Tuesday Hatred: Second verse, same as the first

Unless I am badly mistaken, this Tuesday, this present day, is the last Tuesday—though not the last day—of this year. What hatreds will next Tuesday herald, if, that is (to traduce Cavafy), we will talk about things like that next year, if we’ll bother about them anymore, when we’re shut of this year and a new one, less a few days, stretches out before us, full of possibility like a carcass of maggots, each one awaiting its metamorphosis and chance to take wing? I would be surprised if it were anything very different from what’s come before.

I myself recently had cause to experience hatred regarding something very familiar to me, although I don’t think I’ve noted it in this space yet; that was the frequency with which I misplace my nail clippers and am unable to find them when I want them, to clip my nails, only to find them again at some later point when I no longer want to clip my nails (having lowered myself to tearing brutishly at them). Naturally when they’re relocated I move them to a place where they’ll be handier, or so I think, the next time; only sometimes are they actually. (In this case I found them quite soon and so I almost felt that it would be inappropriate to make them the topic of my hatred, but I consider this more than justified by the number of other occasions on which the devils have eluded me.)

Too, I hate it when the very passage one wishes to consult in a book one hasn’t got with one is among those not viewable on google books. It is very inconvenient. Sometimes one can use a devious trick to get around this, exploiting the fact that what google blocks from online viewing and what amazon blocks from online viewing are often not the same, no, not the same at all. But in this case the book whose occult contents I wished to view was not viewable at all on amazon. It’s also out of print, I believe—which is another thing one ought to find hateful, that this one does find hateful, as it’s a fine volume that’s had less than its fair share of influence, I suspect.

The other day I was using facebook for no very productive end (how hateful are these modern engines of distraction) and I “clicked” on the “icon” of someone whom I haven’t seen in a long time, an acquaintance from my undergraduate years, whom I generally picture sitting in a mildly slovenly dorm room with his mildly slovenly friend, being tall and whatnot. He appears to have gone from success to success after graduation, in business, romance, and postgraduate education. What, contrariwise, have I made of myself? Nothing! It’s all the worse with people one knows only glancingly; others whom I know better who have also made good, I know also not to be free from woes of their own, but it’s all too easy to imagine that the hazily-seen have only good fortune. The assholes.

Additionally, I hate the soapy water glasses in this cafe, and being just-friendsed (and not in the good buttsex way).

Friday Afternoon Confessional: Precious and few

I confess that I am writing this in advance, from Kalamazoo, in the course of a weirdly self-imposed “layover” between two Amtrak trains (one covered by my regular 10-ride ticket, the other conveying me to where my sister lives, from whence she shall drive me to our parents’). My purpose in visiting Kalamazoo on this day — an idea on which I was monomaniacally fixated in a way that I don’t fully understand now — was primarily to go through the month’s worth of mail that I had told the post office to hold and that they would only consent to hold until today. I also wanted to “check in” on my apartment, having left it totally unattended for a month.

I confess that on the mail front, I was fortunate, as there was a bill rapidly coming due, for a student loan servicer that bizarrely decided to shut down their online payment system for this particular month. My apartment is completely fine, except for an intimidating accumulation of ice on the (short) outside stairway, a problem I have no immediate means of addressing with any effectiveness.

I confess, dear readers, that I am out of so many things! Paper towel, mouthwash, anything other than condiments that goes in the fridge….

I confess that I remain skeptical about Christmas and that my preparation for it tends to be half-assed at best. The last couple years, this has worked out fine, as the gift exchange has been pretty heavily cut back — I now get one small item for the random exchange and one board game, nominally for my younger cousins but really for the whole family to provide us with something to do other than get lectured (with occasional time for questions) by my uncle about politics and/or religion.

I confess that I have entirely neglected to purchase anything for the “white elephant” exchange for the other side of the family, because I believe “white elephant” exchanges to be stupid and contrived — although I am proud of having contributed to The Girlfriend’s “white elephant” exchange at work, by pointing out a “Hooked on Phonics” kit at the thrift store. My mom will likely pick up the slack for me, as she always does, because I never put forth any effort whatsoever, because I have a bad attitude about the whole holiday. Similarly, for serious gifts, I usually split the cost with my sister, with her doing virtually all the shopping. In my defense, however, I do wrap them all, and beautifully.

I confess that 2009 may have been the best year of my life so far: I’ve solidified a great relationship, gotten my first real job with an adult-sized paycheck, gotten a PhD, written a book and gotten two book contracts, etc. I confess that I’m worried it may turn out to be the best year for the next several, as I return to the penury of my grad school existence. But there were only two rejections in the mail, for the whole month of December! And no more cancelled searches! And a pretty decent handful of new job listings posted, which I can apply for and not get, because when there are so many applicants for each job, they just round down and no one gets the job (i.e., 0% of applicants instead of 0.01%).

We’re going to be quite the generation, the most well-published temps and adjuncts and insurance salesmen and welfare recipients in the history of Westen Civilization, cashing our biannual book royalty checks at the Currency Exchange so that we can treat ourselves to the nice vodka — then thinking better of it and sticking with the cheap stuff. Because do you have any idea how much ramen you can buy for $35?

And with that, on behalf of all of us at The Weblog, at least the Gentiles: Merry Christmas to all!

A cherished tradition

For the last few years, one of my uncles has consistently shown up on Christmas with a new crackpot belief, and I am always eager to see what it is. For instance, in 2007, it was Kabbala. (He recommended that I study it, as it would help with my research; when I replied that my specialty is Christianity, he said, “But Kabbala is Christianity.”) In 2008, much to my disappointment, it was merely televangelism.

