I have decided to put pen to paper and blog again. This has been no self-imposed exile. It has been imposed upon me. I am not staging a comeback, but merely reestablishing residency. Work obligations and necessary distractions have prevented me from fulfilling the duties for which a byline requires.
These opening sentences are not however the beginnings that justify the means. And this entry should not be taken as said attempt at blogging as I have not fully made up my mind what topic I want to use for my debut, my coming out, my Sweet 41.
I have been plagued by wrongthink and false starts, and the consequences have been reams of blank pages and unused kilobytes.
I have saved a tree but lost the forest. Etcetera, etc..
But fear not for I feel a blog coming on. Once I can get past this little music festival called SXSW (which will never catch on; I give it two years, tops) and that nagging little virus called spring fever, I have every confidence that I can put actions into words. I have utterly convinced myself of éclat and the fact that you have read this far means that I have convinced you as well.
I shall triumphantly return to the notepad with the weight of those before me like Maugham and Proust and Seuss squarely on my shoulders, helping me to forge my way back into literary society.
My cotillion begins right this very minute, and the band can strike up once I finish this sente....
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
histories of events yet to occur
A dollar will fetch 100 yen on the streets of Yamatotakada and $500 will grant you the deed to Park Place. Everything has a price.
The cost is not always readily apparent but the purchase is evident.
Every word, decision, action or lack thereof involves a trade, an unspoken exchange that may be monetary but oftentimes doesn't involve currency. The piper must be paid, and he may not accept VISA.
I am constantly admonished by friends and coworkers about my diet, with dire warnings of arterial atherosclerosis, ventricular hypertrophy and a host of other ailments and taints not uttered in polite company by those who would choose to eat organic quinoa claiming that it tastes just as good. The price to be paid for that triple cheeseburger is heart disease. I know it, and my doctor knows it although all of my recent vital signs point to the contrary.
A carnivore once promised his vegetarian friends that he would very much like to visit them in the hospital when they are dying from nothing. We all make choices in life and must live with the consequences. The proverbial bed is made.
An interesting theory put forth by the ancient teachings of The Kabbalah proffers a sort of pay it forward concept called the "Butterfly Effect." In essence, a butterfly's flapping wings, or a car door slamming in Brazil can disturb the airflow enough to create a gust of wind in Manhattan, or a hurricane in the gulf. Similarly, that off-handed remark made by your boss which caused you to gripe at a waiter at lunch who later went home and argued with his wife who consequently decided to leave him germinated that morning even before your first cup of coffee. In this sense, everything we do eventually comes back to us in one form or another. Viewed conversely, we are all interconnected, each one of us affecting the other whether in the next room, across the street, or a continent away.
Absorbing this knowledge and taking responsibility for the plight of our fellow man is more than just a slogan from Madison Avenue. It is merely the first step in a process that makes us more self aware of our linked destinies and shared futures, a religion of reciprocity, if you will.
There is much I have learned about human interaction these past few months, and much I have yet to learn. Much of it I would have gladly avoided in hindsight, and none of it would I have traded for not having experienced it. Much is written in books, but more is learned through the living. The expense for all of this knowledge is still to be determined, but the compensation must be made.
But first, let me digest that hamburger.
The cost is not always readily apparent but the purchase is evident.
Every word, decision, action or lack thereof involves a trade, an unspoken exchange that may be monetary but oftentimes doesn't involve currency. The piper must be paid, and he may not accept VISA.
I am constantly admonished by friends and coworkers about my diet, with dire warnings of arterial atherosclerosis, ventricular hypertrophy and a host of other ailments and taints not uttered in polite company by those who would choose to eat organic quinoa claiming that it tastes just as good. The price to be paid for that triple cheeseburger is heart disease. I know it, and my doctor knows it although all of my recent vital signs point to the contrary.
A carnivore once promised his vegetarian friends that he would very much like to visit them in the hospital when they are dying from nothing. We all make choices in life and must live with the consequences. The proverbial bed is made.
