[Insert apology for not having written in ages and ages here.]
Today, I started a creative writing class called "Brief Encounters." The class is taught by a very nice Columbia MFA student and focuses on short pieces known as Flash Fiction. As an introduction, the instructor told us about a challenge that was once posed to Ernest Hemingway. An adversary bet that Hemingway couldn't tell a story in six words. The toreador's response: For Sale. Baby shoes. Never worn. Her point in sharing this anecdote was simple -- stories come alive in the reader's imagination. A writer's job is to open the door.
We read three stories: "The School" by Donald Barthelme, "The Cage" by Heinrich Böll, and "Girl" by Jamaica Kincaid. Barthelme led a trip into the absurd, Boll to hell, and Kincaid explored the unfathomable depths of a mother's love for her daughter.
As an exercise, my classmates and I were asked to rewrite Kincaid's piece from the maternal perspective. The text of "Girl" can be found here. Please see my response below. I'd appreciate any comments that you have. (Oh, and many thanks for all the support and love in response to my Metropolitan Diary submission. It really was a dream come true!)
Response to Jamaica Kincaid's "Girl"
I'm scared that if I tell her, I'll scare her. So I won't.
I'll teach her how to do the laundry. How to wash her hair. Bake a bundt cake. I'll yell when she stays out past her curfew with that boy who won't ever be good enough. Who won't ever love her like I love her. I'll walk into her room without knocking and criticize her outfits and how she bites her nails. I'll make sure she knows that red just isn't her color and that Floyd from the football team only wants one thing. I'll take away the car keys and make her clean the bathroom and call Cindy's mom because Cindy's being mean. I'll cheer at graduation while others clap politely and stay too long at Parents' Day. I'll chaperone her field trip and not let her go to parties -- even when she tells me "Everyone's gonna be there." I'll ruin her life a thousand times over and take her to buy lip gloss.
And hope that one day she figures it out.
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Monday, May 2, 2011
My Grandfather's Granddaughter: A Jewish-American Tale
This coming month marks the one year anniversary of the passing of my grandfather, George Steiner, of blessed memory. I have been thinking about my grandfather a lot lately -- with the upcoming unveiling of his gravestone, the end of my father's aveilut (year of mourning), and Passover Yizkor all recent familial topics of conversation. But, tonight, with the historic news of the death of Osama Bin Laden, thoughts of my Poopa (the silly name I coined as an infant unable to pronounce "Grandpa") cannot escape my mind.
When I think about my grandfather, and his passing in particular, a number of questions arise with my memories. I think about what it means for me to no longer have any living grandparents. Has my childhood lapsed? Have I lost a vital connection to my past? (As many of you know, I am a genealogy nerd -- having spent several summers working at the Center for Jewish History's Genealogy Institute. My capstone project as a CJH Fellow was a documentary timeline of my grandfather's life.) But these questions, vital as they are, are not what dominate my thinking about my grandfather tonight. Rather, it is America, the nation and its actions, that led me to think of him tonight -- and that is a critical part of my thinking about him always.
Before he was my grandfather, George was a son, a husband, a father, a soldier, and a friend. And he excelled at each role in which he was cast. To digress for a moment, I'll add a word about him as a husband -- of the most devoted order, for nearly 52 years.
In addition to being wonderfully kind and caring, my grandmother, Gloria Steiner, z"l, was an amputee, having lost her leg to bone cancer while a young mother in her 30s. Even now, eleven years after her death, it is strange for me to write that -- as I never once thought of my grandmother as disabled. The reasons for that stem mainly from her grace, courage, and, in the days before modern prostheses, unfailing determination to do everything that an able-bodied person could. They also stem from my grandfather. More than her supporter, he was her champion -- both allowing and encouraging her to do all the things she wanted to do. I could try and list his daily devotions to her, but there is no way to fully paint a picture for you of the kind of dedicated husband he really was.
