With apologies to Johnny Depp and Justin Bieber.
Never write a bibilographical essay while hungover. Books that were boring become personal affronts; those that were annoying, crimes against humanity.
Never go to online dating sites and state that the principal reason you’re looking for a relationship is to find someone who can apply eczema cream on a place you cannot quite reach. For some reason, it doesn’t seem to work.
Never use your turn signal in Rhode Island. It confuses people.
Never quibble with a local about the excellence of Dunkin’ Donuts.
Never invite two French people who do not know each other over to dinner. They usually end up hating each other.
Never ask a soccer mom how her day was, unless you’ve got a lot of time on your hands.
Never say, “Okay, I’ll read your stuff.”
Never get romantically involved with a divorce lawyer.
Never suggest that Harry and Hermione should actually hook up.
Never turn on the tv evening news expecting to learn something.
Never read David Brooks.
Never eat a pizza topped with pineapple chunks.
Never continue a geopolitical conversation with someone who says “the Arab street.”
Never take your hookah into the bathroom.
Never trust anyone wearing a necktie. Especially if it’s the only thing they’ve got on.
Never tell a woman she looks like your mother.
And never ever tell a woman she looks like her mother.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Saturday, May 21, 2011
Portrait of a Lady 2
I was driving from Moira to Bombay, way way upstate. The sun shone, one of the first warm days of the spring. I passed a herd of bison munching on a dirty bale of hay that had been left for them in a sloping field.
Around the bend, and there over to the left stood a man at a horse-drawn plow. Two boys, his young sons, presumably, scrabbled away at the clods of muck obstructing the forward movement of the plow. The muddy hay of winter lay strewn across their expanse of land, which was unplowed and unplanted. They worked hard in the sunshine. The man wore a straw hat, an immaculate white shirt obscured by a black vest and jacket, and suspenders that held up his stovepipe black trousers. On his feet, leather boots. His boys wore exactly the same thing.
At last a T-junction and I turned west, on the road to the bridge to Canada. This was the Akewsasne Reservation, the heart of Mohawk country. Their Iroquois meeting house, always reliable for militancy, stood by the roadside festooned with a large billboard that read: “Yes, terrorists pass through Akwesasne! They’re called NY State Police, the FBI, US Border Control, ATF agents.”
I drove past a large casino, an IGA complex, a warehouse under construction. On the shoulder of the road in front of the last sat a buggy, with a trestle table set out. The frail black buggy looked like a toy that had somehow been multiplied in size by some 3-d printer. Between it and the table, petticoats flapped in the breeze on a clothesline. A sign read: “Baked Goods For Sale.” A horse was hitched to a post nearby. No more than twenty feet away, at the half-completed warehouse, a couple of young Mohawk men squatted on their haunches, cigarette smoke curling around the yellow hard hats. They appeared to be watching the horse, the buggy, the clothesline and the sale table.
Fifty feet further on, I turned into the parking lot of the Bear’s Den Trading Post, my last stop in the USA, where I habitually get a tankful of cheap gas and a big bag of discount Swedish fish. The post was its usual human kaleidoscope: impossibly huge upstate New Yorkers eating piles of fried things in the diner, ZZ-Top truck drivers with hair stringy and wet from using the showers in the back, French-Canadian families gripping their cartons of tax-free cigarettes while exclaiming loudly about jewelry in the Iroquois fashion store, and the usual bustle of bathroom-bound children.
Before the cooler, there she was. A tall, graceful young woman. On her head was a stiff brown bonnet hiding all of her hair and sloping bell-like down to her chin, where it was fastened by a shiny brown strip of fabric. Wrapped around her shoulders was a black woollen cape that fell down to just above her ankles. Beneath that a full-length navy-blue dress devoid of any grace notes, buttoned firmly up across her bosom and up to her neck, but still cinched at the waist, nonetheless. On her feet, handmade leather shoes, with rough coils of black-dyed cord running through a dozen or so eyelets.
Her arms hung down at her sides. At their end, holding her hands on either side, were two little girls dressed exactly the same way, down to the smallest detail. They must have been three years old, at the most.