An interesting theory put forth by the ancient teachings of The Kabbalah proffers a sort of pay it forward concept called the "Butterfly Effect." In essence, a butterfly's flapping wings, or a car door slamming in Brazil can disturb the airflow enough to create a gust of wind in Manhattan, or a hurricane in the gulf. Similarly, that off-handed remark made by your boss which caused you to gripe at a waiter at lunch who later went home and argued with his wife who consequently decided to leave him germinated that morning even before your first cup of coffee. In this sense, everything we do eventually comes back to us in one form or another. Viewed conversely, we are all interconnected, each one of us affecting the other whether in the next room, across the street, or a continent away.
Absorbing this knowledge and taking responsibility for the plight of our fellow man is more than just a slogan from Madison Avenue. It is merely the first step in a process that makes us more self aware of our linked destinies and shared futures, a religion of reciprocity, if you will.
There is much I have learned about human interaction these past few months, and much I have yet to learn. Much of it I would have gladly avoided in hindsight, and none of it would I have traded for not having experienced it. Much is written in books, but more is learned through the living. The expense for all of this knowledge is still to be determined, but the compensation must be made.
But first, let me digest that hamburger.
Monday, September 21, 2009
the Wintour of our content
Attempting to define style is much like trying to draw blood from a rolling vein. Physiologically, we know it's just under the skin but in the operating theater of reality, it can prove elusive. Fashion is triage, and there has been no greater reference book on female anatomy than Vogue.
Helmed by the indomitable Anna Wintour, she of the disproportionate sunglasses and precision-cut page boy, Vogue has become the go-to source for all things couture and coat rack for over 100 years, lending credence to the adage that beauty lies not in the eye of the beholder, rather in the eyeliner of the beholden.
If Anna says that blue is the new black, or that bouclé is so very last season, then it is. It simply is. Mortals can get no closer to God on earth, a fashion deity that deems something is so true that the apostles must purchase the monthly gospel while standing in checkout lines at the local A&P with a cart filled with a few groceries and dreams that would certainly put them over the 15-item limit; women who fantasize that with the right cloak, and cut, and powder and paint, that they too can emerge from the chrysalis as the next Sienna Miller, or Halle Berry, or heaven forbid something goes horribly wrong, Jennifer Aniston.
In R.J. Cutler's "The September Issue," a behind-the-scenes frockumentary on the publication of Vogue's largest issue ever, a behemoth that clocks in at 844 pages, online fashion director Candy Pratts Price makes a bold yet telling assessment when she proclaims that "September is the January of fashion."
The rules have been brought forth down from the Condé Nast publishing mountain, and much like the minor 26 second difference between the Gregorian Calendar and an actual solar year, we count seasons based on magazine covers and photo spreads rather than what we actually see roaming the streets on a day-to-day basis. Life imitates artifice.
When a woman purchases Vogue, she isn't purchasing reality, she is buying a lifestyle, a piece of a dream, an unattainable perfection documented twelve times a year at $5.95 a pop.
Who needs the definition of style when there it is staring back at us from the nearest coffee table, checkout stand, or waiting room at the doctor's office? Perhaps when it comes to phlebotomy we're a lot better off taking our chances with Anna.
Helmed by the indomitable Anna Wintour, she of the disproportionate sunglasses and precision-cut page boy, Vogue has become the go-to source for all things couture and coat rack for over 100 years, lending credence to the adage that beauty lies not in the eye of the beholder, rather in the eyeliner of the beholden.
If Anna says that blue is the new black, or that bouclé is so very last season, then it is. It simply is. Mortals can get no closer to God on earth, a fashion deity that deems something is so true that the apostles must purchase the monthly gospel while standing in checkout lines at the local A&P with a cart filled with a few groceries and dreams that would certainly put them over the 15-item limit; women who fantasize that with the right cloak, and cut, and powder and paint, that they too can emerge from the chrysalis as the next Sienna Miller, or Halle Berry, or heaven forbid something goes horribly wrong, Jennifer Aniston.
