awesome" means, and I was like, Aww, Grandpa Schlomo, you're so funny and then he had a heart attack and I rushed him to the hospital. I was literally scared. The doctor who saw Grandpa Schlmo was like, You didn't have a heart attack, you just ate too much rice pudding, and I was literally shocked, and Grandpa Schlomo was like, Take me to a porno, and I was like, you're soooo awesome! Like, it was literally the most awesome moment in the history of man!
I'm guessing there are other words that deserve banishment, but I'm not thinking of them right now. Although I must admit, after writing this, that it's not a word's fault when it's used incorrectly. It's the speaker's. So maybe we should just ban free speech altogether. At least the sidewalks would be quieter.
12/25/2007
X X-Mas
Bah-Humbug.
I was having a cranky holiday chat with my good friend Mr. Tito when suddenly he broke into song (something about a reindeer with a shiny nose) and I suddenly felt compelled to get up and remove his vocal chords using a delicate operation I learned while serving time in sing sing (pun intended because I've had too much apple cider today). I felt a twinge of remorse as I untangled my fist from Mr. Tito's larynx and that's when it occurred to me: why the heck am I forced to endure/celebrate Christmas at all? Isn't this supposed to be a secular society? I asked Mr. Tito this question, which created an uncomfortable and awkward silence. After seeing Mr. Tito to an ambulance I called up my Grandpa Schlomo and asked him what the true meaning of Christmas is. His answer: "Oy, your asking an old Jewish man the meaning of Christmas, what, do you have plum pudding for brains?" But this got me thinking, something I try to do only when I'm doing laundry, or fantasizing about ways to convince Cate Blanchett that what she really needs is a cranky man who will take her on long walks along the beach in Venice, CA and who will attend all her preview screenings, even when critics are incorrectly comparing her performance to other actors who can't hold a candle to her grace and elegance, and who will give her all the love that any woman could possible require. Wait, what was I talking about? Yes, I was thinking. I was thinking that Christmas and Christians have imposed this holiday on all the rest of us who would rather use this day for something constructive, like going to work or helping our neighbor with her virgin birth (talk about defective condoms...). And for what? What, exactly, are we celebrating here?
Well, first off: Christmas ostensibly is the celebration of the birth of Christ. At least, that's what I think it is. But I don't care about the birth of Christ. So why must I, Jews, athiests, Muslims and stockbrockers be forced to take this day off? It's a holiday for Christians, no? Why must all the rest of us suffer for it? But I have a feeling that if I let my views about all this come to light, I would dramatically reduce my chances of winning the upcoming presidential campaign. Come on, all you Christians, lighten up. Err. Sense of humor, it appears, is inversely proportionate to religious faith, which is too bad because if religious folks could laugh at themselves they'd realize that they look really funny wearing those god-awful sweaters (I can't stop the puns tonight, so accept my apology in advance).
Second off: Christmas really isn't a religious holiday and Christians who say it is probably are trying to kid you or themselves. I'm no religious scholar, but I'm American and so this sense of entitlement permits me to say, with little authority, that December 25th has been a holiday as far back as the Romans. It's essentially a pagan celebration and many of its trimmings (someone stop me!) have absolutely nothing to do with Christianity: like Christmas trees and lights and It's a Wonderful Life. Heck, even most religious folks agree that Christ, if he actually lived, wasn't born on December 25th, but folks were already celebrating that day way back when so someone around 1,800 years ago decreed it ole Jesus' birthday. And you know what? Christmas didn't really take off here in the states until Mr. Washington Irving wrote his famous, "A Visit from St. Nicholas." Then people (lets call them "Americans") started imitating the Christmas traditions that he'd mostly made up (including exchanging gifts) and within 50 years Ulysses S. Grant declared the day a national holiday so everyone could shop til they dropped (Ulysses could never get enough socks, apparently). So even the tradition of buying last minute scarves isn't yet 200 years old. (I've truncated greatly the history of Christmas here, but it's easy to look up if you're really interested, which most scholars are not because for them, one sad fact remains -- beliefs matter more than facts).
Which brings me to third off: Christmas is and has been and always will be (at least until this country undergoes a religioscopy) a day celebrating capitalism. I'm fine with that, because I like to have a job and I like other people to have jobs because, while it makes me cranky, it tends to make the economy rather happy. And even though we all may be pathetic slaves to the almighty dollar, that question (whether or not we should all rebel and move to Aruba with Cate Blanchett) is one for another blog (or several hundred-thousand Marxists Phd dissertations collecting dust on thousands of university shelves around the country). My point is: why do we have to dress this day up in religious garb, and if we do have to dress it up in religious garb, why must it be the religious garb of a man named Santa Claus who was invented by a German cartoonist in the 19th century? Err, why must we dress it up as a pagan disguised as a Christian? It's all so much kidding ourselves, and for what? So families can gather annually and make each other really miserable while they exchange gifts, eat fatty foods and increase dramatically their collective chances of having a massive coronary?
