Originally published way back in the olden days.
I was sharing a carton of soy egg nog I'd purloined from a Christmas Party last night with my Grandpa Schlomo (I put a star of david on the carton) when suddenly we were inspired to see a movie. I suggested we see something with action and derring-do because Grandpa has a tendency to doze off in the middle of movies and dream about the days when Cossacks tried to steal his breakfast cereal. So we decided on the new Guy Ritchie thriller, Sherlock Holmes. I love Holmes as much as I love any fictional character in the history of fictional characters, and I was intrigued to see him as a swashbuckler. Grandpa was skeptical, but that's just his nature and I laughed when he tried to tell me that the movie was going to be bad. "How bad can it be, it has Sherlock Holmes in it?"
Within several minutes, Grandpa leaped up, fully asleep, and tried to steal a box of popcorn from a young woman sitting nearby. "That's my Cheerios, comrade!" He yelled. I knew we were in for a long evening. Not only was this movie boring, it was stupid. And nothing is worse than a stupid and boring movie that costs 80 zillion dollars to make. The movie, for fans of bare-chested Hollywood stars, did have a lovely fight scene showing Holmes beating the crap out of a bare-knuckled drunkard, but I don't recall Holmes ever doing this in the books I read when I was 13. Not that I mind a re-imagining of Holmes -- let him beat up people -- but what sets my pipe and slippers on fire is the lack of "imagining" in "re-imagining." The story pits Holmes rationalism against a bad guy using superstition to take over the world. Or something. But the writers settle for action sequences and Holmes jumping to lots of conclusions: what we don't get to see is the great detective actually challenged. We don't see him slowly unraveling the mysterious mystery. We don't see him teetering on any metaphysical edges (though we do, of course, get to watch a literal teetering), so there's no thrill, no real conflict, no story. Why spend all that money and forget to tell a story. I used to think Hollywood didn't care about story since they could crank out an epic piece of garbage and still make bazillions, but now I'm wondering if there just aren't that many people who can actually TELL a story. Eesh. It's gotten so bad that a movie a child could have written -- The Hurt Locker -- is garnering all kinds of attention and winning awards. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle would probably say to all of this, as Grandpa Schlomo did when he awoke from his stupor 3/4 of the way through the movie, "Oy, I'm drooling, can we go before I kick someone in the testes?"
6/15/2013
6/07/2013
Girls
A piece written months ago that I'm just now getting around to posting:
Recently, my imaginary eighteen-year
old child, Yardstick, was watching her favorite new television program: “Girls.”
Being an expert on all things media and a terrific imaginary parent, I
decided to take in every episode back to back in order to protect Yardstick
from potential bad influences, like the NRA or baldness. I’d heard through the genius grapevine that
“Girls” suffered from all-manner of problems and was much too in love with its
own narcissism to entertain the likes of my darling girl, let alone lonely
older folks with nothing better to do than make up imaginary children and write
about television. But when I saw the
show I discovered something surprising:
it’s good. And I began to suspect
that there must be something else lurking behind the negative-Nancy
blogospherists who have been taking pleasure in kicking the show in the
ovaries. Thus, I decided it was my duty
to leap to its defense. Since “Girls”
recently won the Golden Globe for best new comedy, it clearly doesn’t need me
to defend it, but I’m a man and my Y chromosome insists that things are not
properly approved of until I say so.
I began by asking my Grandpa
Schlomo what he thought the problem was.
“People are schmucks,” he answered before stapling a “kick me” sign to
my back and trampling my asparagus fern to death. But he had a point. People are
schmucks. And their critiques of the
show smack of envy. “I’m smart and
talented but I don’t have my own show and the world isn’t fair and I hate Lena
Dunham!” This leads me to:
Critique number 1: the show is written and populated by actors
who would be no where without their famous parents. This notion, however true, is not a critique
of the show as far as I can tell. In
fact, if the people who make this complaint bother to pull their heads out of
their keyboards, they’ll see that the world works very much this way. Those waiting for a true meritocracy are much
like the characters depicted in Girls:
entitled, narrow-minded and narcissistic. These people should watch the show, in fact,
so they can see their own images reflected back at them. (There’s a hilarious episode in season 1 when
Hannah discovers her hated college rival has written a popular memoir. She says something like, “she’s got no talent,
she’s just lucky her boyfriend died.”) At least the characters on the show are
characters on a show. And they’re
funny. Hey, guess what, it’s true: all four women have famous or semi-famous
parents, but Hollywood
has always been a place that thrives on nepotism. Ever heard of Michael Douglas? Melanie Griffith? No one seems to mind that Scott Caan kicks
bad-guy butt every week on the new Hawaii Five-O, so why are bloggers hating on
Dunham and the other kiddies? “Yeah, but
it’s not just that. I watched the show
and, like, gross, the characters are all so mean to each other. Yuck!”