The remarkable threesome looked at the sodas, designer water bottles and vitamin drinks, clearly nonplussed. The little girls had obviously never seen the likes of it before. Neither, perhaps, had the mother. The girls’ free hands timidly pointed out things, questioningly. The young woman spoke to them quietly, without reproach, in medieval German.
They moved on to the candy bar, tortilla chip and breath mint display. They stood before it, indecisive. The subdued German continued. From their vantage point in the Iroquois fashion store, the French-Canadian families could now see the woman and her daughters. The twang of their conversation dulled, quieted, fell to a whisper.
At last a decision was made. I got behind the Amish trio in the line to the cash register, my Swedish fish in hand. When it was their turn, the young woman pulled out from the fastnesses of her cape an enormous wad of dollar bills. She stripped a couple of singles off and wordlessly placed them on the counter. A gum-snapping Mohawk girl took them up and gave her back the change.
After paying, I went out to the parking lot. I could see the three walking back along the shoulder of the roadway. The girls still held their mother’s hands, but in their free hands were clutched yellow plastic wrappers, long and lurid. They both held a beef-jerky.
They reached the buggy. The two braves stood up and went back inside the warehouse to work.
Around the bend, and there over to the left stood a man at a horse-drawn plow. Two boys, his young sons, presumably, scrabbled away at the clods of muck obstructing the forward movement of the plow. The muddy hay of winter lay strewn across their expanse of land, which was unplowed and unplanted. They worked hard in the sunshine. The man wore a straw hat, an immaculate white shirt obscured by a black vest and jacket, and suspenders that held up his stovepipe black trousers. On his feet, leather boots. His boys wore exactly the same thing.
At last a T-junction and I turned west, on the road to the bridge to Canada. This was the Akewsasne Reservation, the heart of Mohawk country. Their Iroquois meeting house, always reliable for militancy, stood by the roadside festooned with a large billboard that read: “Yes, terrorists pass through Akwesasne! They’re called NY State Police, the FBI, US Border Control, ATF agents.”
I drove past a large casino, an IGA complex, a warehouse under construction. On the shoulder of the road in front of the last sat a buggy, with a trestle table set out. The frail black buggy looked like a toy that had somehow been multiplied in size by some 3-d printer. Between it and the table, petticoats flapped in the breeze on a clothesline. A sign read: “Baked Goods For Sale.” A horse was hitched to a post nearby. No more than twenty feet away, at the half-completed warehouse, a couple of young Mohawk men squatted on their haunches, cigarette smoke curling around the yellow hard hats. They appeared to be watching the horse, the buggy, the clothesline and the sale table.
Fifty feet further on, I turned into the parking lot of the Bear’s Den Trading Post, my last stop in the USA, where I habitually get a tankful of cheap gas and a big bag of discount Swedish fish. The post was its usual human kaleidoscope: impossibly huge upstate New Yorkers eating piles of fried things in the diner, ZZ-Top truck drivers with hair stringy and wet from using the showers in the back, French-Canadian families gripping their cartons of tax-free cigarettes while exclaiming loudly about jewelry in the Iroquois fashion store, and the usual bustle of bathroom-bound children.
Before the cooler, there she was. A tall, graceful young woman. On her head was a stiff brown bonnet hiding all of her hair and sloping bell-like down to her chin, where it was fastened by a shiny brown strip of fabric. Wrapped around her shoulders was a black woollen cape that fell down to just above her ankles. Beneath that a full-length navy-blue dress devoid of any grace notes, buttoned firmly up across her bosom and up to her neck, but still cinched at the waist, nonetheless. On her feet, handmade leather shoes, with rough coils of black-dyed cord running through a dozen or so eyelets.
Her arms hung down at her sides. At their end, holding her hands on either side, were two little girls dressed exactly the same way, down to the smallest detail. They must have been three years old, at the most.
The remarkable threesome looked at the sodas, designer water bottles and vitamin drinks, clearly nonplussed. The little girls had obviously never seen the likes of it before. Neither, perhaps, had the mother. The girls’ free hands timidly pointed out things, questioningly. The young woman spoke to them quietly, without reproach, in medieval German.
They moved on to the candy bar, tortilla chip and breath mint display. They stood before it, indecisive. The subdued German continued. From their vantage point in the Iroquois fashion store, the French-Canadian families could now see the woman and her daughters. The twang of their conversation dulled, quieted, fell to a whisper.
