It’s Another Beautiful Day in the Berkshires

From 8 through 13, I went to Camp Taconic. Many former campers cite this experience as one of the best in their lives. There were certainly the facilities to make it so. But despite all the water-skiing and lit tennis courts, I was miserable each well-planned summer.

When I was 12, through a series of complicated and uninteresting events, two bunk mates of mine repeatedly asked me to move my bed so they could sleep near each other in the back of our cabin. The fact that they were excluding me, bullying me, choosing other girls over me was understood. What I failed to understand was how important it was for them to sleep near each other.

But so what, right? That was a Bat Mitzvah ago. And indeed, my life has improved since I was 12. Take yesterday: a dozen friends and I went to Spa Castle in College Point, Queens. And afterward, we all had a delicious meal at a renowned Thai place in Woodside.

But despite the pleasantness of my life, last night this entire summer camp incident came up in dream form. There’s no escape from self.

Year in Read, 2008

® – Reread
Amazon link – General interest recommendation: if you like reading, you’ll like this book. There are other books on this list I liked that didn’t get linked only because I had complicated and uninteresting reasons for enjoying them.
* – Didn’t finish

My Kind of Place*, Susan Orlean,
Man of My Dreams®, Curtis Sittenfeld

Didn’t hold up as well the second time.

The Swimming Pool Library, Alan Hollinghurst

Earlier: Fan Fic.

Let’s Talk About Love, Carl Wilson

A funny, charming and honest look at Celion Dion. Those with in an interest in pop culture and French Canadian culture should look into it.

The Ghost Writer, Philip Roth

I heard the semi-sequel, Exit Ghost is supposed to be good, so I read this in preparation. Currently there are no Exit Ghosts on Amazon for a penny, so I can’t tell you how well the two books connect.

Sex, Drugs and Coco Puffs, Chuck Klosterman

Well, at least someone’s stoned musings are getting published.

The Gift, Lewis Hyde
Blink, Malcolm Gladwell
Psychoanalysis: The Impossible Profession, Janet Malcolm

Earlier: The Impossible Education

Why Switzerland?, Jonathan Steinberg

Earlier: Why Switzerland? Why Switzerland!

The Executioner’s Song, Norman Mailer

This book never ends, but it’s good. If you like true crime and Mormons in shorter doses, I’d recommend In Cold Blood (not about Mormons) and Under The Banner of Heaven (about Mormons).
Earlier: One Raronauer Reads, Explained

Unaccustomed Earth, Jhumpa Lahiri

I can’t blog enough good things about this book.
Earlier: I Read It First, Follow Your Dreams

Apex Hides the Hurt, Colson Whitehead

The main character in this book develops a toe infection that causes him to limp and sort of lose his mind. I didn’t really appreciate this book until I sprained my ankle and started going crazy myself.

The Myth of Sisyphus, Albert Camus

When I went through my precious Albert Camus phase, I didn’t read this seminal essay. I think I was holding off until I was old enough to understand it. I’d recommend this book to anyone who gets satisfaction out finishing their laundry and to the people who don’t, because they should. There are few pleasures in life, and we must take them where we can.

Female Chauvinist Pigs, Ariel Levy

Pop sociology, in the best sense of the demeaning phrase.

The Modern Library Writer’s Workshop: A Guide to the Craft of Fiction, Stephen Koch

I read this book on the recommendation of a friend, but in general, books on how to write depress me. I don’t like thinking about how there is a market for how-to-write fiction books, but no market for fiction.

The Glass Castle, Jeannette Walls
A Clearing in the Distance, Witold Rybczynski

Note: Enjoying running in Prospect Park is not the same as having an interest in the life and times of Frederick Law Olmsted.

Birds of America, Lorrie Moore

After reading this book, I realized only like Lorrie Moore in the increments the New Yorker fiction departments sets.

Madame Bovary®, Gustav Flaubert

There’s a reason this is a Penguin Classic.