This year, less than five minutes after we arrived at the get-together, he was talking about when the hyperinflation would hit, and I was sure I was dealing with a goldbug — but when I brought it up to another uncle, he said that it was actually the silver standard that my crackpot uncle was into, as gold had been monopolized by the rich. If things had been insufficiently awkward, I would have mounted a spirited defense of fiat currency, but fortunately the seemingly interminable white elephant gift exchange kept the awkwardness quotient sufficiently high.

Spoiler Alert Thursday: A Very Dexter Christmas

Christmas Eve seems like a perfect time to discuss what I passed over in silence last week: the season finale of Dexter.

Wednesday Food: Merry War-on-Christmas!

Just a short and sweet post from Wednesday Food today.  Two of my favorite desserts are suited to this time of year and I felt it necessary to link them to you.  Heidi Swanson’s Ginger Chip Cookies are outstanding and were beloved last week by the most skeptical of recipients.  They are made with whole wheat pastry flour and a minimal amount of butter and, when properly baked, result in a soft, fresh ginger interior and slightly crisp sugar crust.  Pair them with Jeni Britton’s Peppermint Ice Cream.  She has a method for the base which uses corn starch instead of egg, thereby removing the possibility of nasty scrambled custard.  A few substitutions make this an amazing vegan ice cream.

I used the recipe last night with candy canes and in lieu of an ice bath to cool the custard, just set the bowl on my snow-covered patio.  Definitely a silver lining to somewhat unfortunate weather.

Tuesday Hatred: Tomlinsoniad

Actually, I’m kind of at a loss. My only recent complaints are the same ones I’ve long had, and familiarity has, in this case, bred not contempt but maundering near-indifference. My hatred has long since been ground up fine and is no more than the daily salt and pepper of my life (one might say without giving credit to its source). Can I even work up hatred regarding my inability to be either hot or cold? No, not really.

Friday Afternoon Confessional: Lateness

I confess that staying at The Girlfriend’s place has thrown off my blogging schedule, resulting in later and later confessionals. I confess that I’m getting sad that we won’t be able to spend Christmas together, and even more sad that my sojourn here will end the week after. It’s gone well.

I confess that I’ve made great progress on my translation the last few weeks, finishing a full draft and tracking down a good chunk of the quotations I need. I confess that now I can tinker with it endlessly without really doing anything concrete, meaning that in a weird way, the translation has become procrastination from itself.

I confess that I’m gearing up for a depressing Christmas, as I appear to have used up all the good fortune allotted to my family for this year.

Wednesday Food: Eat the Word

This post marks the first anniversary of Wednesday Food, here at the home for the heteronomous.  I thought it would be nice to pay a tribute to the written word, and more specifically, to the best book choices for bars and restaurants.

It is not so rare an occasion that I find myself desiring a pint on my own.  Whatever the circumstances– companions are occupied, solitude is desired, or maybe the fridge is just fresh out of drink– I relish the moment of saddling up at a quiet bar (preferably dive) with a book and a beer.

If you have the luxury of choice, rather than the obligatory translation or course reading, the most important criterion is resilience in the face of interruption.  Because you’re not in the library there are any number of factors that will distract you from your material so it is best that the reading in question not require your most committed attention.  Short stories, essays, poetry and plays are all excellent written forms for public places.  Anything addressing the subject of food or drink is befitting,  comedic writing is a favorite contender, as it improves the social atmosphere.  And finally, found materials– newspapers and magazines– are an obvious and convenient choice.

My recommendations in the above stated categories are as follows…

Short stories: Flappers and Philosophers, F. Scott Fitzgerald, the first thing I ever read alone in a bar (on St. Patrick’s Day to boot); Dubliners, James Joyce, because you would want to avoid towing Ulysses to a bar.  Melville, too, has a brilliant short story collection.

Essays: Consider the Lobster, DFW.  I always enjoy Benjamin’s Unpacking My Library, with a libation in hand.

Poetry: I’m a bit of a Rilke fan and could read him just about anywhere, try Letters to a Young Poet; Millay is also well suited to low light and bad behavior.  I would like to recommend the Brothers Grimm here, as they seem nearer to this category than the others.

Plays: Picasso at the Lapin Agile, Steve Martin, is a natural choice; if you can enjoy a beer garden on a hot day grab Tennessee Williams on your way out; I would say anything Mamet but the brilliance of the dialogue might be less effective if the bar in question is playing say, Shakira (but you would never go to that kind of bar, would you?).

Food/ Drink: My immediate thought is Everyday Drinking, Kingsley Amis, it’s cheeky, it’s dated, and you trust the guy knows his sauce stuff.  Randy Mosher’s Tasting Beer, is an excellent guide and entertaining read– though you’d look like an ass with it at any place like the Maproom.  Roast Chicken, Simon Hopkinson, is a nice memoirs/ recipe collection.

Comedy: David Sedaris will treat you right in any publication, at any venue.  I am currently reading Round Ireland with a Fridge, Tony Hawks, and while it isn’t the most polished piece of prose, it’s certainly worth a laugh (especially if you’re familiar with the Irish.)

Newspaper/ Magazine: If you are so lucky as to enjoy an establishment where the Onion is distributed, then you’re set.  Local independent papers suffice.

Any further recommendations would be greatly appreciated!

Tuesday Hatred: Pious Litter

Today, Monday, I napped lightly for about 90 minutes following lunch. I hate that. I would like to be able to maintain consciousness for, at a minimum, six hours at a go. I think that would be nice. Even now (only a few hours after I emerged from what is likely my natural state, to wit, slumber) I can feel myself beginning to act in a dormitively virtuous manner. (One might even say, with a soupçon of irony (the soupçon is the basic unit of irony) that my innate inclination to sleep is awakening!)

Monday Movies: Julie and Julia

This movie was much more entertaining than I thought it would be, but its main effect was to make me wish that there was a movie solely about Julia Child, with Meryl Streep playing her.