At last a decision was made. I got behind the Amish trio in the line to the cash register, my Swedish fish in hand. When it was their turn, the young woman pulled out from the fastnesses of her cape an enormous wad of dollar bills. She stripped a couple of singles off and wordlessly placed them on the counter. A gum-snapping Mohawk girl took them up and gave her back the change.
After paying, I went out to the parking lot. I could see the three walking back along the shoulder of the roadway. The girls still held their mother’s hands, but in their free hands were clutched yellow plastic wrappers, long and lurid. They both held a beef-jerky.
They reached the buggy. The two braves stood up and went back inside the warehouse to work.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Dilemma
I was thinking of taking a road trip across the U.S. this summer, but I’m afraid of melted cheese.
Will I starve?
Will I starve?
Monday, May 9, 2011
The Real Headlines
American Government Kills Guest of Pakistani Government
Obama Doctrine Hailed as “The New Frontier Justice”
Man Shot by LAPD for Using Wife as Human Shield; Woman Claims They Were Dancing
White House Hails "Valuable Intelligence" Found in Bin Laden’s Home; Orders Navy SEALS to Raid Graceland in Search of Lady Gaga’s Next Song
Mission Accomplished: National Security Spokesman Lies When Everyone is Paying Attention Then Takes It Back When We Aren’t; 76% of Americans Believe Bin Laden Shot While Throwing a Thermonuclear Hand Grenade
NRA Leader to Visit Abbottabad
Congress Honors Testosterone as "National Hormone"
Metropolitan Diary: Pam Geller Spotted in Tribeca Not Saying Anything; Supporters Fear “Sharia Gag Order”
Report: Pakistani Police Never Answer Someone-is-Blowing-Up-a-Helicopter-in-my-Neighborhood Calls
Report: Pakistani President Pleads With Electorate to Stop Laughing in Disbelief; Press Labels Bin Laden Compound “Costellobad.”
CIA Headquarters to Annex the Rest of Virginia
Mossad to Sue U.S. Navy for Copyright Infringement
OMB Forecasts Euphemism Shortage in American Foreign Policy
Bush Administration Takes Credit for Winning Second World War
UK Tabloids Decry Pakistan Operation as Plot to Diminish Royal Wedding
CNN: LeBron James Said to be Relieved Osama bin Laden Dead
Germomino Watch: Hillary Clinton Rebuked By American Medical Asssociation For Covering Her “Allergic Cough” With Hand Instead of Arm
GOP Mulls Tax Credit for Corporate Helicopters
Sarah Palin Tweets She Can See “Packistand” From Her House
Dick Cheney Claims Saddam Hussein Behind Obama’s Poll Numbers
FOX News: Democrats Plan to Fund 2012 Campaign Through Sale of Bin Laden Death Photos on Muslim e-Bay
John Yoo Criticizes Bin Laden Execution as “Too Painless”
Aftermath: TSA Launches Involuntary Vivisection Program at Nation’s Airports
Al Qaida Denounces Murder of Its Leader, Vows "War on Terror"
NY Times Reporter John Burns Promises to Get a Haircut and Shut Up Already
Guantánamo Renamed Nuremberg
Obama Doctrine Hailed as “The New Frontier Justice”
Man Shot by LAPD for Using Wife as Human Shield; Woman Claims They Were Dancing
White House Hails "Valuable Intelligence" Found in Bin Laden’s Home; Orders Navy SEALS to Raid Graceland in Search of Lady Gaga’s Next Song
Mission Accomplished: National Security Spokesman Lies When Everyone is Paying Attention Then Takes It Back When We Aren’t; 76% of Americans Believe Bin Laden Shot While Throwing a Thermonuclear Hand Grenade
NRA Leader to Visit Abbottabad
Congress Honors Testosterone as "National Hormone"
Metropolitan Diary: Pam Geller Spotted in Tribeca Not Saying Anything; Supporters Fear “Sharia Gag Order”
Report: Pakistani Police Never Answer Someone-is-Blowing-Up-a-Helicopter-in-my-Neighborhood Calls
Report: Pakistani President Pleads With Electorate to Stop Laughing in Disbelief; Press Labels Bin Laden Compound “Costellobad.”