Portnoy’s Complaint®, Philip Roth

Have you read this? I mean lately? God, this book is one breath. And in a monologue, Roth creates scenes and characters all while maintaining this incredible energy. Perhaps I’m like fans of Birth of a Nation, who can overlook the inherent racism for the film making, but what’s a little casual misogyny compared with this kind of writing?

The Brief, Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao®, Junot Diaz

To learn how to write, you have to read. I’ve learned a lot from the books on this list, but Junot Diaz is a different matter. He’s obviously mastered the craft, but his writing is on such a higher level that he’s impossible to steal from.
Earlier: Brief and Wondrous Dreams, ‘Your Adoring Audience Is Clamoring For More Heavy-Handed Sarcastic Wit And Cynicism.’

No One Belongs Here More Than You., Miranda July

Makes a great gift for a precocious teenage lesbian. I read Stephanie Vaughn after Miranda July, but Vaughn published first, and I got the sense that Vaughn influenced July heavily. Personally, I like Miranda July better as a film maker than as a writer.

The Mysteries of Pittsburgh, Michael Chabon

This is actually the only Chabon I like. Chabon should write more about the homosexual periods of his life and less about fictional Jewish settlements in Alaska.

Goodbye, Columbus®, Philip Roth

This novella is like the literary equivalent of The Wizard of Oz for me. As soon as I start it, I have to finish it.

Middlesex®, Jeffrey Eugenides

I liked this book more the second time I read it. I still think the ending is weak, but the characters, writing, story—it’s all the there. I bring up Eugenides with people from Michigan, and they never know him, which is sad because I don’t know any writer with more affection for Oakland County, Michigan.
Earlier: I Reread Books So You Don’t Have To Read At All

What I Talk About When I Talk About Running, Haruki Murakami

Earlier: Running High, Not Untrue, I’m So Vain, I Probably Think This Blog Post Is About Me, The New Yorker Knows My Body

Emperor’s Children, Claire Messud

Earlier: You Know That Book Everyone Was Talking About Two Years Ago? I Just Read It

Special Topics in Calamity Physics*, Marisha Pessl
Stop-Time*, Frank Conroy
The Hunters, Claire Messud
Fortress of Solitude®, Jonathan Lethem

When I read this book the first time, I had been to Brooklyn maybe twice. In the three years since I first read it, I’ve explored Boreum Hill, where the novel takes place. I thought this knowledge would give me extra insight into the book. It didn’t.

I also reread the book to see a fine example of memoir-novel. I finished the book certain that Jonathan Lethem gave a practice blowjob to his childhood best friend.

The Cutmouth Lady, Romy Ashby
Dora, Sigmund Freud

Not to be a jerk, but New Yorkers throw the theories of Sigmund Freud around as if they understand him by osmosis. It wasn’t until this year that I knew what id was, and I’m still working on ego and superego. Since I like participating in pop psychology conversations, I thought I’d read this book to have a better idea of what I was talking about. Someone very familiar with Freud’s work recommended this to me, saying “It’s Freud before he became Freud.” But I think Freud after he became Freud would have been better for me, or at least better for dinner party chatter.

The Last Life, Claire Messud
American Wife, Curtis Sittenfeld

I had a dream about Laura Bush where I tried to convince her to read American Wife. I liked this book a lot.
Earlier: American In-Law

Netherland, Joseph O’Neill

A friend of mine who didn’t like Oscar Wao didn’t like this book, either. And I can see why: they’re writing books, not story books. But if you like your sentences incredible, read this book.
Earlier: Cricket Writing

Low Life, Luc Sante

At times when I was reading this book, I wondered if Sante was just making facts up.

Sweet Talk, Stephanie Vaughn

I read this book for “Dog Heaven,” a story featured in the New Yorker Fiction Podcast. Unfortunately, that was the best story in the collection. Related, I’d recommend the New Yorker Fiction Podcast, featuring the sonorous fiction editor Deborah Treisman and a writer reading his favorite work from the New Yorker archive, to anyone with an iPod and an interest in fiction.