I call upon all civilized, secularized humans everywhere to stop celebrating this bogus holiday. Buy your friends socks and silly trinkets, but call it "Save Our Economy's Ass Day" or "Socialized Medicine is for Pussies-Mas". And spare me the heaping helpings of hypocrisy and self-denial.
Okay, I've written plenty for today. Have a lovely "I'd Rather Be Having Sex Day" and try to stay away from TBS' insane 24 hour "A Christmas Story" marathon. You're likely to shoot your eye out.
Charles Dickens bless us, everyone.
I was having a cranky holiday chat with my good friend Mr. Tito when suddenly he broke into song (something about a reindeer with a shiny nose) and I suddenly felt compelled to get up and remove his vocal chords using a delicate operation I learned while serving time in sing sing (pun intended because I've had too much apple cider today). I felt a twinge of remorse as I untangled my fist from Mr. Tito's larynx and that's when it occurred to me: why the heck am I forced to endure/celebrate Christmas at all? Isn't this supposed to be a secular society? I asked Mr. Tito this question, which created an uncomfortable and awkward silence. After seeing Mr. Tito to an ambulance I called up my Grandpa Schlomo and asked him what the true meaning of Christmas is. His answer: "Oy, your asking an old Jewish man the meaning of Christmas, what, do you have plum pudding for brains?" But this got me thinking, something I try to do only when I'm doing laundry, or fantasizing about ways to convince Cate Blanchett that what she really needs is a cranky man who will take her on long walks along the beach in Venice, CA and who will attend all her preview screenings, even when critics are incorrectly comparing her performance to other actors who can't hold a candle to her grace and elegance, and who will give her all the love that any woman could possible require. Wait, what was I talking about? Yes, I was thinking. I was thinking that Christmas and Christians have imposed this holiday on all the rest of us who would rather use this day for something constructive, like going to work or helping our neighbor with her virgin birth (talk about defective condoms...). And for what? What, exactly, are we celebrating here?
Well, first off: Christmas ostensibly is the celebration of the birth of Christ. At least, that's what I think it is. But I don't care about the birth of Christ. So why must I, Jews, athiests, Muslims and stockbrockers be forced to take this day off? It's a holiday for Christians, no? Why must all the rest of us suffer for it? But I have a feeling that if I let my views about all this come to light, I would dramatically reduce my chances of winning the upcoming presidential campaign. Come on, all you Christians, lighten up. Err. Sense of humor, it appears, is inversely proportionate to religious faith, which is too bad because if religious folks could laugh at themselves they'd realize that they look really funny wearing those god-awful sweaters (I can't stop the puns tonight, so accept my apology in advance).
Second off: Christmas really isn't a religious holiday and Christians who say it is probably are trying to kid you or themselves. I'm no religious scholar, but I'm American and so this sense of entitlement permits me to say, with little authority, that December 25th has been a holiday as far back as the Romans. It's essentially a pagan celebration and many of its trimmings (someone stop me!) have absolutely nothing to do with Christianity: like Christmas trees and lights and It's a Wonderful Life. Heck, even most religious folks agree that Christ, if he actually lived, wasn't born on December 25th, but folks were already celebrating that day way back when so someone around 1,800 years ago decreed it ole Jesus' birthday. And you know what? Christmas didn't really take off here in the states until Mr. Washington Irving wrote his famous, "A Visit from St. Nicholas." Then people (lets call them "Americans") started imitating the Christmas traditions that he'd mostly made up (including exchanging gifts) and within 50 years Ulysses S. Grant declared the day a national holiday so everyone could shop til they dropped (Ulysses could never get enough socks, apparently). So even the tradition of buying last minute scarves isn't yet 200 years old. (I've truncated greatly the history of Christmas here, but it's easy to look up if you're really interested, which most scholars are not because for them, one sad fact remains -- beliefs matter more than facts).