Critique number 2: the characters on the show are not
likeable. This is a legitimate complaint
if you don’t like shows with unlikable characters and if this is the case, you
shouldn’t watch “Girls.” End of
story. Nor should you watch “Seinfeld”
or “Arrested Development” or “It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia” or almost every movie made by
Woody Allen. Full disclosure: I love Woody and “Arrested Development,” and
was raised on milk, cookies and “Seinfeld.”.
These shows/directors/people exaggerate our worst traits to criticize
the people who behave this way. So why
are bloggers so angry at Dunham when she is only borrowing from others? After all, the show does not strike me as
advocating the lives of these women, or even critiquing them. It depicts them, warmly and with humor, and
welcomes us to bring our own critical adult eye to the proceedings. The big difference is that these characters
are primarily women, and unlikable ones.
Perhaps that’s the first layer of the onion I’m hoping to peel.
Critique Number 3: They have too much sex on the show. And Critique Number 3a: they’re always naked! I’m not precisely sure how this is even a
critique of something except perhaps “The Jay Leno Show,” but let me at least
point out that the sex on “Girls” is only occasionally gratuitous. Compare it to the sex on a show like, say,
“Game of Thrones,” one of my favorites, and it’s downright gritty. Maybe on occasion the producers take
advantage of being on HBO, but they can be forgiven this indulgence, I think,
because as Uncle Abe likes to say, “I like sex more than ice hockey!” And so maybe the show isn’t holding a mirror
up to life, but it’s a damned nature documentary compared to, say, the worst
thing to happen to television since the invention of the internet. That’s right, “Sex and The City.” Now you’re wondering, “sure, but what do you
know about lady sex?” Not much, I’ll
admit, although I read a magazine at the dentist’s office once. But I know this: “Girls” is a show about sex and
relationships. The operative word there
is “show.” It’s entertainment.
“How many damned layers of the
onion are you peeling,” you may be asking yourself by now, in particular if you
skipped lunch. “Get on with it!” You sound just like Grandpa Schlomo after his
morning bran muffin. But you’re right,
this really comes apart very quickly. It
seems to me the main critique of the show is this: it’s a fairly smart, kinda funny, pretty quirky,
sometimes realistic show about WOMEN.
Acted by WOMEN. Produced by WOMEN. Written by WOMEN. And this reality gives a fair number of men
and as many women a pain in their vaginas.
(Aside: is it vaginae? The plural comes up so infrequently in my
life). Is it the greatest show
ever? No, it’s not “The Wire.” But neither is “Boardwalk Empire” or “Breaking
Bad,” and those terrific shows seem to get on with their business with a lot
less internet noise. Some folks, I
surmise, can’t stand to see women succeed.
Or control things. Or tell
stories about sex. Or
relationships. Or sex. Or sex.
Those people are wary pedestrians standing on the side of the street as race
cars buzz forward into the future. They
should relax, have a little wine before watching television, maybe stop taking “Jeopardy”
so seriously. Or they might even turn off the TV and find someone with whom to
have sex. (I always get the good ideas
after I’ve wasted an afternoon). Anyway,
I’ll let Yardstick have the last word on this:
“Oh dad, no one cares what bloggers have to say. And “race cars?!” You so suck at using metaphors.”
Girls!
7/17/2012
The Newsroom
As a member of the media elite and
a genius, I felt it was my duty to watch Aaron Sorkin’s new show, The Newsroom, and then to shout into a
yawning abyss in order to hear my own desperate voice echoing forlornly through
the vast, indifferent caverns of the internet.
