Two years ago, I promised myself I'd never, ever, ever even consider writing another book. For those who haven't given it a shot, the Writer's Life bears more than a passing similarity to, oh I don't know, let's say the lifestyle of your average Roman slave boat rower. Actually, those guys probably had better benefits. Anyway, after 5 years of escalating poverty and diminishing self-esteem, I decided to chuck the whole thing and get into advertising. Here's my thought process: if I'm going to essentially be writing a bunch of crap for a corporate master (the publisher) anyway, I might as well just be honest about it, become a copywriter, and actually make a liveable wage and do stuff like visit the dentist. In publishing, here's how they get you: you're supposed to be so fucking happy and overwhelmed by the mythical chance to be published, that nobody feels the need to actually pay you or treat you like an employee, which you essentially are. The thrill of seeing my stuff at Barnes and Noble, I'll have you know, isn't exactly a substitute for the fact that I could barely afford to eat. When I say that my editor's lowest assistant, the kid right out of college with the most entry level of publishing jobs, was pulling down about 5 times what I'd get to write a book, I'm not exagerating. It's dreadful. But again, the romanticism of writing is supposedly satisfying enough. Yeah, right. Really, I was adamant: never again.
So, of course now I'm in the midst of shopping another book. Why the turnaround? A year and a half in advertising, that's why. Yeah, I can pay my rent and eat now...but, um, I work in advertising. It's DREADFUL. It's like the lowest common denominator every single day, nonstop. It's selling shit. That's it. That's the whole job. There's nothing else. Sell a bunch of shit, go home. Yeah, I realize there's a commercial aspect to all art/creative endeavors/etc. I mean, yeah I wanted my books to sell. I wanted to make a ton of money and all that. But there was still some sense of a greater good. It wasn't 100% rank consumerism masquerading as creativity. Which is what this is.
ANYWAY, this isn't my anti-advertising screed. This is merely a lament for how freaking long it takes to find out if you're even going to get the opportunity to return to the miserable life of writing a book. It's like, I know I hate it. I know I don't want to do it. And yet: I'm on pins and needles like I'm waiting for the hot girl in high school to return my phone call or something. It's crazy. I finished the book proposal two months ago, and since then I haven't been able to do a single goddamn productive thing, cause I'm too busy staring at a) my Inbox, b) my cell phone and c) my office phone for 8 or 9 hours a day. I can't concentrate. I can't have fun. I can't prepare for anything more than a day in the future, cause I'm hanging on to this ridiculous "oh, my life might totally change tomorrow" fantasy. And I'm hoping fervently that it happens. Why? Um, I kind of have no idea.
Ah, the Writer's Life. It's fantastic!
Friday, June 29, 2007
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
It's Like a Sauna Out There
Seriously, I think I'm dying. I need to move to the North Pole before it melts.
Got plans to see the Chet Baker documentary Let's Get Lost at Film Forum tonight. Not sure if I'm more looking forward to the film or to the air conditioning. Film snobs like it cold, right? I sure as hell hope so.
Got plans to see the Chet Baker documentary Let's Get Lost at Film Forum tonight. Not sure if I'm more looking forward to the film or to the air conditioning. Film snobs like it cold, right? I sure as hell hope so.
Monday, June 25, 2007
NYC, Good and Bad
Obviously, New York is amazing. No news there. And yet, seven years in, I find myself wondering whether the whole thing's worth it with increasing regularity. As more and more friends flee the city (either for L.A. or, heaven forbid, the suburbs), leaving my social life to fluctuate according to the ebbs and flows of my Netflix queue, it's easy to question spending about 70% of my monthly paycheck on rent. For one room, basically. But then again: what the hell am I saying? This city is life itself. If I'm bored here, it's no one's fault but my own.