CIA Headquarters to Annex the Rest of Virginia
Mossad to Sue U.S. Navy for Copyright Infringement
OMB Forecasts Euphemism Shortage in American Foreign Policy
Bush Administration Takes Credit for Winning Second World War
UK Tabloids Decry Pakistan Operation as Plot to Diminish Royal Wedding
CNN: LeBron James Said to be Relieved Osama bin Laden Dead
Germomino Watch: Hillary Clinton Rebuked By American Medical Asssociation For Covering Her “Allergic Cough” With Hand Instead of Arm
GOP Mulls Tax Credit for Corporate Helicopters
Sarah Palin Tweets She Can See “Packistand” From Her House
Dick Cheney Claims Saddam Hussein Behind Obama’s Poll Numbers
FOX News: Democrats Plan to Fund 2012 Campaign Through Sale of Bin Laden Death Photos on Muslim e-Bay
John Yoo Criticizes Bin Laden Execution as “Too Painless”
Aftermath: TSA Launches Involuntary Vivisection Program at Nation’s Airports
Al Qaida Denounces Murder of Its Leader, Vows "War on Terror"
NY Times Reporter John Burns Promises to Get a Haircut and Shut Up Already
Guantánamo Renamed Nuremberg
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Portrait of a Lady 1
Yesterday I was waiting for an elevator in the lobby of a retirement home. Beside me, leaning on a walker, stood a little old lady of my acquaintance.
Bonjour, Hélène.
She looked over at me. The penny dropped.
Ah bonjour, monsieur!
We waited together, patiently. I looked at her walker. The last time I saw her she got around with a cane.
Pourquoi?
I motioned to the walker.
She sighed and answered in a French-Canadian accent as thick as goalie’s pad.
Je suis fatiguée. Ben ben fatiguée…
We looked up at the elevator display. It seemed to be stuck on the third floor.
I felt a nudge at my elbow. Hélène held out a newspaper clipping, protected in transparent plastic. She urged it on me.
Regarde-moi ça!
I took it from her. It was from Ottawa’s French-language daily. Yesterday’s edition.
A picture of Hélène, wearing a deranged, gleeful smile. On her head a conical, comical party hat.
The headline read: La Doyenne d’Ottawa!
The caption stated that Hélène Chatelain, the city’s oldest resident, is seen here celebrating her 108th birthday.
We got on the elevator. I placed the clipping face up on the tray of her walker. The door closed.
We looked at each other.
Cent huit?
Her smile was positively demonic.
Zahn witt!... Ben ouais…
I recognized the smile from the newpaper. I looked down at the clipping.
She misunderstood. She thought I was looking at the walker. Reproachfully.
The doors opened at her floor.
Vous savez, monsieur, she apologized. On a beaucoup beaucoup dansé.
Bonjour, Hélène.
She looked over at me. The penny dropped.
Ah bonjour, monsieur!
We waited together, patiently. I looked at her walker. The last time I saw her she got around with a cane.
Pourquoi?
I motioned to the walker.
She sighed and answered in a French-Canadian accent as thick as goalie’s pad.
Je suis fatiguée. Ben ben fatiguée…
We looked up at the elevator display. It seemed to be stuck on the third floor.
I felt a nudge at my elbow. Hélène held out a newspaper clipping, protected in transparent plastic. She urged it on me.
Regarde-moi ça!
I took it from her. It was from Ottawa’s French-language daily. Yesterday’s edition.
A picture of Hélène, wearing a deranged, gleeful smile. On her head a conical, comical party hat.
The headline read: La Doyenne d’Ottawa!
The caption stated that Hélène Chatelain, the city’s oldest resident, is seen here celebrating her 108th birthday.
We got on the elevator. I placed the clipping face up on the tray of her walker. The door closed.
We looked at each other.
Cent huit?
Her smile was positively demonic.
Zahn witt!... Ben ouais…
I recognized the smile from the newpaper. I looked down at the clipping.
She misunderstood. She thought I was looking at the walker. Reproachfully.
The doors opened at her floor.
Vous savez, monsieur, she apologized. On a beaucoup beaucoup dansé.
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