In R.J. Cutler's "The September Issue," a behind-the-scenes frockumentary on the publication of Vogue's largest issue ever, a behemoth that clocks in at 844 pages, online fashion director Candy Pratts Price makes a bold yet telling assessment when she proclaims that "September is the January of fashion."
The rules have been brought forth down from the Condé Nast publishing mountain, and much like the minor 26 second difference between the Gregorian Calendar and an actual solar year, we count seasons based on magazine covers and photo spreads rather than what we actually see roaming the streets on a day-to-day basis. Life imitates artifice.
When a woman purchases Vogue, she isn't purchasing reality, she is buying a lifestyle, a piece of a dream, an unattainable perfection documented twelve times a year at $5.95 a pop.
Who needs the definition of style when there it is staring back at us from the nearest coffee table, checkout stand, or waiting room at the doctor's office? Perhaps when it comes to phlebotomy we're a lot better off taking our chances with Anna.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
clocks
Day, n. A period of twenty-four hours, mostly misspent. ~Ambrose Bierce
Once upon a time, there was time. Seconds and minutes and hours counted by hatch marks on the wrists of those now passing years in timeless cemeteries. It is a concept at once elusive and obvious, hurtling each of us toward a destiny that can only be recounted in hindsight.
I am constantly reminded of time whenever I look in the mirror. Or when I feel an ache that wasn't there the day before. Or when I see the children of friends who look exactly as I remember their parents looking just a few years prior. Or perhaps longer than that.
They say that time is what prevents everything from happening at once, and I am inclined to believe this. Time is not something that passes us by, rather it is static, a permanent sign post stuck in concrete. Time stays... we go.
Addresses change, lovers uncouple, hairlines recede but time remains constant. Sometimes I wish I could retrieve some of that constance and have back many of those wasted hours, a do-over if you will. I want to change my mind and do things differently, and take the other fork in the road and make a decision that leads to a different outcome. I want to miss that elevator and meet someone else on the stairwell, and find myself in a different city with different friends and a different house with another name on the mortgage. To go back and tell a loved one that they were indeed a loved one before it was too late. Or, make amends for something that hadn't happened yet.
These are the tricks of time. It is an illusory mechanism that calculates the distance between cause and effect. Whether I will fully understand my actions as measured by the clock is not for me to tell. The present is the moment that just passed, and the future waits in the next sentence.
Time won't give me time.
Once upon a time, there was time. Seconds and minutes and hours counted by hatch marks on the wrists of those now passing years in timeless cemeteries. It is a concept at once elusive and obvious, hurtling each of us toward a destiny that can only be recounted in hindsight.
I am constantly reminded of time whenever I look in the mirror. Or when I feel an ache that wasn't there the day before. Or when I see the children of friends who look exactly as I remember their parents looking just a few years prior. Or perhaps longer than that.
They say that time is what prevents everything from happening at once, and I am inclined to believe this. Time is not something that passes us by, rather it is static, a permanent sign post stuck in concrete. Time stays... we go.
Addresses change, lovers uncouple, hairlines recede but time remains constant. Sometimes I wish I could retrieve some of that constance and have back many of those wasted hours, a do-over if you will. I want to change my mind and do things differently, and take the other fork in the road and make a decision that leads to a different outcome. I want to miss that elevator and meet someone else on the stairwell, and find myself in a different city with different friends and a different house with another name on the mortgage. To go back and tell a loved one that they were indeed a loved one before it was too late. Or, make amends for something that hadn't happened yet.
These are the tricks of time. It is an illusory mechanism that calculates the distance between cause and effect. Whether I will fully understand my actions as measured by the clock is not for me to tell. The present is the moment that just passed, and the future waits in the next sentence.