This weekend perfectly mirrored my current love/hate relationship with New York City. First, the good:
It was gorgeous out Saturday. My girlfriend and I took a lovely bike ride down the west side of Manhattan, travelling south from 26th Street. This is one of my favorite summertime activities, and one of the best ways to see the city's nooks and crannies that I know of. It was especially fun to have her along, since I normally take these rides by myself. ANYWAY, here's why New York is the greatest place on Earth: so after about an hour or so of riding (with several stops, as I'm quite lazy), we stopped off at a little marina down near Battery Park/Ground Zero to grab a cool drink. The marina is framed by a sort of corporate park/shopping mall, basically the ground floor of a couple glistening office towers. It's essentially a fancy food court and some stores. So she watches the bikes while I run in to grab some juice or etc. As soon as I'm inside, I hear people cheering around a corner. Curious, I make my way over, and lo and behold the final ballroom dance competition from the end of Mad Hot Ballroom is taking place in this very mall, right now!
(OK, some back story: Mad Hot Ballroom is one of our favorite movies. If you haven't seen it, get it right now. It's wonderful. If you don't know it, here's the deal: In NYC, public schools in all 5 boroughs have ballroom dance programs. Kids who are still at the age where the opposite sex have cooties turn into perfect little ladies and gentlemen as they learn to foxtrot, swing, tango and etc. The whole 9 yards. Then these schools compete until one team is determined the NYC champs for that year. I'm not doing this justice. It's awesome.)
Forgetting the drinks, I run outside. We lock up the bikes and spend an hour watching the final round of competition. It's incredible. Not only is the show excellent unto itself, but we're standing on the set of one of our favorite movies, watching the drama play out live. Seriously, where else does this happen on a bike ride??? It was magical. And it's why everyone should live in NYC at least once in their life. I'm not saying you need to stay forever. But you've gotta do it once. This kind of thing is practically the norm.
And then, the bad: Same day, later that night. The girlfriend's sister is in town, so we fight our urge to plop down on the couch, order takeout, and stare quizzically at E!'s Sunset Tan marathon. I'm a dive bar kind of guy, but hey, it's Saturday night and I've got people in town, so I decided to up the ante a bit. New York magazine recently ran a small item concerning a new speakeasy connected to Crif Dogs, a hot dog joint in the East Village. What caught my eye is that apparently you go into the hot dog joint, then walk through a phone booth and into the speakeasy. Sounds kind of cool. And the cocktails are supposed to be quite good. Perfect.
Of course, it totally sucked. First of all, the door to the phone booth is about as intuitive as the cockpit in the space shuttle. So, picture this: I'm standing in an incredibly well-lit hot dog joint. Small tables stretch down the length of one wall. At these tables sit the type of preposterous East Villagers who'd be interested in a sit-down hot dog restaurant. The phone booth is on the wall directly opposite this wall of tables. In other words, I might as well be onstage as I stupidly poke, prod, pull, grab, and push every part of this goddamn phone booth except the right one. My pathetic fumblings singlehandedly broke the tension on what appeared to be 3 bad first dates. I was the evening's entertainment. It was awful.
Please keep in mind: everything I'm describing right now took place IN A HOT DOG JOINT. I'm not in line at Studio 54. I'm in a hot dog restaurant. OK. So I finally figure out how to enter the phone booth. I step inside and am greeted with a series of items New York mag curiously neglected to mention. I'm thinking you just walk in one door and out the other, right? Oh, no. Instead, the other door is closed, a camera is pointing down at me, and beside the phone is tacked an Instruction Sheet. Um, this blows. And it's not even a real phone booth phone. It's some crappy white plastic thing they picked up for three bucks at Radio Shack. Still, even though it's quickly dawning on my that this place is really, really not cool, I'm already in the phone booth. I can't just walk out in defeat, right? I pick up the phone, hit the button, and wait. And wait. And wait some more. Obviously, they're watching me through the camera. And they're not answering! I'm not cutting the mustard at a hot dog stand!
After another interminable minute of social torture, I cringe my way back out the door like the first idiot kicked off Survivor. My companions can smell the reek of social failure all about me. Oh, and I'm in a hot dog restaurant. My girlfriend decides to ask the Rubinesque (fat) girl behind the counter what's what. And this girl, who appears to double as the hot dog taste tester, looks down her nose at my girlfriend like she's just shown up for Truman Capote's Black and White Ball without any blue in her blood. Unbelievable! Chubster in a half shirt (who works at a hot dog restaurant) is giving us attitude!