The trait of dedication -- of devotion, of doing what is right -- is one that my grandfather honed in the United States Armed Forces. Born in Nitra, Czechoslovkia, George immigrated to the United States with his parents, Joseph and Matilda, in 1923 -- when he was barely 2 years old. Raised in the Yorkville section of Manhattan, he was a Boy Scout par excellence and grew into a tried and true American boy. Upon graduation from high school in 1939, George voluntarily enlisted in the US Army and was stationed in the Panama Canal Zone. Just as his active duty was scheduled to end, the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor and George embarked on an additional 4 years of service. Together with the Army Corps of Engineers, my grandfather built bridges and saw combat throughout France and Germany. Though he never shared this fact with his children or grandchildren, he was awarded the Bronze Star for valor after running into mortar fire to retrieve a wounded member of his company and, with another soldier, carry him several miles to the nearest army hospital. (We only learned of this story, and the medal, upon finding the well hidden paperwork while sorting through my grandparents' apartment after my grandmother's death.) These days, when we often rush to share our accomplishments with the world through text messages, Facebook, or, sometimes, a blog, it is all the more astonishing to learn that others have kept their most meaningful accomplishments secret.
While my grandfather did share some stories of the antisemitism he experienced in the military, I don't know if, during his six years of service -- especially those spent fighting in Europe, he knew that his grandparents, numerous aunts and uncles, and 27 of his 28 first cousins were being led to their deaths by the Nazis. There is certainly no way he could have known that, after the war, there would be no record of Jewish survivors from the town of Nitra.
It is this interplay between his patriotism and his Jewishness that has rooted my grandfather in my thoughts tonight. Today is Yom Hashoah, Holocaust Remembrance Day. I grew up in a home, and in a community, that is steadfast in its dedication to Holocaust education. As a grandchild of survivors (my mother's parents met as refugees in Siberia), I am proud to carry the banner of Zachor -- Remember, Never Forget. Today, as thousands crowd the streets of Lower Manhattan waving flags to the choruses of U-S-A, U-S-A, I remember the victims of Bin Laden's terror along with the six million who perished merely because they were Jews. As I remember, I am saddened by the fact that, 66 years after the liberation of the concentration camps, baseless hatred still exists in this world and I am heartened by the tremendous step the United States has taken today to eradicate that hatred. And, while I am filled with pride and patriotism, I still face the same questions that confront me each Yom HaShoah, each time I think about my grandfather. How can I be better? More grateful? More active? For as long as I can remember, I've grappled for answers. And, for as long as I can remember, I've fallen short. Today, as my American and Jewish identities merge in a way that they have not before, in a way that my grandfather might have found familiar, I redouble my efforts to honor the past and impact the future -- to fulfill my potential as my grandfather's granddaughter, to merit the privilege, American Jew.
When I think about my grandfather, and his passing in particular, a number of questions arise with my memories. I think about what it means for me to no longer have any living grandparents. Has my childhood lapsed? Have I lost a vital connection to my past? (As many of you know, I am a genealogy nerd -- having spent several summers working at the Center for Jewish History's Genealogy Institute. My capstone project as a CJH Fellow was a documentary timeline of my grandfather's life.) But these questions, vital as they are, are not what dominate my thinking about my grandfather tonight. Rather, it is America, the nation and its actions, that led me to think of him tonight -- and that is a critical part of my thinking about him always.
Before he was my grandfather, George was a son, a husband, a father, a soldier, and a friend. And he excelled at each role in which he was cast. To digress for a moment, I'll add a word about him as a husband -- of the most devoted order, for nearly 52 years.
In addition to being wonderfully kind and caring, my grandmother, Gloria Steiner, z"l, was an amputee, having lost her leg to bone cancer while a young mother in her 30s. Even now, eleven years after her death, it is strange for me to write that -- as I never once thought of my grandmother as disabled. The reasons for that stem mainly from her grace, courage, and, in the days before modern prostheses, unfailing determination to do everything that an able-bodied person could. They also stem from my grandfather. More than her supporter, he was her champion -- both allowing and encouraging her to do all the things she wanted to do. I could try and list his daily devotions to her, but there is no way to fully paint a picture for you of the kind of dedicated husband he really was.