Time won't give me time.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
empty calories
If one stands on a paper plate long enough, he rightfully begins to fancy himself an entrée at a picnic. But whether that turns out to be barbecued chicken or potato salad is all a matter of conjecture. Personally, I prefer a tender rack of pork ribs seasoned just so with a tangy sauce and a hint of cinnamon but it's a lot of effort for very little meat.
Read into this what you will and I will write into it, wholly subscribing to the manifesto that the words will seek their own level and create meaning where a blank page, or screen existed mere moments before. I never met an empty space or jigger that couldn't be filled with something or other.
A friend just this minute after reading my lead paragraph commented that I am the kind of person who would design an outfit around a shoe or accessory or seek out an event in need of cause.
This in turn made me begin to ponder exactly how long I could get away with writing about nothing in particular, rambling on towards an illogical conclusion built upon a faulty premise that never existed in the first place. Was I becoming the literary equivalent of a Seinfeld episode; a box of Cracker-Jacks without the prize? Allow me to get 25 words in edgewise; there truly is a grain of substance in this shell of a story, but whether it will yield a pearl has yet to be determined.
While I was originally going to speak about personal virtues, and moral dilemmas, and intestinal fortitude I instead got sidetracked by the process rather than the subject matter.
True, much has happened since my last foray onto the fields of Gettys-blurb, and much will occur in the years four-score hence, but this is neither the time nor the consecrated ground to spill all the impertinent details of the day-to-day.
Life is indeed a buffet, a picnic, a portable feast I've heard it called.
Sometimes what you put on your plate is fulfilling. Sometimes it gives you indigestion. And yes, sometimes the menu flat out chooses you.
Seconds anyone?
Read into this what you will and I will write into it, wholly subscribing to the manifesto that the words will seek their own level and create meaning where a blank page, or screen existed mere moments before. I never met an empty space or jigger that couldn't be filled with something or other.
A friend just this minute after reading my lead paragraph commented that I am the kind of person who would design an outfit around a shoe or accessory or seek out an event in need of cause.
This in turn made me begin to ponder exactly how long I could get away with writing about nothing in particular, rambling on towards an illogical conclusion built upon a faulty premise that never existed in the first place. Was I becoming the literary equivalent of a Seinfeld episode; a box of Cracker-Jacks without the prize? Allow me to get 25 words in edgewise; there truly is a grain of substance in this shell of a story, but whether it will yield a pearl has yet to be determined.
While I was originally going to speak about personal virtues, and moral dilemmas, and intestinal fortitude I instead got sidetracked by the process rather than the subject matter.
True, much has happened since my last foray onto the fields of Gettys-blurb, and much will occur in the years four-score hence, but this is neither the time nor the consecrated ground to spill all the impertinent details of the day-to-day.
Life is indeed a buffet, a picnic, a portable feast I've heard it called.
Sometimes what you put on your plate is fulfilling. Sometimes it gives you indigestion. And yes, sometimes the menu flat out chooses you.
Seconds anyone?
Sunday, July 19, 2009
sermonette
Better watch that first sentence, it's a doozy. Whoever said that the beginnings were easy to see, and that it was the endings that were difficult to decipher never had a case of blogger's block. Simply put, contrary to what they taught us in Journalism 301, it is the rare story that writes itself. Blogs, while shorter in form and residing in their own dusty, solitary box on the literary shelf are no different.
First there is the subject matter to consider. True, one can write on just about any topic under the sun, and by sun I do mean that intensely hot suppressive orb that has kept us in triple digits for almost two months straight without any rain, but that is a case for the meteorologists to sort out. Topics can range from fashion to travel to politics to well, writing. Just the other day I came across a lengthy piece expounding upon the direction of toilet paper, and whether the roll should pull over or under, and if so, was it correct etiquette to change the rotation or just wait until the roll had been used up. Heady topics, these.