We Wish to Inform You That Tomorrow We Will be Killed With Our Families: Stories from Rwanda, Philip Gourevitch

My ideal non-fiction book involves lots of reporting on an important subject that’s easy to read. Other books in this category include Cold New World and Random Family. Reading about genocide is no party, but I’m glad I know more about Rwanda now. Gourevitch is an engaging, sensitive writer; people interested in the world should read this book.

While I was reading this book, some crazy person from my Birthright trip sent our group an email about someone criticizing the state of Israel and our “never again” promise. Gourevitch writes extensively about this “never again” claim. The genocide in Rwanda is proof that “never again” only refers to groups of Western social-political importance. When Jews say “never again,” they mean “never again for us,” which is fine, but “never again” is just factually incorrect; it already happened in Rwanda.

Lost Hearts In Italy, Andrea Lee

I read this book because I liked a story Lee published in the New Yorker this year and she was featured in the New Yorker Fiction Podcast. For me, this book had too many jumps in perspective and time, so I wouldn’t recommend it. Lee herself said that she prefers writing short stories, which is a nice coincidence because I like her short stories more. That said, once I started this slender book, I was eager to finish it.

A Savage War of Peace: Algeria 1954-1962, Alistair Horne
The Devil Problem: And Other True Stories, David Remnick

Previously read: 2007, 2006

Money, Money, Money — Money!

If you’ve watched local news lately, you’ve probably seen a well-coiffed newscaster in a mall warning you that consumers — that is, you — aren’t spending enough this holiday season. Even before the Dow went down, these segments were holiday evergreens. Americans have never bought enough for their loved ones during Christmas, and without seasonal plasma TVs, the economy could implode! And now that the economy is imploding, I’m going to blame the plasma TVs. Do you remember this article about McMansions in 2002? We shouldn’t be living with more toilets than we can remember, and I believe this foreclosure/stock/bond/everything crisis is an exaggerated reaction to the exaggerated lifestyle some people enjoyed during the mid-aughts. Right now, I’m in Palm Desert, which is near Palm Springs. In the hotel, there’s a book of stuff to do in the area, with a section called “Shopping Nirvana.” I suppose that’s not exactly an oxymoron because in the shopping district, you are not for want of places where you can get things you want. 

1 Week Old, 2 Months Useless Political Analysis

I’m reading last week’s New Yorker article on Georgia and it seems that Obama was right on that whole

The Year of Magical Happenings

However you feel about 2008, it’s undeniable that a lot happened. There was the primary, the New Jersey high end hooker, Bear Sterns, the Olympics, the housing bubble, the election, Prop 8, the auto crisis and the senate seat up for auction. Even if you’re not a black, gay Olympian managing the New York or Illinois state governments’ portfolio, it’s still been a hell of a year. For the first time in my life, I’m aware that I’m living through history. I should start taking notes.

2008 was a crazy year for me in every way, even on an iPod level. This year, I bought a nano, gave away my dying one, was given a classic ipod as a joke, which I regifted to my roommate, lost my new nano and was given my friend’s old iTouch.

Along with all the current events, I will look back on 2008 as the year my life started being what I wanted it to be. I suppose I could have skipped college and started writing fulltime seven years ago, but it took me until 2008 to feel like I could.

I’ve been close with my best friend since 8th grade. Now she’s getting a PhD in anthropology. We’ve known each other since before we knew what our dreams would be. Today, another friend of mine is moving into an apartment he’ll own. The older we get and the more 2008s we experience, the less we grow up with our friends and the more we agree with their lifestyle choices. I don’t know how to feel about that fact other than it’s true.

Museum Class

Yesterday I went to the Whitney because I’m a lady, and that’s what ladies do on cold Sunday afternoons.