The trait of dedication -- of devotion, of doing what is right -- is one that my grandfather honed in the United States Armed Forces. Born in Nitra, Czechoslovkia, George immigrated to the United States with his parents, Joseph and Matilda, in 1923 -- when he was barely 2 years old. Raised in the Yorkville section of Manhattan, he was a Boy Scout par excellence and grew into a tried and true American boy. Upon graduation from high school in 1939, George voluntarily enlisted in the US Army and was stationed in the Panama Canal Zone. Just as his active duty was scheduled to end, the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor and George embarked on an additional 4 years of service. Together with the Army Corps of Engineers, my grandfather built bridges and saw combat throughout France and Germany. Though he never shared this fact with his children or grandchildren, he was awarded the Bronze Star for valor after running into mortar fire to retrieve a wounded member of his company and, with another soldier, carry him several miles to the nearest army hospital. (We only learned of this story, and the medal, upon finding the well hidden paperwork while sorting through my grandparents' apartment after my grandmother's death.) These days, when we often rush to share our accomplishments with the world through text messages, Facebook, or, sometimes, a blog, it is all the more astonishing to learn that others have kept their most meaningful accomplishments secret.
While my grandfather did share some stories of the antisemitism he experienced in the military, I don't know if, during his six years of service -- especially those spent fighting in Europe, he knew that his grandparents, numerous aunts and uncles, and 27 of his 28 first cousins were being led to their deaths by the Nazis. There is certainly no way he could have known that, after the war, there would be no record of Jewish survivors from the town of Nitra.
It is this interplay between his patriotism and his Jewishness that has rooted my grandfather in my thoughts tonight. Today is Yom Hashoah, Holocaust Remembrance Day. I grew up in a home, and in a community, that is steadfast in its dedication to Holocaust education. As a grandchild of survivors (my mother's parents met as refugees in Siberia), I am proud to carry the banner of Zachor -- Remember, Never Forget. Today, as thousands crowd the streets of Lower Manhattan waving flags to the choruses of U-S-A, U-S-A, I remember the victims of Bin Laden's terror along with the six million who perished merely because they were Jews. As I remember, I am saddened by the fact that, 66 years after the liberation of the concentration camps, baseless hatred still exists in this world and I am heartened by the tremendous step the United States has taken today to eradicate that hatred. And, while I am filled with pride and patriotism, I still face the same questions that confront me each Yom HaShoah, each time I think about my grandfather. How can I be better? More grateful? More active? For as long as I can remember, I've grappled for answers. And, for as long as I can remember, I've fallen short. Today, as my American and Jewish identities merge in a way that they have not before, in a way that my grandfather might have found familiar, I redouble my efforts to honor the past and impact the future -- to fulfill my potential as my grandfather's granddaughter, to merit the privilege, American Jew.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
The Short List
New year. New format. New nonsense.
1. Let's discuss President Obama's truly awful airplane-without-an-engine analogy during the State of the Union address. Did anyone else love the irony of that whole section going over like a lead balloon? (What's that? I'm a dork? I'm sorry, I can't hear you over the hordes of people clamoring to win the future.)
2. As many of you know, I have been re-watching my all-time favorite TV show - The West Wing. It is amazing the things that are different the second time around. Namely, while still madly in love with Josh Lyman (I'm still torn as to whether or not I want to be him or marry him), I find myself becoming increasingly smitten with Sam Seaborn. Obviously, Rob Lowe is unfailingly gorgeous. But, it's more than that. Sam is smart, idealistic, sensitive, and ... he writes like a dream. Swoon.
[For those of you who do watch WW, I have a question. In Posse Comitatus, how, on his journey between 45th Street and the FBI field office - which by my best estimation is either in the Federal Office Building on Varick Street or the one on 125th, does Simon Donovan end up in a bodega on 98th and Broadway? Considering the events that transpire in said bodega, it's a legitimate question. I'm not opposed to the UWS getting a shoutout, I'm just curious.]
3. I'm well aware that the above question demonstrates my freakish over-thinking of inconsequential issues. You needn't point it out.
4. The Super Bowl media frenzy is in full swing. This year's hot topics: Ben Roethlisberger's behavior, Ben Roethlisberger's suspension, and Ben Roethlisberger's new found appreciation for success. Apparently, in the NFL, being suspected of rape is the gift that keeps on giving...
5. Paul Bettany regrets his giving up the lead role in "The King's Speech". Is it okay that I don't?
1. Let's discuss President Obama's truly awful airplane-without-an-engine analogy during the State of the Union address. Did anyone else love the irony of that whole section going over like a lead balloon? (What's that? I'm a dork? I'm sorry, I can't hear you over the hordes of people clamoring to win the future.)