In other words, blog about it.
Aaron[1] has written
a sophisticated, compelling drama with an adolescent’s voice. That is to say, it’s preachy, the characters
don’t talk the way real human beings speak to each other (not that characters
on television ever do that unless we’re talking about The Six Million Dollar Man), and the relationships are about as
deep and believable as sitcom relationships, only with more rumpled shirts. And still, the show is totally riveting. I’m not sure, exactly, how Mr. Sorkin and
company manages this, but since I’m clearly an expert on all matters related to
the media, I will attempt to figure it out.
After re-watching an episode I took
a quick jog and then a shower and drank a cup of tea and then ate a bowl of
cherries and had a massage and then took a quick trip to Tibet to
meditate, and then sat down to examine my own inner state. Call me Un-American, but I had to know how
and why this show was affecting me.
Don’t get me wrong: I prefer,
typically, to avoid rifling the contents of my interior on any regular, or
even semi-regular, basis since I know lurking there are demons, but looking
just this once, I figured, couldn’t hurt.
So where was I? Yes, looking
inward. And there I discovered that my synapses,
which are usually dormant unless reading (ha ha) or composing some meandering
blog entry like this one, had fired to life as if stimulated by snappy dialogue
and populist, anti-corporate rhetoric spoken by attractive, charming actors
wearing too much cologne (I’m guessing).
Seeking more evidence, I cut to the particulars of the show. It’s smart.
Quite smart. No, not about people
or emotion, but about ideas. It gets
right to the core of a problem – dumb people running things and smarter, rich
people running dumb people – and pokes a boner sized stick at it (the problem)
and them (the smart, rich people). And
then I realized: Aaron Sorkin has
actually been paying attention to what’s been going on in this country the last
ten years or so. Was I supposed to be
doing that too? Damnit! After a nap, I stopped reflecting and ate a
peanut butter sundae.
I don’t expect anything much of
consequence to come from this show, but that’s because as a member of the
media, I’m required to be cynical. Thus,
I suspect that the effect of The Newsroom
isn’t going to be anything like boner-poking a sleeping bear, since no one
running a major corporation with its own news/propaganda division is afraid of
a drama playing on HBO and watched by as many people as attended my Bar Mitzvah
back in 1979 (er, I mean 1989). So I
can’t even say the show is gutsy since it panders to the same liberally-biased,
head-nodding, latte-drinking crowd that watches all of HBO (though I wonder
what fans of Entourage make of The Newsroom. Sample thought: “That felt good” (thought after turning the
channel to SportsCenter)). In fact, I very much doubt the producers of The Newsroom face the same upstairs pressure
to cave to special interests that the characters on the show do. HBO itself must be run by liberal, media
elitists who hate America .
Side note: I just woke from a dream in which I couldn’t
remember the lines to Oklahoma ,
my pants were down and I was ice fishing for minnow in Alaska .
This self-reflection is a tough business.
Oh yes: The
Newsroom. You may find that it
causes you to think about things. I
know, I know: that’s bad. But if it happens, do what I did: get it all out on the internet, drink a vodka
martini and watch back to back episodes of Two
and a Half Men. Your brain, if you
can find it, will thank you.
[1] Ever since
our kids attended the same camp in Israel we’ve been on a first name
basis, and even though I don’t have kids and have never been to the middle
east, I am sure he wouldn’t mind.
4/01/2011
April Fools: the Boston Red Sox
Never one to drink Kool-Aid, CrankyPants has decided to weigh in on the prospects of his favorite baseball team for the 2011 season. No, not the Mudville 9. The Boston Red Sox. There has been much fanfare, a fair share of ballyhoo and a smidgen of jumping up and down about this team. Every Boston Globe beat writer picked them to win the division this season. Even all of the New York Post writers picked them over the Sox hated and overpaid rivals, the Yankees, and those guys wouldn't vote for their own wives in a beauty contest. CrankyPants just doesn't understand the hype.