I swear to God it feels like we're stuck in a science experiment. Have we earned our piece of cheese yet? I shuffle back over to the phone book. My people haven't suffered like this since the Old Testament. But I think I know the problem: obviously, a shlub from south Jersey like me ain't getting in. But they'll open the door for a girl, right? So I cajole the girlfriend's sister into giving it a go. She's leery, but relents. Here's what happens:
1. She picks up the phone.
2. Someone answers. Tells her they'll be right over.
3. She stands there for several minutes. Nothing.
4. Finally, the phone rings.
5. She picks it up.
6. Some unbelievably patronizing idiot says, "Next time, push the button on the phone."
7. She says, "I did. Someone said they'd be right over."
8. Idiot Who Works At A Hot Dog Restaurant says, ".......Oh. OK, someone else will be right over."
Now, I don't know who you imagine works the door at this super top secret, overly complicated speakeasy. But here's who actually works the door: Some middle aged, overweight, balding doofus in what appears to be a sweatshirt purchased at a blue light special circa 1989. And, for full effect, he's carrying a clipboard. Speakeasy doormen use clipboards? News to me. All that's missing is a velvet rope.
Anyway, using his girth to block our view of the fabled speakeasy's interior, Doorman asks if we've got a reservation. Huh? A reservation at a speakeasy? What's next, a disco ball at the bodega? Obviously, his question is about as preposterous as asking if we'd flown over on a Pegasus. Girlfriend's Sister stares at him for a moment. No, we (obviously) don't have a reservation. At which he glances down at his clipboard and begins studying the paper like he's splitting the atom. Uh, I can put you guys on the list. The list???!!!??? No thanks, dude. Girlfriend's Sister waves him away and we take off.
Here's how not cool the Crif Dogs Speakeasy is: a girl who lives in Boston realized how not cool it is.
And so, tail between our legs, we trudged off to a nearby bar, where I drowned my sorrows in a couple of wonderful, though ill-poured Belgian brews.
The moral? NYC is awesome until it isn't.
This weekend perfectly mirrored my current love/hate relationship with New York City. First, the good:
It was gorgeous out Saturday. My girlfriend and I took a lovely bike ride down the west side of Manhattan, travelling south from 26th Street. This is one of my favorite summertime activities, and one of the best ways to see the city's nooks and crannies that I know of. It was especially fun to have her along, since I normally take these rides by myself. ANYWAY, here's why New York is the greatest place on Earth: so after about an hour or so of riding (with several stops, as I'm quite lazy), we stopped off at a little marina down near Battery Park/Ground Zero to grab a cool drink. The marina is framed by a sort of corporate park/shopping mall, basically the ground floor of a couple glistening office towers. It's essentially a fancy food court and some stores. So she watches the bikes while I run in to grab some juice or etc. As soon as I'm inside, I hear people cheering around a corner. Curious, I make my way over, and lo and behold the final ballroom dance competition from the end of Mad Hot Ballroom is taking place in this very mall, right now!
(OK, some back story: Mad Hot Ballroom is one of our favorite movies. If you haven't seen it, get it right now. It's wonderful. If you don't know it, here's the deal: In NYC, public schools in all 5 boroughs have ballroom dance programs. Kids who are still at the age where the opposite sex have cooties turn into perfect little ladies and gentlemen as they learn to foxtrot, swing, tango and etc. The whole 9 yards. Then these schools compete until one team is determined the NYC champs for that year. I'm not doing this justice. It's awesome.)
Forgetting the drinks, I run outside. We lock up the bikes and spend an hour watching the final round of competition. It's incredible. Not only is the show excellent unto itself, but we're standing on the set of one of our favorite movies, watching the drama play out live. Seriously, where else does this happen on a bike ride??? It was magical. And it's why everyone should live in NYC at least once in their life. I'm not saying you need to stay forever. But you've gotta do it once. This kind of thing is practically the norm.