Once this thematic hurdle has been jumped, there is always that elusive first sentence, one which every writer worth his sodium chloride has his own opinion about. Blame it on my advertising copywriting background, but I prefer a punchy statement that opens the door seeing that you have about three seconds to grab the buyer... er, reader's attention. This is just a personal preference, much like ketchup on eggs, but it works for me and seems to get people over the threshold, crossing into what could be considered your own cozy little blog cabin on the net.
So now here we are in the living room of the story; the part where the writer has his guests look around, see. If you have made it this far, it is a pretty safe bet that your company will allow you to take their coat and at least stay for awhile and perhaps have a refreshment or two. Myself, I like three, but then again, personal preference.
The story should now unfold with a clear direction of where you are headed and what you want the reader to leave with besides a small hangover the next morning. Make your points succinctly and prepare to tidy everything up in your closing and goodbyes.
Once again, I like a little punch in my final paragraph, as well as in my glass, something that ties-in with a point that was made earlier in the article; a Styrofoam cup for the road, so to speak.
While I have a certain feeling that I languish somewhere near the "mushy middle" in the pantheon of my contemporaries, I have malignant optimism in the writing skills of just about everyone with an email account. Once the blockages have been removed, distractions dissolved, focus regained, the disciplined writer should have no trouble at all constructing his house of syllables, vowels, and consonants, that's what it is after all.
The wrap up is neat and tidy and can only finish with the two words that bring elation and joy to the heart of every writer. Happy Hour.
First there is the subject matter to consider. True, one can write on just about any topic under the sun, and by sun I do mean that intensely hot suppressive orb that has kept us in triple digits for almost two months straight without any rain, but that is a case for the meteorologists to sort out. Topics can range from fashion to travel to politics to well, writing. Just the other day I came across a lengthy piece expounding upon the direction of toilet paper, and whether the roll should pull over or under, and if so, was it correct etiquette to change the rotation or just wait until the roll had been used up. Heady topics, these.
Once this thematic hurdle has been jumped, there is always that elusive first sentence, one which every writer worth his sodium chloride has his own opinion about. Blame it on my advertising copywriting background, but I prefer a punchy statement that opens the door seeing that you have about three seconds to grab the buyer... er, reader's attention. This is just a personal preference, much like ketchup on eggs, but it works for me and seems to get people over the threshold, crossing into what could be considered your own cozy little blog cabin on the net.
So now here we are in the living room of the story; the part where the writer has his guests look around, see. If you have made it this far, it is a pretty safe bet that your company will allow you to take their coat and at least stay for awhile and perhaps have a refreshment or two. Myself, I like three, but then again, personal preference.
The story should now unfold with a clear direction of where you are headed and what you want the reader to leave with besides a small hangover the next morning. Make your points succinctly and prepare to tidy everything up in your closing and goodbyes.
Once again, I like a little punch in my final paragraph, as well as in my glass, something that ties-in with a point that was made earlier in the article; a Styrofoam cup for the road, so to speak.
While I have a certain feeling that I languish somewhere near the "mushy middle" in the pantheon of my contemporaries, I have malignant optimism in the writing skills of just about everyone with an email account. Once the blockages have been removed, distractions dissolved, focus regained, the disciplined writer should have no trouble at all constructing his house of syllables, vowels, and consonants, that's what it is after all.
The wrap up is neat and tidy and can only finish with the two words that bring elation and joy to the heart of every writer. Happy Hour.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
let them eat steak
There are two sides to every nickel. This is both. You see, in a climate that is increasingly becoming more and more bolstered by the have-nots supporting the haves I find myself squarely in the middle, an observer and a participant, performer and spectator, Democrat and Republican. Oh... forget the latter analogy lest I get carried away in a straitjacket again.
Sit down kids and let Uncle Mame explain it all.