I hadn’t been to a museum with an admission fee in a long time and I was reminded of the class divide in art. My mom is an artist and I like art, but let’s be real: art is a pleasure for the rich. The patrons at the museum wore Gucci scarves and stylish haircuts. Even the ticket takers looked like NYU Art History majors, unaware or indifferent to the fact that taking tickets at a museum is still a job taking tickets. Museums are always asking for contributions, but I wonder who those gifts are for. Donating to a museum is effectively giving money to a leisure activity of the rich.

And it’s not just rich versus poor at the museum. There’s also the divide of couples and singles. About half the people there look like they had spent the morning in bed and were eager to get back there. The other half were on the prowl. That half was mostly gay. The rest of the museum’s guests are Asian. There’s something vaguely racist going on with the Asian tourist stereotype. What’s so bad about not being white and enjoying travel and digital cameras?

In less social conscious news, my plus one spotted Chloë Sevigny at the Whitney. I followed her to confirm, and I’m pretty sure she was with Born Rich Johnson

Happy Feeling Like Shit Anniversary

This time last year was especially difficult for me. I won’t get into details because this isn’t that kind of blog. But I will say it’s easy to look at the calendar, remember where I was mentally last year, and let myself feel miserable. On the other hand, since last December, a lot of good things have happened in my life and sulking is a waste of time.

The older I get, the more days get infected with bad memories. I wonder if eventually, every day of the year will become an anniversary of something bad. But I guess by then, I’ll be too old to remember.

“Blogging Is Glamorous”

That’s a joke my ex-coworker and current friend Andrew and I used to make about our jobs. At the time, we were being ironic—about working in pajamas and the lack of health care, about our livelihood being dependant on a server and the bizarre guard who stood watch over our building. But as someone who is now following her dreams, let me tell you: there’s nothing more glamorous than being fully employed.

Even when I was a blogger, I lived in a non New-York-Magazine- type of Brooklyn. The dealers on my stoop, the blunt wrappers in my stairwell, the local crack-addict—they didn’t bother me. When I found used condoms in my stairwell, I imagined telling about it at a dinner party in twenty years.

Then the bugs came. And there’s nothing ironic about a fly problem.

I love my roommate and I love the park near my apartment. But I want to move. Not even to a nicer neighborhood. Just to a nicer building. A fly-less building. But I can’t afford to.

A certain type of person will meet me, hear what I do and say how great it is. And it is great—to wake up and create, to do something you find personally fulfilling, to not have a boss. Then I’ll have to give a sentence to describe it, and the whole thing sounds ridiculous.

Last week, I collected the scenes and putting together a very rough draft I’ve what I’m hoping will become Raronauer’ed, The Novel. I did the same thing six months ago and I ended up throwing most of it away, so this draft might not even count. Rereading the past few months work, some parts seem amateurish. And even if it is good, it doesn’t matter. The odds are

Turkey Romance

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday, in part because it’s the only holiday that’s also an adjective. Each day of the week becomes Thanksgiving blank. Since Thanksgiving Thursday, Friday and Saturday are recognizable, if not exact anniversaries, it’s easy to create your own traditions. Along with eating turkey on Thursday, I also run on The Course, a loop around my neighborhood my father and his friend created during the running craze in the 80s. The Course is mostly hills. No matter how many times I run it, I always want to quit at the second to last one. The one thing that keeps me going is that stopping would be irrefutable proof that I’m in worse shape than I was the year before. On Thanksgiving Friday, my childhood best friend and I get pizza at Italian Village, our favorite spot from high school. Due to my ever maturing pizza palette, I realize that their pizza is pretty mediocre. But my friend and I have been going there on Thanksgiving Friday ever since we could drive, and their pizza is oily with nostalgia. Another reason I like Thanksgiving is that my parents fell in love over the long weekend. They had met at a wedding in the beginning of November and went off to their respective schools for the rest of the month. Upon return to suburban New York area over break, they went out on Thanksgiving Wednesday, Thanksgiving Friday and Thanksgiving Saturday. My mom still likes to make fun of the checkered pants my dad wore on their Saturday date. As Jeffrey Eugenides pointed out, it is hard to see my parents—or any parents, really—on the starting line-up of love. But that also means it’s impossible to imagine more emotional depth to my parents’ relationships beyond their initial meeting and, more importantly, having me. I tend to romanticize the first part of their relationship to give credence to the second part. When I picture my parents going out this weekend, 35 years ago, I imagine their conversation went something like this:

