Hmm. Pinstripes. Strange. I’ve never had a Laura Ashley moment before, but I guess there’s always a first time. Pity I’m not a real webdesigner or anything so I could bust out some real style.
Author: Richard
Wow. Look at all that spleen.
As a general rule, I don’t like nostalgia. It’s nice for a couple of seconds, but by its very nature, that warm and fuzzy feeling nostalgia gives you is misleading. You hear some goofy radio song from the 80s and think, “Wow, this reminds me of all the good times I had as a wee lad,” completely forgetting that at the exact moment of the song’s release you weighed all of 70 pounds, had ridiculous illusions of being a professional dancer (the kind on Solid Gold), and insisted on playing for the girls’ team at recess. You really liked hanging out with the popular kid who just happened to live next door, and you made every effort to be stationed in his bedroom when his older, college-bound brother stepped out of the shower. Among your best friends, you could count more than a couple of heavyset girls; you identified with them somehow, but you couldn’t quite put your finger what it was about them that made you feel so comfortable (though now you realize that it’s just because neither of you could get inside any of the cute boys’ pants). In short, you were pretty mixed up, and the other kids looked at you as though you might be Typhoid Mary, but they weren’t quite sure. So while “Favourite Shirts” is undoubtedly one of the best songs ever, it’s probably going a little far to say that you and your friends had great times while listening to it. The best times you had to that song were in your bedroom, choreographing a solo routine that would never, ever be performed for the general public.
I do, however, occasionally reread old books I enjoyed as a kid. More often than not, I wish I hadn’t. The plots are almost always ludicrously formulaic, the characters are as thin as the roast beef on a well-made po-boy, and the moral lesson (there’s inevitably a moral lesson) is so painfully obvious and simplistic it could and does fit on the back of a sugar packet. I get a little frustrated and depressed: man, was I taken in.
I’m happy to say, though, that’s not quite the case with my current summer reading: A Wrinkle in Time. Not to say the book’s perfect: the characters can sometimes get a little silly, and although it’s set in America, the kids all speak like children in early twentieth century British novels, with “Drat!” and “Rather!” and “I say!” And the theme is pretty much good vs. evil, black vs. white. Still, it’s held up reasonably well since I read it over 20 years ago–almost as well as The Chronicles of Narnia, which I must sheepishly admit I still skim from time to time…. (Ouch, that was painful.)
Side note: I think part of my hatred for nostalgia comes from my hatred for yuppies. They’ve just gotten old enough to want to be young again, and you can’t walk two blocks in the business district at 5:00 without hearing “Louie, Louie” (their version of “Rio”) blaring from at least five red convertibles. If this particular sensation (i.e. a general aversion to yuppies) is unfamiliar to you, might I suggest you take a temporary post as waiter in a steakhouse and ask to be put on the lunch shift. See how long you last before you start accidentally spilling cosmopolitans (which, when combined with cigars, are to yuppies as eucalyptus is to the koala) down the backs of their Brooks Brothers suits.
Chad says the sweetest things. I only wish my monitor would convey his subtle use of color a little better. But maybe it’s just my eyes….
My boyfriend has just informed me that this blog page looks like crap on his computer. It’s supposed to be centered and occupy about half the frame, but on his, he’s gotta use the horizontal scroll bar just to read the damn thing! I checked it on my old version of Net-crap, and it’s the same there, too. I don’t understand–it looks fine on my browsers here and at work (not that I’d ever work on personal things at work, mind you). I feel like I’ve been walking around for the past month with mayonnaise on my chin.
So for all you folks with Mac and/or Netscape, I’m sorry. I’ll try to work on it some more, but I can’t promise anything…
Hmm. Funny how things happen in threes sometimes. Death: Princess Diana, Mother Theresa, and someoneelseiforget. And now alarm clocks.
I guess I’m part of the zeitgeist. Yipee.
Does anyone know anything about humankind’s ability to “see” things while we’re sleeping? I’m in this habit of waking up at almost exactly 7:00 every single morning (I’m sure some of you are simply appalled), and I think it has something to do with the fact that I can actually see the clock from where I’m laying in bed. Like, yesterday, when I’d rolled over (extremely unusual, BTW) to face the other side of the bed, I totally overslept, but this morning, I was looking right at the clock, hopped out of bed at 7:00 sharp, and stolled briskly around the corner to meet our transgender contractor just as she was descending from her heavenly Ford F150 XLT….
As I sat here blogging rainbow pumps and she of the erstwhile sunflower-laden hats, my boyfiend sauntered over to my side of the room (which he normally avoids on account of my voluminous collection of garish, plastic Happy Meal toys), sat on my lap, and asked me why, oh, why do I never blog him. So here goes…. xoxo };>)
File: Random
Sub-folder: Vaguely irritating things to say about other cities where I’ve got friends
So is it just me or does the name “San Francisco” sound really, um, well, gay? I mean, when I say to people I know–as I often did yesterday–“I’ve got friends arriving from San Francisco,” I always feel as if I’m coming out all over again. Like the person to whom I’m speaking suddenly has visions of magenta-haired beauticians swinging from the chandeliers in my living room and swagging everything that doesn’t move. Like they suddenly suspect me of owning a chifforobe full of rainbow-print lycra dresses and matching pumps. Like I’m going to bust out the quiche and the good china and start calling everyone “Mary.”
Well, I’d like each and every one of you to know that I associate with no magenta-haired beauticians. (At least, not since 1995.) And there’s no swinging to be done on my chandelier–in fact, it would probably come crashing down altogether if it weren’t so hideous that no one wants to touch it. And FYI, I already call everyone “Mary”–although I did go through a brief period last year of trying to change my nom de choix to “Fatima.” Unfortunately, though exotic and therefore humorous, “Fatima” doesn’t roll off the lisping tongue like the bi-syllabic “Mary.” So I go with what works. Feh.
P.S. Apologies to John for everything above. Will someone please let him know that I understand “New Orleans” is synonymous with alcoholism, poverty, and everyone’s favorite Southern tradition, racism? Chacun a son croix, je suppose.