2. As many of you know, I have been re-watching my all-time favorite TV show - The West Wing. It is amazing the things that are different the second time around. Namely, while still madly in love with Josh Lyman (I'm still torn as to whether or not I want to be him or marry him), I find myself becoming increasingly smitten with Sam Seaborn. Obviously, Rob Lowe is unfailingly gorgeous. But, it's more than that. Sam is smart, idealistic, sensitive, and ... he writes like a dream. Swoon.
[For those of you who do watch WW, I have a question. In Posse Comitatus, how, on his journey between 45th Street and the FBI field office - which by my best estimation is either in the Federal Office Building on Varick Street or the one on 125th, does Simon Donovan end up in a bodega on 98th and Broadway? Considering the events that transpire in said bodega, it's a legitimate question. I'm not opposed to the UWS getting a shoutout, I'm just curious.]
3. I'm well aware that the above question demonstrates my freakish over-thinking of inconsequential issues. You needn't point it out.
4. The Super Bowl media frenzy is in full swing. This year's hot topics: Ben Roethlisberger's behavior, Ben Roethlisberger's suspension, and Ben Roethlisberger's new found appreciation for success. Apparently, in the NFL, being suspected of rape is the gift that keeps on giving...
5. Paul Bettany regrets his giving up the lead role in "The King's Speech". Is it okay that I don't?
Thursday, October 28, 2010
I might as well have Cablevision...
As the World Series, a sporting event that I traditionally take an interest in, begins tonight, I feel it is important to muse on why it is that – this year – I have no interest whatsoever.
Yes, the answer is not particularly mysterious. The Yankees are not making an appearance. No Yankees. No Yael. Plain. Simple.
The first sign that the Yankees were doomed to a late fall, rather than a Late Fall, appeared when the Bombers failed to clinch the AL East. The Rays? Really? Let’s examine the reasons why a team should never trail behind The Rays.
Reason number one? Two words. Expansion Team. This team did not even exist when the Yankees began their current era of domination in 1996. In their 12 year lifespan, the team has required a name change and a color change to expand its marketability. I don’t care that the ascendance of The Rays indicates the potential for young teams from minor markets in Major League Baseball. I’m a New Yorker, a capitalist, and an enemy of the salary cap. For all I care, small teams from small towns can wither and die.
On that note, we approach reason number two. Tampa Bay. The 19th largest metropolitan area in the United States. A city known only for its beer-sponsored theme park. I realize I’m an obnoxious Northeastern snob. Still. Northern Florida? Yuck.
At the end of the day, the Yankees outlasted the Rays and at least made it to the ALCS – where they ultimately lost to a team from a metropolis that at least cracks the top five. Making it within two games of the pennant would be a major accomplishment for any of the other 29 teams in Major League Baseball. For the Yankees, it is like being asked to spend the off-season in a garbage dump. They may as well have not made the playoffs altogether. In New York, it's go big or go home.
Our discontent with a semi-final level finish is demonstrative of how life as a Yankee fan is emblematic of life in New York in general. We don't want good, we want great. We don't want mostly. We want always. For instance, as I walked home the other evening around midnight, I found myself legitimately angry that the Dry Cleaners was closed, preventing me from picking up my clothing. This is New York for goodness sakes! Everything is supposed to be 24 hours. Do I care that the Dry Cleaners only closes at 10 PM? No! I should be able to visit whenever I please. Do I take any solace in knowing that, EVERYWHERE else in the world, Dry Cleaners close at 6 PM and not a moment later? Nope. Closing at 10 PM is the New York city equivalent of a Yankees losing ALCS appearance. Okay, but not nearly good enough.
Yes, the answer is not particularly mysterious. The Yankees are not making an appearance. No Yankees. No Yael. Plain. Simple.
The first sign that the Yankees were doomed to a late fall, rather than a Late Fall, appeared when the Bombers failed to clinch the AL East. The Rays? Really? Let’s examine the reasons why a team should never trail behind The Rays.