D: “You know what we should do in like 11 years?” M: “Have a daughter and name her Rebecca?” D: “You read my mind!” M: “And maybe, in like 35 years, we could adopt a dog and name him Clint.” D: “I like the way you think. Let’s get married.”

And that’s my parents’ love story. Have a good break everyone!

Aronauer Up!

So goes the Jesuit maxim, and the inspiration for the documentary series, Seven Up! For those who didn’t read A.O. Scott’s 2004 send up and subsequently watch six installments in three months, Seven Up! is an incremental documentary series that features a dozen or so of the same English children at seven, 14, 21 and on and on. For the most part, the Jesuits are right, and not just about the importance of education. At 49, the subjects of this film are much like they were at seven.

The series has some of the voyeuristic aspects of Facebook in the sense that you watch people grow up from a distance. But the documentary isn’t just pictures of old camp friends drunk in Cancun. Each installment is an intimate portrait of someone you’ve sort of known since they were seven, and I’m looking forward to catching up with them at 56.

I just came back from a Bat Mitzvah in Long Island, and I realize that extended family is kind of like this documentary. Every holiday, death or wedding, whichever comes first, you’re reintroduced to people you’ve been seeing every six months all your life. That repetition gives the relationship meaning. I have cousins I remember as pregnancies, and it’s hard not to be curious about how they’ll turn out. If only all family gatherings were as pleasant and easy as seeing a movie on a rainy day.

If He Had Switched to Gmail, the Terrorists Would Have Won

My favorite piece of light news this weekend: George Bush’s old email address was G94B@aol.com.

[article]

And Now I Wonder ...

When I was young, I had good taste in music. Of course good is a subjective term, but I’ll say that OK Computer meant a lot to me and I liked Modest Mouse before “Float On” came out.

Liking music was a currency in cool in high school and college, but before the age of illegal downloads, it was also a class system. Since music on the radio sucked (obviously) to find real music, you had to buy music. As a youth, I devoted a significant portion of my allowance to new CDs. Each $16 CD (including taxes and the like) was a risk: What if I didn’t like the new Weezer album?

Nowadays, there are other ways to be cool. You could, for example, write a novel and live in a sometimes bug infested apartment. But more to the point, the older we get, the more opportunities there are to define oneself. As a teen, music was a way for me to know about the world outside of my parents’ help. Now as a pseudo adult, I need that sense of individuality less because I am more of an individual.

And all this is an excuse to say lately, I’ve been quite bad about finding new music. I’m not just cheap. Most music can be obtained for free with a little research. But I’m lazy: I’m too lazy to read music blogs and too lazy download tracks. Even getting the new tracks on my iPod seems like a lot of work lately.

In the meantime, I’ve been enjoying light music. There’s a coffee shop I go to that seems to play exclusively Sheryl Crow, John Mayer and Tracy Chapman. And I don’t mind. They have good coffee and sometimes you just want a fast car.

This one goes out to JK, who introduced me to Wilco and the small pleasures of making my way downtown.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HLO_TipH8Zo

