Thursday, April 15, 2010

On homework, militiamen, and then again homework

So right now I'm totally stalling on this story I'm supposed to write about San Francisco for my niece Hunter, but I can't stall too long because she lives two hours ahead of me in Oklahoma-Town and needs to print it off sometime before bed tonight. It's a little tale about this paper-man she sent me named Flat Stanley (they claim he's a boy in the story, but I have NEVER seen a boy wear a tie like this), who I took around the ciudad for a few weeks. I initially questioned his sexual orientation (again, his tie) and thought about taking him to the Castro, but in hesitation that her teachers might not interpret his jazz hands the same way I did (nor might they be willing to share such lessons with a room full of second graders), I instead took him to other locales of the so-inclined: the SF Moma, the USS Hornet, Golden Gate Park. The pictures are a blast--again, you REALLY have to see this guy's tie--thank you, Hunter, for a brilliant coloring job--but a story seems to be what the teachers want, and I'm running short on words that are eight-year-old appropriate. As usual.

In other Oklahoma-related news, I just heard today that the state is thinking of forming a militia. Did you hear that? A MILITIA, my friends. And not just ANY militia, but a VOLUNTEER-LED militia. (Is anybody else thinking of Bastille Day or The Handmaid's Tale here?) I know my mother and sister would be appalled at the idea, but what about the rest of the state's voters? Friends, countrymen, ironically take up your arms. We've got a union to protect.

Okay, back to my Flat Stanley homework. Now that I'm doing this, I'm finding it hard to believe I ever made it through high school, let alone as valedictorian. It's KILLING me.


Friday, April 9, 2010

Not so sure about that selling point.

While looking up hotels today for an upcoming business trip (not mine), I came across this fantasticness:

I don't know about you, but I don't want to stay in the bursting heart of ANYthing. Gross, Amsterdam.

On Russian madames, 30's lit, and the wonders of pork

Does anybody else get Skype-spam? I do, and when it's not pharmaceutical offers (the dirty teases), it's lusty ladies (the...). My most recent proposition thoughtfully pointed out that perhaps European and American women are too arrogant for me and I need a sweet and caring Russian dame with 'royal blood and royal look.' I can only take that to mean she's got six fingers and a wandering eye, but I could be wrong.

How about this for a good time? On this day in 1950, Salinger's "For Esme--With Love and Squalor" was published in the New Yorker. And Nathanael West's Miss Lonelyhearts was also published, in 1933. I just picked up Miss Lonelyhearts in the bookstore for the first time last Saturday and within pages resolved it to my must-read list. It was heartbreaking. I'm going through a 1930's American lit phase, my to-do's overflowing with Thurber/Hammett/West/Fante/Lewis. I don't know where it's all come from--I never do--but alas, there it is. In the meantime, someone! Quick! Build me a time machine, I've got a dinner party in Connecticut to attend! 

Speaking of dinner parties, my roommate has made Lidia Bastianich's 'polenta e fasoi' for dinner (a.k.a., 'beans and sausages with polenta'). It's chock full of bacon and sausage and ohhhhhhhhh red tomatoes and cannellini beans and bay leaves and sea salt. I've been smelling it for an hour and I'm about to chew my arm off with madcrazyhungrydesire. If living with a professional chef has taught me nothing else, it's that I need to marry me a woman who can cook. 

And...between that statement and the Russian madames, rumors have officially begun. Awesome.

In other news: the right-handed mirror on Grampa's car has all but fallen off. I don't know how it happened; I just saw it a couple days ago. Don't tell Grampa, though, I fully intend to tape it back on.

It's time for me to depart. The sun has officially set to the point where my desk lamp is required. And Required Desk Lamp Time is a totally different zone than Oh Sweet Dusk Time. And lest my mood and tone shift, rendering all previous ramblings null and void, I should go.

I've missed you.