Wednesday, December 31, 2003
Points, Bullets
My wife and I are anti-Christmas cards, simply because it takes work and money to send something that sits on a surface for so many days or weeks before collecting enough dust and annoyance that you file them (where?) or toss them. Not to say we don't like receiving them. We received quite a nifty missive from some friends who enjoy their new townhome. It's just our laziness that holds us back. But as I've said to everyone -- "I don't need cards, just come to the website." -- so I suppose I'm obligated now. After a mighty absence, however, I'm bereft of clever phrasing and helpful transitions. Therefore . . .
• I interviewed for a job recently. I really wish friends and family could see me during these interviews. What bullshit I spew. I really can turn it on. Still waiting on the job. Supposedly I have it, they're just "really screwed up from the holidays". Isn't that a pat excuse? But who could argue it? That's why it's pat.
• Saw two films recently: Return of the King and Return of the King.
• Did a lot of painting. Ah, painting. We now have a yellow hallway and a bedroom with one wall that is expressive plum. Every time I walk in, yes, I feel "expressive".
• wrfarah.blogspot.com gained, and sadly, lost its fourth reader last week. Sister Amy, upon declaring, "Why would anyone want a web log anyway? Who cares what YOU have to say?" immediately sat down to peruse my creative barbs and intellectual omissions. After ten minutes, she shot up out of her chair: "I'm done. So is that true? No? Well, that's enough for me." She will be missed.
• For Christmas, I received: a tool box (keep your laughter to yourselves), Day of the Dead, all of Roethke's poems, all of Crane's poems, a neat book of poems by Billy Collins, a vest to be delivered, cash, a bottle of champagne with toads on it, a Santa mug that I intend to use year-round to annoy my wife, and several other fantastic dvds.
• A large rainbow-colored bruise appeared on my left arm after plasma one day, leaving me one-armed against the needle.
• My wife and I have struck a neat balance in our discussion of Christmas lights. We both agree that net lights have struck a terrible blow to the night aesthetics. We also agree that flashing lights is usually absurd, unless coordinated well. We tend to disagree on candles in the windows -- her against, me for -- and the big, fat lights you typically see on municipal trees; I still think that they can be done right, but no one takes the time.
• Sexy Beast is the rental of the week for wrfarah.blogspot.com. Not that I and the staff have ever gotten together and voted, or even thought up the idea of a rent-of-the-week, but there you have it.
• I disagree with Johnny Rogan about Mirrorball, Neil Young's 1995 album with Pearl Jam. Rogan, who's usually a fair critic, calls it a rushed mess. Rushed, yes, it was produced in like three days. And, OK, some of the lyrics by Neil are pretty weak. But there are tracks on there that stand alongside anything from the 70's Neil and Crazy Horse period. Too bad he's practically ignored the album since '95.
• Thank you, Abby H. for your helpful comments you made re: STFL more than six months ago. Damn, you're insightful.
• One thing I've learned about poetry recently is that although I read a lot of it -- probably more than most of my friends or family -- there is so much of it that I dislike. I think it's coming to the ones that I do enjoy that must be so rewarding to keep me reading. I also think it's why I like James Wright so much . . . . Because there's just very little he writes that I don't like, he disappoints me the least. I can read his The Branch Will Not Break over and over -- once a month perhaps -- and it still hits as hard every time. Every time.
• I should mention a little football game I saw this past week that will go down as one of the best football experiences I've ever had . . . but that might alienate one of our readers, and as I'm in editing mode right now, I try not to alienate anyone.
• My wife so far hasn't taken back any of her gifts. Bonus!
• That thing on Seinfeld about how Jerry and Kramer note the glory of the phrase, "My wife," -- they're right. I can begin any sentence with it, and it just makes the sentence that much more fun to say. I'm afraid it isn't the same for married women: "My husband," carries that extra, annoying syllable that just ruins everything.