And then, the bad: Same day, later that night. The girlfriend's sister is in town, so we fight our urge to plop down on the couch, order takeout, and stare quizzically at E!'s Sunset Tan marathon. I'm a dive bar kind of guy, but hey, it's Saturday night and I've got people in town, so I decided to up the ante a bit. New York magazine recently ran a small item concerning a new speakeasy connected to Crif Dogs, a hot dog joint in the East Village. What caught my eye is that apparently you go into the hot dog joint, then walk through a phone booth and into the speakeasy. Sounds kind of cool. And the cocktails are supposed to be quite good. Perfect.
Of course, it totally sucked. First of all, the door to the phone booth is about as intuitive as the cockpit in the space shuttle. So, picture this: I'm standing in an incredibly well-lit hot dog joint. Small tables stretch down the length of one wall. At these tables sit the type of preposterous East Villagers who'd be interested in a sit-down hot dog restaurant. The phone booth is on the wall directly opposite this wall of tables. In other words, I might as well be onstage as I stupidly poke, prod, pull, grab, and push every part of this goddamn phone booth except the right one. My pathetic fumblings singlehandedly broke the tension on what appeared to be 3 bad first dates. I was the evening's entertainment. It was awful.
Please keep in mind: everything I'm describing right now took place IN A HOT DOG JOINT. I'm not in line at Studio 54. I'm in a hot dog restaurant. OK. So I finally figure out how to enter the phone booth. I step inside and am greeted with a series of items New York mag curiously neglected to mention. I'm thinking you just walk in one door and out the other, right? Oh, no. Instead, the other door is closed, a camera is pointing down at me, and beside the phone is tacked an Instruction Sheet. Um, this blows. And it's not even a real phone booth phone. It's some crappy white plastic thing they picked up for three bucks at Radio Shack. Still, even though it's quickly dawning on my that this place is really, really not cool, I'm already in the phone booth. I can't just walk out in defeat, right? I pick up the phone, hit the button, and wait. And wait. And wait some more. Obviously, they're watching me through the camera. And they're not answering! I'm not cutting the mustard at a hot dog stand!
After another interminable minute of social torture, I cringe my way back out the door like the first idiot kicked off Survivor. My companions can smell the reek of social failure all about me. Oh, and I'm in a hot dog restaurant. My girlfriend decides to ask the Rubinesque (fat) girl behind the counter what's what. And this girl, who appears to double as the hot dog taste tester, looks down her nose at my girlfriend like she's just shown up for Truman Capote's Black and White Ball without any blue in her blood. Unbelievable! Chubster in a half shirt (who works at a hot dog restaurant) is giving us attitude!
I swear to God it feels like we're stuck in a science experiment. Have we earned our piece of cheese yet? I shuffle back over to the phone book. My people haven't suffered like this since the Old Testament. But I think I know the problem: obviously, a shlub from south Jersey like me ain't getting in. But they'll open the door for a girl, right? So I cajole the girlfriend's sister into giving it a go. She's leery, but relents. Here's what happens:
1. She picks up the phone.
2. Someone answers. Tells her they'll be right over.
3. She stands there for several minutes. Nothing.
4. Finally, the phone rings.
5. She picks it up.
6. Some unbelievably patronizing idiot says, "Next time, push the button on the phone."
7. She says, "I did. Someone said they'd be right over."
8. Idiot Who Works At A Hot Dog Restaurant says, ".......Oh. OK, someone else will be right over."
Now, I don't know who you imagine works the door at this super top secret, overly complicated speakeasy. But here's who actually works the door: Some middle aged, overweight, balding doofus in what appears to be a sweatshirt purchased at a blue light special circa 1989. And, for full effect, he's carrying a clipboard. Speakeasy doormen use clipboards? News to me. All that's missing is a velvet rope.
Anyway, using his girth to block our view of the fabled speakeasy's interior, Doorman asks if we've got a reservation. Huh? A reservation at a speakeasy? What's next, a disco ball at the bodega? Obviously, his question is about as preposterous as asking if we'd flown over on a Pegasus. Girlfriend's Sister stares at him for a moment. No, we (obviously) don't have a reservation. At which he glances down at his clipboard and begins studying the paper like he's splitting the atom. Uh, I can put you guys on the list. The list???!!!??? No thanks, dude. Girlfriend's Sister waves him away and we take off.