Here are the facts:
The Red Sox lost their best two hitters from last year's team. When that happens in most cases you would expect sportswriters to smell the coffee, see the writing on the wall and to taste whatever metaphor relates to taste. But this hasn't happened. Why? I don't know. The Sox replaced one of those hitters, their incomparable catcher, Victor Martinez, with a guy named Jared Saltalamacchia. As Grandpa Schlomo likes to say, "who?" He's a guy who got sent to the minors or Transylvania by the Rangers last year and occasionally has trouble throwing the ball back to the pitcher. Not good. They replaced their third baseman all-star, Adrian Beltre, with a shiny new, hot hitting first baseman named Adrian Gonzalez. All sorts of great things are predicted for Adrian the 2nd. He might, for example, hit .321 and drive in 102 runs and lead the league in doubles. You know: exactly replicate the numbers put up by Adrian the 1st from last year's third place team. Hmm. Still not sure how that means this team will win 100 games. Oh yes: they also signed a guy named Carl Crawford for more money than Bill Gates makes every 19 seconds to play left field. Crawford's on-base percentage in his new home park is .301. That means he'll probably put up worse numbers than the minor leaguers who played left last year did. He's also penciled in to bat third. I have no idea why, since he's probably better suited to bat 7th or 8th (or pinch run?). Adrian Gonzalez is the real deal, but it will take Terry Francona -- the coddler -- until the team is hopelessly out of contention to move Crawford out of the three slot. David Ortiz, the DH, is getting old and the team is too heavy on lefties. Oh -- did I mention all four infielders are coming off surgeries? What are the chances all four will be right as rain in 2011?
I must be missing something, right? Well, certainly the Red Sox must have the best pitching in baseball, then. That's why everyone and his sister is predicting a one hundred billion win season, glory, parades and underwear strewn lawns. Well, let's examine that. The hitters last season filled in rather well for their injured mates and the team finished 2nd in runs and 3rd in on-base percentage. But the pitching was 22nd in the majors and the team was among the leaders in blown saves. In fact, for all the crying about injuries, the primary reason the 2010 team didn't make the playoffs was their pitching. This happened because Josh Beckett has lost the ability to pitch in the major leagues and Jonathan Papelbon can no longer get sixth graders out. But both are back on this team. As backup, they have 97 year old knuckleballer Tim Wakefield in case Beckett has to go on the DL (I give that two weeks). And to replace Papelbon they have a castoff from a bad Chicago White Sox team named Jar Jar Binks (or something), who weighs more than Bessie the cow and has a reputation for not getting along with his teammates. In other words, the pitching looks worse than it looked last year. Even the team's ace, Jon Lester, is anything but. He's an okay pitcher, but he's never seen an important match-up he couldn't lose. Game 7 of the ALCS in 2008: loss. Last outing of 2010 for a chance to win the Cy Young: hammered. He's good but he's not Roy Halliday or one of the true aces in the game. (Jumped in after the game started today to update: Lester got smacked around in the opener).
The Yankees, meanwhile, got A-Rod, the team's most important player, back and healthy, added the Rays closer from last year (the Rays came in 1st, mind you) and have the best lineup money can buy. They've shown year after year, in fact, that the key to winning in the AL east is to stock up on hitters that grind pitchers into tiny pellets, put together a reasonable if not-great rotation and stack the bullpen. The Yankees will probably win 104 games this season. Or more. The Sox: 88?
Enjoy the Sox season, but don't expect the playoffs. If you do, you'll give yourself an ulcer watching Beckett and Papelbon give up homeruns to A-Rod and his band of merry moneymakers.
2/16/2010
Subway Announcements Part Deux
My Uncle Abe was visiting last week and asked me to give him a tour of the city. After spending nine hours waiting for subway cars and 28 seconds exploring all the city has to offer, Uncle Abe got back on his motorcycle, gave me the finger and raced away like an old man who has eaten one too many bran muffins and finds he must get somewhere very fast. Which brings me to the topic of today's blog: New York City subway announcements. My uncle found them baffling and with good reason: they're baffling. And they're not baffling in the same sense that, say, the universe or Regis Philbin's hair is baffling. Subway announcements are baffling in the sense that they don't make any sense. And sometimes they're flat out mean. And CrankyPants hates meanness almost as much as he hates that funny taste you get in your mouth after drinking milk three months past its expiration date. So, to protect his innocent readers, and in case my uncle ever decides to visit our not-so-fair city again and for anyone else foolish enough to come here without access to his/her own private helicopter, I offer the following NYC "Subway to English" dictionary. Print this out and take it with you any time you're trying to get from location X to my lovely apartment where we'll sit in the living room and swap sentimental stories about our childhoods. (For those with long memories: yes, I wrote a blog with this exact topic four years ago. It's a clear sign that my brain is devolving).
