Archive for November, 2006
“When I get a little money I buy books; and if any is left I buy food and clothes.” – Erasmus
Oh, please, please, PUH-LEEEEEZE come visit my blog and tell me that you’ll read one of my books. I know you said that your list was not complete, but there are SO MANY GOOD BOOKS that you’re missing on your list! How do I choose just one? Have you read nothing by Hermann Hesse? No Frankenstein? No Dracula? No Phantom?!
Diesel, Diesel, Diesel. We simply must talk. The prodigy of not one but TWO English professoring parents? You must have rebelled or something against the atrocity of having two English professors in your home. (The stress might make me fold, as well, so don’t get me wrong.)
Man, oh, man. Thus Spoke Zarathustra, Siddhartha, A Separate Reality. (A Separate Peace, for that matter.) Oh, the list is endless, ENDLESS, my friend!
Damien, The Picture of Dorian Gray, and Madam Bovary are also favorites.
Anna Karenina. Tragic. Long and tragic. (And all the superfluous stuff about her sister is just ridiculous).
The Scarlet Letter. Tragic. As an adult, I finally get it.
BUT *she shrieks waving her hands in the air* for the purposes of this exercise, the winner must be . . . . drum roll, please . . . dum, dum, dum, duuuuum . . .
Only, don’t buy the $65 version. Go on half.com and buy it used for $2.50!
Happy reading! Please, please tell me you haven’t already read it. Hesse is next!
Angela, she who holds exactly 1/2 of a philosophy degree (the upper half — I can’t tell you squat about Plato or Locke.)
. . . . proposition you’ve ever received? And no, I don’t mean that kind of proposition, not necessarily, anyway.
For example, the wildest proposition I ever received was to write a book on stem-cell research with Columbia biology professor Robert Pollack. I did not pursue the offer because I figured he must have been high on crack the day he talked to me about it, and I subsequently ignored — or otherwise poo-pooed — his e-mails figuring that he must have me mistaken with someone who could actually write a book on stem-cell research.
In many ways, I regret not believing in myself enough to follow up. Why shouldn’t a silly girl from a cowpoke town in Very Northern California co-author a book with a man who has held a Guggenheim Fellowship?
That proposition actually beats out the experience I had on a plane from Houston to Indianapolis in 1984 when ZZTop’s drummer was coming on to me. Of course, I didn’t realize he was coming on to me because, do the math. I was 13.
To his credit, he got up and left the instant he realized it. The conversation, which had been going on for a good hour or so after we’d been seated next to each other on the plane, came to a grinding halt like this:
Picture me blabbering on and on in my normal fashion about the incredible experience of being re-routed first class, complete with champagne on the flights, etc., due to a gas leak in San Fran.
Me: Blah, blah, blah . . . and they even started passing out CHAMPAGNE! But, of course, (in typical bershon, victimized teenaged fashion) I didn’t get to drink it.
Frank: Why not?
Me: I’m not 21.
Frank: (a flicker of recognition begins) How old are you?
Me: (still completely and blissfully unaware of what’s going on and with no hesitation) 13.
*end of conversation as Frank abruptly gets up and walks to the back of the plane*
It took me many years to figure out why I didn’t even get so much as a “Well, it’s been nice talking to you.” I hadn’t a clue who he was — still wouldn’t if I met him again.
Hell, I was listening to Barry Mannilow and Michael Martin Murphey (remember “Wildfire“?) . I figured that he must be an Oak Ridge Boy (or something) since the flight attendants (then called stewardesses) kept asking for his and his companions’ autographs.
My grandmother’s reaction to the group when she met me at the plane? “Blech. Don’t they ever bathe?” Grandma was always a little conservative that way. I also remember that she seemed very unimpressed with their entourage and the very long white limo they piled into. Guess that’s where I get it from. The unimpressed part. Not the rude part (hopefully).
So ‘fess. What is the wildest thing life/fate has thrown your way? Did you run with it? Why or why not?
Is there no justice in the world?! The Barbies SOOOOOO did not deserve to stay in the race. That they are still in it is just testimony to a group of TV executives who wanted to keep them in because they make for good TV (kind of like That Horrible Girl on this season’s Bachelor).
Will I still tune in next week, though? You bet your sweet aunt fanny I will!
And p.s. I’ve yet to talk with a woman who thinks this season’s bachelor is even remotely sexy, but we’re still tuning in anyway. What is with that?!
And p.p.s. I can just imagine the ‘Bama girls at home watching tonight’s episode with the one who didn’t compare herself to a roach punching in the arm the one who did as it flew out of her mouth, not once, but twice! Sweetheart, think phoenix. Not roaches. Too much information, that.
And what about the Barbies and their “We’re not evil blondes, just competitive blondes”? I told my daughter that if she grew up and acted like that I would disown her (which is quickly becoming my favorite threat).
They haven’t done one flippin’ single solitary nice thing for ANYONE since they first took off from Seattle. (Okay, redundant on the “single solitary,” I know, back off — I just can’t express myself vehemently enough about this.)
My favorite quote around the office has been taken from them, though, and gives everyone a good laugh when I’m feeling, shall we say, a little dramatic. When Dustin and Kandice were asked at the beginning of the race if they were friends, one Barbie sweetly put her hand to her boobs and said, in her super sugary makes-me-want-to-hurl Miss America sing-songy way, “Well, I’m Miss California and this, this is Miss New York.”
Stupid, we didn’t ask if you were beauty queens. We asked if you were friends! F.R.I.E.N.D.S.
I have also secretly relished the “London? What country is that in?” question that one of them asked earlier in the season when they were trying to make flight arrangements. See Mr. Beelzebub, there ARE women more stupid than I out there procreating. Muwahaha! And one of them is most likely going to be in charge of YOUR precious social security check.
And p.p.p.s. Do I hate them because they’re beautiful? Probably. Yes, probably, I do. That and mean. Very mean.
Presenting, the amazing, the talented, the too-cute-for-words . . . Abigail! (My darling and incredibly smart niece. Did I mention how talented she is? AND, she likes ABBA. What’s not to love?!)
Eat your heart out, Leta!