Here's how not cool the Crif Dogs Speakeasy is: a girl who lives in Boston realized how not cool it is.
And so, tail between our legs, we trudged off to a nearby bar, where I drowned my sorrows in a couple of wonderful, though ill-poured Belgian brews.
The moral? NYC is awesome until it isn't.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Again with the Sopranos
Okay, I know. This is getting old. But the last week has brought a deluge of magazine and online pieces devoted to the finale, and forwarded emails professing to explain how Tony died threaten to outstrip even the fifty or so HGH come-ons that bog down my inbox on a daily basis. And so, I feel compelled...
All of this analysis, to my mind, is utter nonsense. Leave it to the detestable Dalton Ross of Entertainment Weekly to perfectly encapsulate the preposterousness of these deep readings in the space of 4 paragraphs. If you haven't read it, let's just say his opining sounds like he just ran breathlessly out the doors of his freshman Intro to Film seminar, straight to the computer. Not only does Ross manage to get the entire thing wrong, but he can't help insulting and patronizing anyone who dares not see what he does. Oh, we just didn't get it. Right. Ross sounds like he's on David Chase's payroll.
I don't think I've got the energy (or enough caffeine in me) to go through the theories piece by piece, so I'll just stick to the main points of why they strike me as false on the whole. Oh, but the onion rings as communion wafers (or whatever; I'm Jewish)? The waitress's white arm symbolizing death? This is like 9th rate early Scorsese. What's next, Jersey represents Hades? The Turnpike from the opening credits is Tony's journey across the river Styx? Gawd, I hope not.
But here's the thing: to my mind, there's no precedent for having to employ this level of symbolic analysis in order to understand what the hell just happened on this show. I'm not saying there's never been imagery, or that clues and harbingers have never been built in to the set design, script, etc etc etc. What I am saying is it's never been the audience's responsibility to do the heavy lifting. Think about it: do we know Bobby died because the trains symbolized some Freudian inability to function as a man, thus neutering him (I'm just riffing here)? Did the kids in the train shop mirror Bobby's own children, who would be left alone after he died? Did the shop owner's slight stature somehow invoke the specter of Death? Is this how we know he died? Uh, no. We know he died because two dudes riddled him with bullets.
Let's do another: Um, Phil. Did Phil's SUV symbolize the dichotomy of America's juggernaut strength and precarious reliance on foreign (NJ???) powers? Was the sweatsuit he was wearing (if memory serves) meant to tip us off to a relaxation of his defenses, a letting down of his guard? Oh, I know: the fact that he was in Bay Ridge (again, if memory serves) must tip us off to the fact that Phil was teetering on the ridge between life and death. Right? Isn't this how we know he died?
Actually, no. We know he died because we saw (or heard, actually) his head get crushed under the wheel of the SUV. THIS was the Sopranos. I don't know what show everybody else was watching (to paraphrase our buddy Dalton).
And so to buy into these theories is to accept that after about ten years, in the very final scene, the rules of the show just changed completely. If so, why? What's the point? If we are supposed to read all the clues and deduce that Tony is dead, why not just show us that he'd dead? This seems absent from all the analysis: why now? Oh, would it be too easy, too anti-intellectual to just come out with an ending. Please. Is The Wire (a much better show, by the way) any less amazing or challenging because it wraps up its plots at season end? I would argue no, it certainly isn't.
One more thing and I'll put this to rest (hopefully). I now present the major flaw to all of this theorizing: So let's assume all of this is correct, that the clues really do lead up to Tony taking one in the head. OK....well, maybe I'm missing something, but aren't we still completely in the dark? Do you mean to tell me that at the end of this series, with all the plots and characters swirling about, that Tony is going to get killed by some guy at a diner we've never seen before? Um, who is that guy? Why does he kill Tony? What's his role? Is he just a stickup guy robbing the register? Does it have anything at all to do with the plot of the Sopranos??? How is this even remotely fulfilling in any way? Oh, so some random guy kills Tony. Great, I'm glad I watched for ten years.