--Stand Clear of the Closing Doors. Step away from the doors so we can think (if you believe sub-simians have the capacity for thought, that is) about closing the doors when we wake from our nap. You'll hear this announcement more than any other when you take the subway in NYC. To avoid, consider moving to France or Germany.
--We thank you for your patience. 1) We know you lost your patience with us a long time ago, because we're incompetent. Okay, we're more than incompetent: we know how bad we are at what we do and yet we continue to raise the cost of riding our rickety system, take in billions which we use to send our children on luxurious vacations, and pretend we care when we don't. We're incompetent and proud of it! 2) Fuck you. You will usually hear this jab to the groin after learning that your subway will be delayed and you'll be sharing the car and its contents (including the air) for a large portion of the rest of your life.
--Due to construction, there will be delays along this line. Our union and its many workers (and we use this word with tongue in cheek) want their fair share of the money we're making by bilking you. Therefore, we're sending them out to sit and eat lunch on the tracks and occasionally scare away. You'll often hear this announcement used on tracks in the city -- the G line, for example -- which need the fewest repairs since only about 6 trains run a day. To avoid, never travel in Brooklyn.
--Due to train traffic ahead, we are experiencing delays. 1) See above, our union, etc... 2) See above, Fuck you.
--Due to train traffic ahead, we are experiencing delays. 1) See above, our union, etc... 2) See above, Fuck you.
--Due to a sick passenger, there will be a delay. Due to a sick passenger, we are going to sit in this station while real city employees bust their butts to protect the life of one our precious citizens. Imagine if we valued you even a millionth as much... Ha, made you imagine!
--Look over there, a rooster! This is an announcement you'll never hear on the New York City subway system, but it's here to make clear the distinction between useful announcements and ours.
Uncle Abe, if you're reading this (and you are) please come back. I promise the helicopter is back from the shop!
12/22/2009
Yankee Doodles
I was sitting at my computer today reading about all manner of important issues like health care reform, the nature of existence, art and atheism when I came across a comment from a New York Yankees "fan" that lit my hair on fire. Luckily, my imaginary butler, Karlsson, was here to put out the flames and feed me milk and peanut butter cookies, but after he returned to his normal duties (inventing a cure for aging), I returned and read the post again. The so-called Yankee fan was using a word he couldn't spell -- hypocrite -- to describe the fans of other teams who spend money on players. And that's when my hair caught fire again. Yes, I thought, other baseball teams spend money on players. That's how it works. The money players are paid is called a "salary." But comparing any other team to the evil empire is like comparing dairy milk to soy milk: one is playing by a set of rules that involves cows and it's played by those rules for a long time. The other is masquerading as cow milk by mashing up some beans and mixing in some other stuff. Well, I'm not buying it. Wait, I am buying it: I love soy milk -- it's really delicious, actually, and whatever they're putting in there (probably sugar), I'm for it. I had a dream about soy milk the other night and... Wait, again, I seem to have gotten off on a tangent, which sometimes happens when my hair is on fire. The point is: there's the Yankees and there's everyone else. Imagine a world, if you have an imagination (I'd apologize for leaving Yankee fans behind just now, but I don't believe such creatures exist, only drooling bullies who'll do anything to anyone to bolster their sagging sad sack egos -- using the word "fan" to describe these creatures does disservice to real fans of real teams). Now, where was I? Yes, imagination. Imagine a world where the NBA limits the height of its players to 6' 5", but permits one team to recruit players over seven feet tall. That's the situation in baseball. From the team with the 2nd highest payroll (the Mets) down to the team with the lowest, there's a continuous slide: the biggest leap from one team to the next is a few million dollars. From the Mets up to the Yankees there's about a 70 million dollar leap. That difference is higher than the payroll of half the teams in baseball. So when Yankee fans try to pretend that it's an equal playing field, my hair catches fire. Poor Karlsson. Lucky for baseball fans that the Yankees have often been run by incompetent boobs (my apologies to cows whose boobs produce real dairy milk); and lucky it wasn't until the 90's when George Steinbrenner, the Yankees owner, figured out that it didn't make sense to buy one or two players when you could buy ALL the good players on the market every year. It's really a tribute to Yankees' incompetence that they haven't won every championship the past 20 years.