• And now we depart to prepare for that most hated of all holidays for me: New Year's. Ah yes, the celebration of the living. The drawing of the line between new and old, living and dead. It's as if we're all eyeing up the cemetaries, saying, "I'm closer, but I'm not there." The asymptote that is not. The line that, despite our wishes, will touch . . . but not yet.
• I interviewed for a job recently. I really wish friends and family could see me during these interviews. What bullshit I spew. I really can turn it on. Still waiting on the job. Supposedly I have it, they're just "really screwed up from the holidays". Isn't that a pat excuse? But who could argue it? That's why it's pat.
• Saw two films recently: Return of the King and Return of the King.
• Did a lot of painting. Ah, painting. We now have a yellow hallway and a bedroom with one wall that is expressive plum. Every time I walk in, yes, I feel "expressive".
• wrfarah.blogspot.com gained, and sadly, lost its fourth reader last week. Sister Amy, upon declaring, "Why would anyone want a web log anyway? Who cares what YOU have to say?" immediately sat down to peruse my creative barbs and intellectual omissions. After ten minutes, she shot up out of her chair: "I'm done. So is that true? No? Well, that's enough for me." She will be missed.
• For Christmas, I received: a tool box (keep your laughter to yourselves), Day of the Dead, all of Roethke's poems, all of Crane's poems, a neat book of poems by Billy Collins, a vest to be delivered, cash, a bottle of champagne with toads on it, a Santa mug that I intend to use year-round to annoy my wife, and several other fantastic dvds.
• A large rainbow-colored bruise appeared on my left arm after plasma one day, leaving me one-armed against the needle.
• My wife and I have struck a neat balance in our discussion of Christmas lights. We both agree that net lights have struck a terrible blow to the night aesthetics. We also agree that flashing lights is usually absurd, unless coordinated well. We tend to disagree on candles in the windows -- her against, me for -- and the big, fat lights you typically see on municipal trees; I still think that they can be done right, but no one takes the time.
• Sexy Beast is the rental of the week for wrfarah.blogspot.com. Not that I and the staff have ever gotten together and voted, or even thought up the idea of a rent-of-the-week, but there you have it.
• I disagree with Johnny Rogan about Mirrorball, Neil Young's 1995 album with Pearl Jam. Rogan, who's usually a fair critic, calls it a rushed mess. Rushed, yes, it was produced in like three days. And, OK, some of the lyrics by Neil are pretty weak. But there are tracks on there that stand alongside anything from the 70's Neil and Crazy Horse period. Too bad he's practically ignored the album since '95.
• Thank you, Abby H. for your helpful comments you made re: STFL more than six months ago. Damn, you're insightful.
• One thing I've learned about poetry recently is that although I read a lot of it -- probably more than most of my friends or family -- there is so much of it that I dislike. I think it's coming to the ones that I do enjoy that must be so rewarding to keep me reading. I also think it's why I like James Wright so much . . . . Because there's just very little he writes that I don't like, he disappoints me the least. I can read his The Branch Will Not Break over and over -- once a month perhaps -- and it still hits as hard every time. Every time.
• I should mention a little football game I saw this past week that will go down as one of the best football experiences I've ever had . . . but that might alienate one of our readers, and as I'm in editing mode right now, I try not to alienate anyone.
• My wife so far hasn't taken back any of her gifts. Bonus!
• That thing on Seinfeld about how Jerry and Kramer note the glory of the phrase, "My wife," -- they're right. I can begin any sentence with it, and it just makes the sentence that much more fun to say. I'm afraid it isn't the same for married women: "My husband," carries that extra, annoying syllable that just ruins everything.
• And now we depart to prepare for that most hated of all holidays for me: New Year's. Ah yes, the celebration of the living. The drawing of the line between new and old, living and dead. It's as if we're all eyeing up the cemetaries, saying, "I'm closer, but I'm not there." The asymptote that is not. The line that, despite our wishes, will touch . . . but not yet.