Reason number one? Two words. Expansion Team. This team did not even exist when the Yankees began their current era of domination in 1996. In their 12 year lifespan, the team has required a name change and a color change to expand its marketability. I don’t care that the ascendance of The Rays indicates the potential for young teams from minor markets in Major League Baseball. I’m a New Yorker, a capitalist, and an enemy of the salary cap. For all I care, small teams from small towns can wither and die.
On that note, we approach reason number two. Tampa Bay. The 19th largest metropolitan area in the United States. A city known only for its beer-sponsored theme park. I realize I’m an obnoxious Northeastern snob. Still. Northern Florida? Yuck.
At the end of the day, the Yankees outlasted the Rays and at least made it to the ALCS – where they ultimately lost to a team from a metropolis that at least cracks the top five. Making it within two games of the pennant would be a major accomplishment for any of the other 29 teams in Major League Baseball. For the Yankees, it is like being asked to spend the off-season in a garbage dump. They may as well have not made the playoffs altogether. In New York, it's go big or go home.
Our discontent with a semi-final level finish is demonstrative of how life as a Yankee fan is emblematic of life in New York in general. We don't want good, we want great. We don't want mostly. We want always. For instance, as I walked home the other evening around midnight, I found myself legitimately angry that the Dry Cleaners was closed, preventing me from picking up my clothing. This is New York for goodness sakes! Everything is supposed to be 24 hours. Do I care that the Dry Cleaners only closes at 10 PM? No! I should be able to visit whenever I please. Do I take any solace in knowing that, EVERYWHERE else in the world, Dry Cleaners close at 6 PM and not a moment later? Nope. Closing at 10 PM is the New York city equivalent of a Yankees losing ALCS appearance. Okay, but not nearly good enough.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
The Unbearable Triteness of Being (an Unpaid Intern)
I need to vent. Seriously. I need to vent about life, about work, about school. Did I mention that I need to vent about work? And, alas, I cannot – for the protocols of the workplace prevent it. You see, as the New York Times Magazine not so subtly reminded us this past weekend, the internet is the end of the innocuous tirade. What was once a transient exercise in catharsis is now html-encoded permaglyph.
And so, despite the anonymity of this blog, we cannot occupy ourselves with topics of consequence and must turn instead to other things of import – i.e. movies and television shows.
Historically , the summer has been a veritable dead zone for television and a hotbed of cinematic delights. Of course, in 2010, a year that’s gotten increasingly strange with each passing day, the opposite is true. The small screen is shimmering while most summer blockbusters have been... well... busts.
Now, some of you are going to challenge my particular TV favorites – but, before you do, you should note that, as with all things in my life, I place a high premium on fun. As such, my summer TV accolades are awarded to the coolest crew at NBC Universal – the good people of USA Network. [Insert voice-over guy saying “Characters Welcome” here.]
Never has a network’s catchphrase been so accurate. (CBS’s “Welcome Home?” Really? Do I live with Les Moonves?) At USA, characters are not only welcome, but something of a prerequisite. Their shows, In Plain Sight, Burn Notice, and White Collar in particular, are chock full of engaging, fast-paced storylines, intriguing (and hot) men, and kick-ass women. They are examples of bubbly summer fare that never takes itself too seriously. Even In Plain Sight, a fascinating peek into the Witness Protection Program and the US Marshal Service, is banter-ific enough to keep the tone light.
Another great thing about USA programming? The myriad of West Wing alums who randomly show up to join the party. For starters, Mary McCormack and Josh Malina (WW’s Season 7 Lovebirds Kate Harper and Will Bailey), are In Plain Sight regulars. Richard Schiff (WW’s grizzly, yet lovable, Toby Ziegler) has guested on both IPS (as a rabbi!) and Burn Notice (as a criminal!). Tim Matheson (WW’s smarmy John Hoynes) is at his smarmiest as Psychopath Larry, a recurring thorn in Michael Westen’s side on Burn. And, just this season, the Flamingo-esque Allison Janney (WW’s Press Secretary-cum-Chief of Staff C.J. Cregg) joined IPS as a nagging, and nuanced, supervisor who butts head with Mary Shannon every chance she gets.