Cricket Writing

Emboldened, I gave into the situation and its happiness—gave in to the song, to the rums and the Coca-Colas, to Avalon’s smooth skillful butt, to the hilarity of remarks made by Dr. Flavian Seem and Prashanth Ramachandran, to the suggestion that we go on, after the gala, to some further place; and to the crush of hips and legs in Chuck’s stretch limo; and to the idea that we swing by, since we’re all dressed up, the all-fours club down on Utica on the far side of the Great Eastern Parkway, where the speechless all-fours players have been playing all day and signal to partners by picking their ears and rubbing their noses, their women hanging around drinking and eating and very ready to go home; and to persuading some characters from the all-fours club to come out and fete with us at the limo driver’s place down on Remsen and Avenue A; and to stopping on the way there at Ali’s Roti Shop for roti and doubles and stopping at Thrifty Beverages to load up with beer and four bottles of rum and, because there is no limit to our hunger, stopping also at Kahaune Restaurant and Bakery to order a delivery of tripe and beans, patties, and curry goat; and to the invitation, once inside the home of the limo driver, who is named Proverbs, to join in a card game called wapi, and to losing nearly two hundred dollars playing wapi; and to the truth of the remarks “Boy, it have a good wapi there tonight” and “Mankind does be serious about the wapi game, boy”; and to the ephemeral mouth belonging to a girl with a diploma in lifesaving; and to six laughing pairs of hands that picked up my wrecked body and dropped it on a couch; and to water splashed on my face at six in the morning; and finally to the proposition, made by Chuck as we walked behind a gang of boisterous Hasidic boys in the first warmth of the weekend, that we sweat it all off at a banya just a few blocks from his house.

I just read Joseph O’Neill’s Netherland. You might have heard the rumor that the book is awesome. Believe the hype: it is. Reading it after American Wife was a small education in how different great books can be. Sittenfeld’s achievement in American Wife was writing a novel where a lot happened to a lot of people. American Wife was engaging and smart, but above all the story moved. I believe suspense in literature is limiting, and at the onset of Netherland, we know one character dies and the narrator gets back with his wife. Over the course of the book, those things are explained, but O’Neill spends more time writing than storytelling. Secondly, O’Neill writes sentences like the one above. I’m the kind of person who skips block quotes, so if you didn’t read it, go back. That’s one sentence, 356 words to be exact. This post is 153 words. Winner, O’Neill.

Fish or Fowl?

On the off chance that the New York Times wanted me to be their Washington bureau chief, I’ve avoided writing too much about politics on this site. I don’t want to have an incriminating web trail of liberal bias. Also, after Kerry lost in 2004, I realized that caring about politics was a little like being a sports fan. No matter how much information you consume, you’re still powerless in the outcome. It’s important to know what’s going on in the world and in our country, but following politics is ultimately a hobby. I happen to prefer activities that begin with R sounds, like reading, writing and running.

That said, hot damn. Barack Obama is our president.

His rise is like the rabbit and the duck. Look at it one way and perhaps the most thoughtful and practical politician in our lifetime is going to be president in 76 days. Look at it the other, and we’ve just elected our first black president. While last night showed how far the country has come, I don’t think we would have elected Obama if he were mediocre. Because he’s the rabbit and the duck, his presidency won’t just be a milestone. Regardless of race, his administration is poised to be one of the greats: he’s capable and he’s taking office when the country needs capable leadership. Everyone, or at least the majority of voters, can agree that the country will be better off in four years.

On a related note:

I feel a little like Michelle Obama did back in February. Yesterday was the first time in my life I felt patriotic, which is an adjective I’ve always associated with blind sentimentality. And as long as we’re talking about absurd nationalism, I love Michelle Obama. She is going to be a great First Lady.

American In-Law

Last night, I finished Curtis Sittenfeld’s new book, American Wife. Sittenfeld continues to impress me. I liked her first two books, but they seemed like well-written accounts of her own life. And while I’m in no position to judge that, I was happy to see her move beyond the self roman à clef genre with a fictionalized account of someone else, namely Laura Bush

While I agree that the book loses some momentum in the last fifty pages as Sittenfeld projects her own distaste of the Iraq invasion on Alice Blackwell, overall, it’s a perfect vacation read. I don’t say this disdainfully: to make a book as engaging as American Wife takes great talent, talent Sittenfeld has showed in Prep and Man of My Dreams.