So: the Yankees are to baseball what bullies are to playgrounds. They're to baseball what people who kick cats are to cats. They're to baseball what Wall Street is to America. The Yankees are to baseball what Al Capone was to fair play.
Okay, I accept that. It sucks for baseball and for any real fans who might remain, but until baseball applies a true salary cap, this imbalance will remain. The Yankees have been buying championships since they bought Babe Ruth from the Red Sox and it looks like that's going to continue.
But let's not allow Yankee fans to pretend there's an equal playing field like they pretend when they play soccer against the special needs children in their neighborhoods. Let's not allow them to pretend that what the Yankees have accomplished they accomplished because they draft well or because they're smart or because their own players are better than other teams players. They win because they have money. The rest of the league is essentially developing their future players. If you doubt this Yankees fans, then ask yourself if they could have won without A-Rod (sorry, he's the team's best player, not the defensively challenged, overrated Jeter), Teixeira, Damon, Sabathia, Burnett, and even Swisher. And that's just this year: they would not have won any of the championships of the past 15 years without Clemens, Key, Cone and all the other players they bought. (Hold on: I asked a fictional character (Yankee fan) to ask itself a hypothetical question (something this imaginary character is incapable of doing)). That's my bad...
If you really want a fair assessment of what teams do well developing players, look at the league as a whole and see which teams have the most major league players. Which developed the most stars? It isn't the Yankees, whose "prospects" continue to flop.
No team can compete with the Yankees and no team will be able to unless New York disappears into the ocean (and maybe that will happen, since fans of the Yankees are, by definition, fans of the many Washington lobbyists protecting their clients right to pretend global warming doesn't exist -- anything for a buck). If that happens, at least I'll be happy: sinking into the ocean is about the only thing that will keep my hair from igniting again. Now where did Karlsson, go. It's time for my nap.
So: the Yankees are to baseball what bullies are to playgrounds. They're to baseball what people who kick cats are to cats. They're to baseball what Wall Street is to America. The Yankees are to baseball what Al Capone was to fair play.
Okay, I accept that. It sucks for baseball and for any real fans who might remain, but until baseball applies a true salary cap, this imbalance will remain. The Yankees have been buying championships since they bought Babe Ruth from the Red Sox and it looks like that's going to continue.
But let's not allow Yankee fans to pretend there's an equal playing field like they pretend when they play soccer against the special needs children in their neighborhoods. Let's not allow them to pretend that what the Yankees have accomplished they accomplished because they draft well or because they're smart or because their own players are better than other teams players. They win because they have money. The rest of the league is essentially developing their future players. If you doubt this Yankees fans, then ask yourself if they could have won without A-Rod (sorry, he's the team's best player, not the defensively challenged, overrated Jeter), Teixeira, Damon, Sabathia, Burnett, and even Swisher. And that's just this year: they would not have won any of the championships of the past 15 years without Clemens, Key, Cone and all the other players they bought. (Hold on: I asked a fictional character (Yankee fan) to ask itself a hypothetical question (something this imaginary character is incapable of doing)). That's my bad...
If you really want a fair assessment of what teams do well developing players, look at the league as a whole and see which teams have the most major league players. Which developed the most stars? It isn't the Yankees, whose "prospects" continue to flop.
No team can compete with the Yankees and no team will be able to unless New York disappears into the ocean (and maybe that will happen, since fans of the Yankees are, by definition, fans of the many Washington lobbyists protecting their clients right to pretend global warming doesn't exist -- anything for a buck). If that happens, at least I'll be happy: sinking into the ocean is about the only thing that will keep my hair from igniting again. Now where did Karlsson, go. It's time for my nap.
9/27/2009
Jonathan Kravetz interviews Jonathan Kravetz and it all ends with a scene from The Deer Hunter
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!!!
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!!!
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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