Why does any of this matter? Well, it doesn’t, but it does allow me to aggravate my father every once in awhile. You see, when I’m at my parents’ house we tend to watch a lot of USA together. Every time a WW alum enters a scene, I gleefully exclaim, “He/she’s from West Wing!” Most people would find this only mildly irritating. My father, however, hates it. Let’s just say he’s not the biggest fan of The West Wing. In fact, I’m not allowed to watch the show he scornfully calls “a love letter to the Clinton administration” while he’s in the house. The fact that I absolutely adore it? It irks him to no end.
Okay. We’ve discussed my love of USA shows. Though I have to say, these past few paragraphs have been extraneous. If you need to be convinced of USA’s greatness, I only need two words – Matt Bomer. Google Image him. You’ll understand.
On to film...
Inception was great. Really interesting, not as confusing as it could have been, blah, blah, blah. But, other than that, I haven’t seen a good film for adults in ages. Toy Story 3 was wonderful, and arguably more fun for adults than for kids, but that doesn’t count. The Kids are All Right is getting good buzz and I’m definitely going to try to see it in a few days. As for Charlie St. Cloud? When Zac Efron puts an “h” or a “k” at the end of his first name, maybe I’ll take him more seriously.
And in sports...How ‘bout dem Yankees?
B'ahava, Y
And so, despite the anonymity of this blog, we cannot occupy ourselves with topics of consequence and must turn instead to other things of import – i.e. movies and television shows.
Historically , the summer has been a veritable dead zone for television and a hotbed of cinematic delights. Of course, in 2010, a year that’s gotten increasingly strange with each passing day, the opposite is true. The small screen is shimmering while most summer blockbusters have been... well... busts.
Now, some of you are going to challenge my particular TV favorites – but, before you do, you should note that, as with all things in my life, I place a high premium on fun. As such, my summer TV accolades are awarded to the coolest crew at NBC Universal – the good people of USA Network. [Insert voice-over guy saying “Characters Welcome” here.]
Never has a network’s catchphrase been so accurate. (CBS’s “Welcome Home?” Really? Do I live with Les Moonves?) At USA, characters are not only welcome, but something of a prerequisite. Their shows, In Plain Sight, Burn Notice, and White Collar in particular, are chock full of engaging, fast-paced storylines, intriguing (and hot) men, and kick-ass women. They are examples of bubbly summer fare that never takes itself too seriously. Even In Plain Sight, a fascinating peek into the Witness Protection Program and the US Marshal Service, is banter-ific enough to keep the tone light.
Another great thing about USA programming? The myriad of West Wing alums who randomly show up to join the party. For starters, Mary McCormack and Josh Malina (WW’s Season 7 Lovebirds Kate Harper and Will Bailey), are In Plain Sight regulars. Richard Schiff (WW’s grizzly, yet lovable, Toby Ziegler) has guested on both IPS (as a rabbi!) and Burn Notice (as a criminal!). Tim Matheson (WW’s smarmy John Hoynes) is at his smarmiest as Psychopath Larry, a recurring thorn in Michael Westen’s side on Burn. And, just this season, the Flamingo-esque Allison Janney (WW’s Press Secretary-cum-Chief of Staff C.J. Cregg) joined IPS as a nagging, and nuanced, supervisor who butts head with Mary Shannon every chance she gets.
Why does any of this matter? Well, it doesn’t, but it does allow me to aggravate my father every once in awhile. You see, when I’m at my parents’ house we tend to watch a lot of USA together. Every time a WW alum enters a scene, I gleefully exclaim, “He/she’s from West Wing!” Most people would find this only mildly irritating. My father, however, hates it. Let’s just say he’s not the biggest fan of The West Wing. In fact, I’m not allowed to watch the show he scornfully calls “a love letter to the Clinton administration” while he’s in the house. The fact that I absolutely adore it? It irks him to no end.
Okay. We’ve discussed my love of USA shows. Though I have to say, these past few paragraphs have been extraneous. If you need to be convinced of USA’s greatness, I only need two words – Matt Bomer. Google Image him. You’ll understand.
On to film...
Inception was great. Really interesting, not as confusing as it could have been, blah, blah, blah. But, other than that, I haven’t seen a good film for adults in ages. Toy Story 3 was wonderful, and arguably more fun for adults than for kids, but that doesn’t count. The Kids are All Right is getting good buzz and I’m definitely going to try to see it in a few days. As for Charlie St. Cloud? When Zac Efron puts an “h” or a “k” at the end of his first name, maybe I’ll take him more seriously.