Like the Bush family, the Blackwells in American Wife are successful, clannish and obsessed with their own traditions. As a democrat who grew up middle class, Alice feels like, and is, an outsider. Entering a new family is sort of like rushing a frat. Unfortunately, the person asking you to join can’t relate since they never had to pledge. As their marriage progresses, it’s easier to assume her in-law’s traditions than to create her own. While this is a heightened representation of the in-law experience, in its exaggeration, it shows some truth. I’ve always thought that in-laws are in an unspoken competition to become the dominate family, a competition usually won by aggressiveness and good plans.

Luckily for Alice, this outsider feeling goes away when she becomes First Lady and her in-laws start sucking up to her. If it only it were that simple for the rest of us.

Genius Thought

If you’ve read Malcolm Gladwell’s recent New Yorker piece on the late-blooming genius, you may think that your own genius is just twenty or so years away from being recognized. Perhaps pandering to the accountants who really wanted to act, Gladwell writes, “Whenever we find a late bloomer, we can’t but wonder how many others like him or her we have thwarted because we prematurely judged their talents.”

Gladwell compares writers and artists like Jonathan Safran Foer and Pablo Picasso to Ben Fountain and Paul Cezanne. His point is that sometimes genius comes early, and sometimes it takes time to develop. Fair enough, but he makes it seem as if prodigies like JSF and Picasso never had to struggle for their art.

JSF and Picasso may have had instant acclaim and will be/were more prolific than their Gladwell assigned foils. But their youthful genius doesn’t preclude them from the frustrations of “late-blooming” ones. As the Picasso postcard my mom sent me from Spain reads, “Inspiration exists, but it has to find you working.”

Talent—whether late blooming or precocious—is useless without hard work. Cezanne and Fountain, for all their later success, were always painting and writing, even if onlookers thought they were fools. And prodigies must work too. No one’s going to create for you.

Don’t Touch That

This week, I have a cold. I used to pretend colds were a fun change of pace. Plus, who could argue against the joy of sneezing? This time, I hold no such delusions. I’m annoyed that I need to carry around a travel pack of Kleenex like some three year-old’s mom, the three-old being me.

One reason I may have gotten sick is that I don’t really believe in germs. I know they exist, but I don’t think they can hurt me. In my head, only pansies wash their hands before eating and Purell is for neurotics.

Except as a sick person, I notice myself touching everything and I’m starting to feel like the monkey in Outbreak. If you’ve ridden a B train lately, watch out. On my last ride, I coughed everywhere and held the handrail with my bacteria laden hands. And while I would never use an instant bacterial killer, those people sort of have a point.

“You Pay A High Price For Affiliation”

That’s what my Uncle, or the husband of my first cousin once removed, said to me over the holidays. That sentence has been bouncing around my head ever since. It’s true even on WordPress, as anyone who has clicked on one of the category tags on this site and been redirected to another WordPress blog can attest.

Right now, I don’t have any affiliation. Of course, I don’t have affordable health care either. But daily, I wake up and I write. I go for a run. I read a book. I take notes about what I should write the next day. It’s great, but it’s not sustainable. And I wonder what will happen after I’m done with this book.

After Michael Phelps won his eighth gold model, a poolside reporter asked him if he ever really thought he would break Mark Spitz’s record. It seemed like she was expecting a humbled Phelps to say no, that he never thought his dream was attainable. Instead, Phelps said something like, “Yeah, I did. I don’t think you can achieve something like this without believing you can.”

So as I live this life of unaffiliated creative time, I think it’ll work out. I have to. Otherwise, I should just get a 9 to 5, retire my jeans and flip-flops and learn how to be polite.

Joke For Tina Fey as Sarah Palin

“I’m a feminist. That’s Latin for smart woman.”

With special thanks to jg.

A Note About Misanthropy

As George Orwell put it, “Most people who bother with the matter at all would admit that the English language is in a bad way.” It’s no coincidence that Orwell was aware of decaying English because he made the language come alive. Read the rest of Politics