Aside from some feeble efforts to cast Members Only Guy as an esoteric member of Phil's crew, there seems to be little concern or interest in the fact that, even if these theories are correct, we're still totally in the dark regarding what happened.
All of this analysis, to my mind, is utter nonsense. Leave it to the detestable Dalton Ross of Entertainment Weekly to perfectly encapsulate the preposterousness of these deep readings in the space of 4 paragraphs. If you haven't read it, let's just say his opining sounds like he just ran breathlessly out the doors of his freshman Intro to Film seminar, straight to the computer. Not only does Ross manage to get the entire thing wrong, but he can't help insulting and patronizing anyone who dares not see what he does. Oh, we just didn't get it. Right. Ross sounds like he's on David Chase's payroll.
I don't think I've got the energy (or enough caffeine in me) to go through the theories piece by piece, so I'll just stick to the main points of why they strike me as false on the whole. Oh, but the onion rings as communion wafers (or whatever; I'm Jewish)? The waitress's white arm symbolizing death? This is like 9th rate early Scorsese. What's next, Jersey represents Hades? The Turnpike from the opening credits is Tony's journey across the river Styx? Gawd, I hope not.
But here's the thing: to my mind, there's no precedent for having to employ this level of symbolic analysis in order to understand what the hell just happened on this show. I'm not saying there's never been imagery, or that clues and harbingers have never been built in to the set design, script, etc etc etc. What I am saying is it's never been the audience's responsibility to do the heavy lifting. Think about it: do we know Bobby died because the trains symbolized some Freudian inability to function as a man, thus neutering him (I'm just riffing here)? Did the kids in the train shop mirror Bobby's own children, who would be left alone after he died? Did the shop owner's slight stature somehow invoke the specter of Death? Is this how we know he died? Uh, no. We know he died because two dudes riddled him with bullets.
Let's do another: Um, Phil. Did Phil's SUV symbolize the dichotomy of America's juggernaut strength and precarious reliance on foreign (NJ???) powers? Was the sweatsuit he was wearing (if memory serves) meant to tip us off to a relaxation of his defenses, a letting down of his guard? Oh, I know: the fact that he was in Bay Ridge (again, if memory serves) must tip us off to the fact that Phil was teetering on the ridge between life and death. Right? Isn't this how we know he died?
Actually, no. We know he died because we saw (or heard, actually) his head get crushed under the wheel of the SUV. THIS was the Sopranos. I don't know what show everybody else was watching (to paraphrase our buddy Dalton).
And so to buy into these theories is to accept that after about ten years, in the very final scene, the rules of the show just changed completely. If so, why? What's the point? If we are supposed to read all the clues and deduce that Tony is dead, why not just show us that he'd dead? This seems absent from all the analysis: why now? Oh, would it be too easy, too anti-intellectual to just come out with an ending. Please. Is The Wire (a much better show, by the way) any less amazing or challenging because it wraps up its plots at season end? I would argue no, it certainly isn't.
One more thing and I'll put this to rest (hopefully). I now present the major flaw to all of this theorizing: So let's assume all of this is correct, that the clues really do lead up to Tony taking one in the head. OK....well, maybe I'm missing something, but aren't we still completely in the dark? Do you mean to tell me that at the end of this series, with all the plots and characters swirling about, that Tony is going to get killed by some guy at a diner we've never seen before? Um, who is that guy? Why does he kill Tony? What's his role? Is he just a stickup guy robbing the register? Does it have anything at all to do with the plot of the Sopranos??? How is this even remotely fulfilling in any way? Oh, so some random guy kills Tony. Great, I'm glad I watched for ten years.
Aside from some feeble efforts to cast Members Only Guy as an esoteric member of Phil's crew, there seems to be little concern or interest in the fact that, even if these theories are correct, we're still totally in the dark regarding what happened.
Sunday, June 17, 2007
A Brief Meta Post Before Bed
I just read my own blog, in its entirety, and actually caught myself nodding along and thinking, "Huh, he's making a lot of sense."
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Worst People in the World
I'm in a pissy mood today (long story), and instead of spending another second considering my own pathetic and disappointing place in the world, I thought I'd turn my thoughts to people who annoy me. It's better that way, and it helps me feel better about myself. I think my parents taught me this.