Recently while poring through some glossy magazine that mysteriously ended up in my mailbox I ran across an article touting a new breed of brohemian, a class of citizenry that is more familiar with descriptions of cashmere cardigans from the pages of a J. Crew catalog than it is quotations from the sermon on the mount, or the meaning of "Christ" in Christmas Sale 20% Off. I tell you, it is the societal equivalent of throwing the baby out with the Bathsheba; giving up the guise of the trappings of success by actually paying more for material goods that portray a, shall we say, shabbier cheek. In a quest for solidarity with the less fortunate a subculture has popped up of the plenties portraying the unplenties. A subculture that has understandably now been been forever deemed the Poorgeoisie.
Forget Generation "X." Forget Generation "Y." For all intents and purposes we have run out of letters, much like the early settlers who ran out of continent, or the National Weather Service who infrequently encounters more hurricanes than they have names for. Ladies and Gentlemen, we have now witnessed the birthing of a movement of young, unsettled recessionistas who pay huge sums of money to look the part of the dowager while brunching on Brie and Veuve Clicquot.
The populist outrage has effectively been anesthetized and neutered. Snipped at the quick.
Who could feel sorry for the evicted woman sitting on her front stoop in a pair of Tom Ford $950 jeans? Or the couple who live paycheck to paycheck but refuse fast food, instead opting only to eat $30 Ikura sake-marinated salmon roe at Uchi every weekend. Marie Antoinette's head rolled for far less, this much I tell you.
Most small business owners are clamoring to have the extra business and have come to call this new breed of young, under-the-table spendthrifts the Appreciatives. Roget calls them Disipators. I prefer to call them In Debt. Either way, this inconspicuous consumerism has become the heart of an economy on life support, and may indeed be a necessary evil. What else is one to do? Make less and spend more all the while pretending to have less than the next guy. Now that is a stimulus package we can all support even though we may look upon it later with eyeful of disdain.
And that, my friends, is the fine edge of the coin. A coin I'd like to have back when you're done looking at it, thank you.
Sit down kids and let Uncle Mame explain it all.
Recently while poring through some glossy magazine that mysteriously ended up in my mailbox I ran across an article touting a new breed of brohemian, a class of citizenry that is more familiar with descriptions of cashmere cardigans from the pages of a J. Crew catalog than it is quotations from the sermon on the mount, or the meaning of "Christ" in Christmas Sale 20% Off. I tell you, it is the societal equivalent of throwing the baby out with the Bathsheba; giving up the guise of the trappings of success by actually paying more for material goods that portray a, shall we say, shabbier cheek. In a quest for solidarity with the less fortunate a subculture has popped up of the plenties portraying the unplenties. A subculture that has understandably now been been forever deemed the Poorgeoisie.
Forget Generation "X." Forget Generation "Y." For all intents and purposes we have run out of letters, much like the early settlers who ran out of continent, or the National Weather Service who infrequently encounters more hurricanes than they have names for. Ladies and Gentlemen, we have now witnessed the birthing of a movement of young, unsettled recessionistas who pay huge sums of money to look the part of the dowager while brunching on Brie and Veuve Clicquot.
The populist outrage has effectively been anesthetized and neutered. Snipped at the quick.
Who could feel sorry for the evicted woman sitting on her front stoop in a pair of Tom Ford $950 jeans? Or the couple who live paycheck to paycheck but refuse fast food, instead opting only to eat $30 Ikura sake-marinated salmon roe at Uchi every weekend. Marie Antoinette's head rolled for far less, this much I tell you.
Most small business owners are clamoring to have the extra business and have come to call this new breed of young, under-the-table spendthrifts the Appreciatives. Roget calls them Disipators. I prefer to call them In Debt. Either way, this inconspicuous consumerism has become the heart of an economy on life support, and may indeed be a necessary evil. What else is one to do? Make less and spend more all the while pretending to have less than the next guy. Now that is a stimulus package we can all support even though we may look upon it later with eyeful of disdain.
And that, my friends, is the fine edge of the coin. A coin I'd like to have back when you're done looking at it, thank you.
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