Which brings me to third off: Christmas is and has been and always will be (at least until this country undergoes a religioscopy) a day celebrating capitalism. I'm fine with that, because I like to have a job and I like other people to have jobs because, while it makes me cranky, it tends to make the economy rather happy. And even though we all may be pathetic slaves to the almighty dollar, that question (whether or not we should all rebel and move to Aruba with Cate Blanchett) is one for another blog (or several hundred-thousand Marxists Phd dissertations collecting dust on thousands of university shelves around the country). My point is: why do we have to dress this day up in religious garb, and if we do have to dress it up in religious garb, why must it be the religious garb of a man named Santa Claus who was invented by a German cartoonist in the 19th century? Err, why must we dress it up as a pagan disguised as a Christian? It's all so much kidding ourselves, and for what? So families can gather annually and make each other really miserable while they exchange gifts, eat fatty foods and increase dramatically their collective chances of having a massive coronary?
I call upon all civilized, secularized humans everywhere to stop celebrating this bogus holiday. Buy your friends socks and silly trinkets, but call it "Save Our Economy's Ass Day" or "Socialized Medicine is for Pussies-Mas". And spare me the heaping helpings of hypocrisy and self-denial.
Okay, I've written plenty for today. Have a lovely "I'd Rather Be Having Sex Day" and try to stay away from TBS' insane 24 hour "A Christmas Story" marathon. You're likely to shoot your eye out.
Charles Dickens bless us, everyone.
9/08/2007
Weltschmerz
CrankyPants suffers from a debilitating disease and thankfully for him, most of the people he hangs out with in life (mostly puppets and imaginary characters) are chipper and upbeat, otherwise I would probably spend all my time watching television with Uncle Abe and eating peanutbutter cookies. I could easily see myself gaining 200 pounds and becoming addicted to The View (Barbara Walters just gets me).
Here's the disease I'm referring to:
weltschmerz \VELT-shmairts\ noun, often capitalized
*1 : a mental depression or apathy caused by comparison of the actual state of the world with an ideal state 2 : a mood of sentimental sadness.
Is there a better word in the English language? Okay, there may be a few (sex, cookie, tuba), but to me "weltschmerz" captures the entire problem of my brain: I'm forever wondering how things could be better. I wonder why they SHOULD be better.
--If only people didn't give me the finger while I'm attempting to parallel park my car in New York City.
--If only I didn't have to grow old. If only the subways ran frequently and on time.
--If only my ears didn't itch all the time.
--If only it never got humid outside. If only people didn't meet my happy-go-lucky smile each day as I skip out of my home with a nasty glare and a "whatta you lookin at."
--If only people understood morality is something that we must all agree on, not something that comes from fantastical dogma.
--If only I didn't love peanutbutter cookies so much.
--If only I could complete one important task at a time and not be distracted by a million...
--If only I could spend 5 years traveling.
--If only I didn't feel guilty every time I... (wait, I'm feeling guilty about writing this).
--If only politicians cared more about helping humanity and less about making money for their buddies.
--If only I had more time to write in this blog.
--If only there were answers. Real answers, not just more questions.
--If only I was less Cranky and felt less inclined to write in this blog (curse you weltschmerz!).
I never would have discovered this word if I hadn't taken the GREs about nine months ago. Inspired to do well, I subscribed to Merriam Websters Word of the Day. Alas, the word did not show up on the test. but I highly recommend you take it out for a test drive. You'll find it more satisfying than anything else in the world.
Here's the disease I'm referring to:
weltschmerz \VELT-shmairts\ noun, often capitalized
*1 : a mental depression or apathy caused by comparison of the actual state of the world with an ideal state 2 : a mood of sentimental sadness.
Is there a better word in the English language? Okay, there may be a few (sex, cookie, tuba), but to me "weltschmerz" captures the entire problem of my brain: I'm forever wondering how things could be better. I wonder why they SHOULD be better.
--If only people didn't give me the finger while I'm attempting to parallel park my car in New York City.
--If only I didn't have to grow old. If only the subways ran frequently and on time.
--If only my ears didn't itch all the time.
--If only it never got humid outside. If only people didn't meet my happy-go-lucky smile each day as I skip out of my home with a nasty glare and a "whatta you lookin at."
--If only people understood morality is something that we must all agree on, not something that comes from fantastical dogma.
--If only I didn't love peanutbutter cookies so much.
--If only I could complete one important task at a time and not be distracted by a million...
--If only I could spend 5 years traveling.
--If only I didn't feel guilty every time I... (wait, I'm feeling guilty about writing this).
--If only politicians cared more about helping humanity and less about making money for their buddies.
--If only I had more time to write in this blog.
--If only there were answers. Real answers, not just more questions.
--If only I was less Cranky and felt less inclined to write in this blog (curse you weltschmerz!).
I never would have discovered this word if I hadn't taken the GREs about nine months ago. Inspired to do well, I subscribed to Merriam Websters Word of the Day. Alas, the word did not show up on the test. but I highly recommend you take it out for a test drive. You'll find it more satisfying than anything else in the world.
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