ANYWAY: Is there anything worse than people who insist on correcting grammar, punctuation, usage, etc etc in emails, message boards, online chats, and similar modes of communication? Seriously, these people are the lowest form of humanity, right? And I'm not talking about a Business email or something, I'm talking garden variety recreational missives. My grammar needs to be perfect there? Really? When did this start? Am I supposed to start speaking in the King's English, too? These grammar mavens are intellectually on par with your average jellyfish. To correct someone's spelling on a message board is the last defense of those who have no defense. Hey, if I want to read what the nerds have to say about the Lost finale, I don't need to get bogged down while some idiot goes on a rampage concerning misused pronouns. IT'S A LOST MESSAGE BOARD. It's not my thesis. Jesus Christ.
And another thing: I maintain that anyone who knows a lot about grammar, usage, syntax, whatever, probably couldn't write their way out of a paper bag. If you get to the point where you're writing professionally, this is what an editor is for. This is all a result of how we are taught to write as children. I can't remember a single instance where I learned how to develop my voice, or to be creative, or to craft an intriguing narrative. No, I was too busy diagraming sentences and taking pop spelling quizzes. People who know this stuff sound like they're still working on an 8th grade term paper. The single greatest corner I ever turned as a writer was figuring out that absolutely none of this stuff matters. It's completely beside the point.
So there.
Oh, and just to hammer home what I'm rambling on about, I will officially refuse to spell check this post.
ANYWAY: Is there anything worse than people who insist on correcting grammar, punctuation, usage, etc etc in emails, message boards, online chats, and similar modes of communication? Seriously, these people are the lowest form of humanity, right? And I'm not talking about a Business email or something, I'm talking garden variety recreational missives. My grammar needs to be perfect there? Really? When did this start? Am I supposed to start speaking in the King's English, too? These grammar mavens are intellectually on par with your average jellyfish. To correct someone's spelling on a message board is the last defense of those who have no defense. Hey, if I want to read what the nerds have to say about the Lost finale, I don't need to get bogged down while some idiot goes on a rampage concerning misused pronouns. IT'S A LOST MESSAGE BOARD. It's not my thesis. Jesus Christ.
And another thing: I maintain that anyone who knows a lot about grammar, usage, syntax, whatever, probably couldn't write their way out of a paper bag. If you get to the point where you're writing professionally, this is what an editor is for. This is all a result of how we are taught to write as children. I can't remember a single instance where I learned how to develop my voice, or to be creative, or to craft an intriguing narrative. No, I was too busy diagraming sentences and taking pop spelling quizzes. People who know this stuff sound like they're still working on an 8th grade term paper. The single greatest corner I ever turned as a writer was figuring out that absolutely none of this stuff matters. It's completely beside the point.
So there.
Oh, and just to hammer home what I'm rambling on about, I will officially refuse to spell check this post.
Monday, June 11, 2007
And Another Thing
***Sopranos Spoiler Warning***
Sorry, I felt I couldn't leave it at that. I should have mentioned that the way the series ends might actually be poetic and tragic. Tony left living in the bed he made, expecting the worst each time a diner door opens, or someone gets up to use the bathroom...this is obviously a terrible fate. I get all of that. But c'mon. Deliver some goods. Was there a single person watching last night who didn't immediately assume their TV had gone out when it ended? I thought someone cut the cable cord. If that's not a tetament to the episode's failure, I don't know what is.
GREAT scene. TERRIBLE finale. There's a difference.
Sorry, I felt I couldn't leave it at that. I should have mentioned that the way the series ends might actually be poetic and tragic. Tony left living in the bed he made, expecting the worst each time a diner door opens, or someone gets up to use the bathroom...this is obviously a terrible fate. I get all of that. But c'mon. Deliver some goods. Was there a single person watching last night who didn't immediately assume their TV had gone out when it ended? I thought someone cut the cable cord. If that's not a tetament to the episode's failure, I don't know what is.
GREAT scene. TERRIBLE finale. There's a difference.
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