And in sports...How ‘bout dem Yankees?
B'ahava, Y
Friday, July 2, 2010
To Infinity and ... boredom.
I’ve stopped and started many posts over the past month or two. Posts about hot guys at the gym. Posts about the World Cup. Posts about nothing at all.
I’ve apparently come down with some kind of writer’s block. And yet, I keep on trying.
Perhaps I have nothing to write about because I don’t really have much going on. I go to work – where Chambers privilege precludes me from blogging about proceedings. I come home. I go to the gym. And, unless you want to hear about those aforementioned hot guys, there’s not much there to tell.
Oh, how I wish I had something witty to share. When did life get so boring?
Two nights ago, in a nod to boredom, I rented “He’s Just Not That Into You.” I know, I know. I ‘m about two years late. I simply hadn’t had time to see the film that I’d heard should have been subtitled “The [Insert the name of every girl you’ve ever known, yourself included] Story.”
So, best lesson of the movie? Hanging out is not dating.
Worst lesson of the movie? You are the exception to the rule.
The movie prattles on and on about how girls shouldn’t listen to movies and men don’t change – and, lo and behold, the movie refuses to heed its own advice.
I won’t spoil the pleasantly predictable ending for those who are even slower than I, but I will profess to having teared up at the close.
Damn me and my emotional vulnerability.
One last thing – the cutest part of the movie is by far the credits. So, if like me, Ben Affleck makes you cry in the last five minutes, don’t run for the tissues until you see Kevin Connelly and Justin Long in the credit clips.
A. DOR. A. BLE.
For the sake of preserving my cinematic dignity, I must disclaim that liking this movie may very well be a consequence of having recently seen the truly awful “Valentine’s Day” – another ensemble Rom-Com. It was so bad, it made “HJNTIY” look like art.
Since we’re already in cinema-scope, I just have to ask – did you see Toy Story 3? Cute, eh? Pixar has a knack for assembling stellar vocal casts. Perhaps if there were more dialogue, I wouldn’t have fallen asleep during Wall-E.
See kids, I told you that I had nothing to write about.
PLEASE. Someone do something interesting. Or… I might have to rent “The Ugly Truth.”
Don’t let that happen.
Hearts, Y
I’ve apparently come down with some kind of writer’s block. And yet, I keep on trying.
Perhaps I have nothing to write about because I don’t really have much going on. I go to work – where Chambers privilege precludes me from blogging about proceedings. I come home. I go to the gym. And, unless you want to hear about those aforementioned hot guys, there’s not much there to tell.
Oh, how I wish I had something witty to share. When did life get so boring?
Two nights ago, in a nod to boredom, I rented “He’s Just Not That Into You.” I know, I know. I ‘m about two years late. I simply hadn’t had time to see the film that I’d heard should have been subtitled “The [Insert the name of every girl you’ve ever known, yourself included] Story.”
So, best lesson of the movie? Hanging out is not dating.
Worst lesson of the movie? You are the exception to the rule.
The movie prattles on and on about how girls shouldn’t listen to movies and men don’t change – and, lo and behold, the movie refuses to heed its own advice.
I won’t spoil the pleasantly predictable ending for those who are even slower than I, but I will profess to having teared up at the close.
Damn me and my emotional vulnerability.
One last thing – the cutest part of the movie is by far the credits. So, if like me, Ben Affleck makes you cry in the last five minutes, don’t run for the tissues until you see Kevin Connelly and Justin Long in the credit clips.
A. DOR. A. BLE.
For the sake of preserving my cinematic dignity, I must disclaim that liking this movie may very well be a consequence of having recently seen the truly awful “Valentine’s Day” – another ensemble Rom-Com. It was so bad, it made “HJNTIY” look like art.
Since we’re already in cinema-scope, I just have to ask – did you see Toy Story 3? Cute, eh? Pixar has a knack for assembling stellar vocal casts. Perhaps if there were more dialogue, I wouldn’t have fallen asleep during Wall-E.
See kids, I told you that I had nothing to write about.
PLEASE. Someone do something interesting. Or… I might have to rent “The Ugly Truth.”
Don’t let that happen.
Hearts, Y
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
