Christopher Hitchens has an excellent article up today at Vanity Fair. It's about the experience of losing his voice. Read it. You'll be glad you did.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Area man having emotional baseball season
It's hard sometimes, being a baseball fan. You head into each season feeling fresh and new and you just know this will be the year for your team(s). And then the season opens and reality intrudes.
My teams (they are legion) are a total bust this year. See those team names at the bottoms of the divisional rankings? Yup, my guys. So what's a fella to do? Actually, it's not too much of a problem -- because I like baseball.
See, that's the thing. I enjoy watching baseball. There are always a few good teams that are a pleasure to watch. There have been tense, well-played, well-pitched games this year -- even some no-hitters. And there have been some amazingly athletic moments on the field. Sam Fuld provided quite a few of those moments in the Rays outfield (and he rose from the ashes of Manny Ramirez, which is kind of cool). I've never seen anyone make catches like Fuld.
So how could I possibly complain? Okay, I could but let's keep a positive attitude here. So my guys aren't winning. So what? I wish they were and that's the truth -- but it's baseball season. And that's a very, very good thing.
My teams (they are legion) are a total bust this year. See those team names at the bottoms of the divisional rankings? Yup, my guys. So what's a fella to do? Actually, it's not too much of a problem -- because I like baseball.
See, that's the thing. I enjoy watching baseball. There are always a few good teams that are a pleasure to watch. There have been tense, well-played, well-pitched games this year -- even some no-hitters. And there have been some amazingly athletic moments on the field. Sam Fuld provided quite a few of those moments in the Rays outfield (and he rose from the ashes of Manny Ramirez, which is kind of cool). I've never seen anyone make catches like Fuld.
So how could I possibly complain? Okay, I could but let's keep a positive attitude here. So my guys aren't winning. So what? I wish they were and that's the truth -- but it's baseball season. And that's a very, very good thing.
Monday, May 9, 2011
Name anagrams in literature and life
I've always enjoyed the appearance of anagrams in literature. Rosemary's Baby comes immediately to mind. In Ira Levin's masterpiece, Rosemary has to figure out an anagram, a clue left by her mentor, Hutch, now sadly deceased.
First she plays with the title of a book he supplied, called "All of Them Witches". But she comes up with nothing. (Mind you, the title of this fictional book is an anagram, according to the always trustworthy internets, for "Hell a Cometh Swift".) Finally, she tries the name of the witch, Adrian Marcoto, and realizes it's an anagram of Roman Castavet, the name of the sweet old man next door.
The second instance that comes to mind is Armistead Maupin's name, which is an anagram for a man I dreamt up. I always liked that. And of course the name of one of the characters in "Tales of the City", Anna Madrigal, the fabulous trans landlady, is also an anagram, in this case for a man and a girl.
When I was thinking about this last night I decided to check my own name out. I sat down with the letters of my name, Keith O'Connor, and fooled around with them. It's surprising to me that I had never tried this before. You'd think on some boring school day a younger me would have given this a shot. Nope. A sad oversight on my part.
In any case, I quickly came up with the prosaic Cookie N. North. You wouldn't think you could make Cookie N. North out of Keith O'Connor, would you? Of course another variation is the racier-sounding C. Nookie North. But after noticing the second variation, I had a horrible thought. Poor Cookie N. North's name might actually be Cookie Nookie North, in which case, either way she wrote it, Cookie N. North or C. Nookie North, it would be an anagram of my name. The poor woman!
Have you ever played around with the letters of your name? What did you come up with? Or can you recall other books where anagrams played a role? Tell me about them.
First she plays with the title of a book he supplied, called "All of Them Witches". But she comes up with nothing. (Mind you, the title of this fictional book is an anagram, according to the always trustworthy internets, for "Hell a Cometh Swift".) Finally, she tries the name of the witch, Adrian Marcoto, and realizes it's an anagram of Roman Castavet, the name of the sweet old man next door.
The second instance that comes to mind is Armistead Maupin's name, which is an anagram for a man I dreamt up. I always liked that. And of course the name of one of the characters in "Tales of the City", Anna Madrigal, the fabulous trans landlady, is also an anagram, in this case for a man and a girl.
When I was thinking about this last night I decided to check my own name out. I sat down with the letters of my name, Keith O'Connor, and fooled around with them. It's surprising to me that I had never tried this before. You'd think on some boring school day a younger me would have given this a shot. Nope. A sad oversight on my part.
In any case, I quickly came up with the prosaic Cookie N. North. You wouldn't think you could make Cookie N. North out of Keith O'Connor, would you? Of course another variation is the racier-sounding C. Nookie North. But after noticing the second variation, I had a horrible thought. Poor Cookie N. North's name might actually be Cookie Nookie North, in which case, either way she wrote it, Cookie N. North or C. Nookie North, it would be an anagram of my name. The poor woman!
Have you ever played around with the letters of your name? What did you come up with? Or can you recall other books where anagrams played a role? Tell me about them.
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Miss Jessup, my alluring piano teacher
In my early teens, I took piano lessons. There was a storefront, fly-by-night "music school" a few doors down from the luncheonette my stepfather owned, and that's where I went to learn how to play the piano. I went weekly and enjoyed the heck out of it -- but I never learned a thing about music. I was too distracted.
The object of my attention was my teacher, an amazing woman named Miss Jessup. Here's a photo of Mrs. Slocombe, Molly Sugden's character from "Are You Being Served". Mind you, Miss Jessup was no Mrs. Slocombe. She was a hot mamma of the first order. I only want to point to Molly's hair -- paint it white-blonde and you've got Miss Jessup's hair. Well, if you pooch it up a bit higher, you do.
Miss Jessup was in her 20s and was attractive in the way starlets are attractive: noticeably, and as the result of much effort. She dressed like a starlet too. She had a big bust like Mae West, what appeared to be an 18-inch waist and wore skintight dresses every day. She was like a blonde Betty Boop. Her hair was, as I've said, higher than Mrs. Slocombe's and bleached almost white. She wore it arranged in ringlets that towered over her head, and the whole thing was lacquered into place. You would not see a hair move on Miss Jessup's head. There was never any doubt about this.
She wore very high heels, and rightly so. She must have been about 5 feet tall, if that. And she existed within a ball of perfume. I was too young to know what scent it was, but it was there. You couldn't possibly miss it.
She'd take me into her tiny piano room, a little closet, actually, with a white stand-up piano against the far wall, and we would go over my lesson. I didn't play well, had no talent at all, in fact. But I could read music and could brute-practice my way into being able to play a tune -- much to the horror of those who had to listen for months as I learned it.
She would ask me to play the lesson she'd assigned me, and after I did, she'd show me how to play it correctly. That was the Miss Jessup Moment. I would sit close by her right side, breathing in her cloud of perfume as I marveled at her white-painted nails, clicking madly over the keys. Miss Jessup's nails provided her own percussion as she played.
That's all I remember from our lessons: the Miss Jessup Moments when I would float in a ball of her perfume, staring at her make-up and nails and hair and clothes, and pay absolutely no attention to the music. I never learned a thing from Miss Jessup but I enjoyed my lessons thoroughly. I wonder if she's still out there.
Yoo hoo, Miss Jessup! Are you still among us? And more importantly, do you still dress like you live in a movie?
The object of my attention was my teacher, an amazing woman named Miss Jessup. Here's a photo of Mrs. Slocombe, Molly Sugden's character from "Are You Being Served". Mind you, Miss Jessup was no Mrs. Slocombe. She was a hot mamma of the first order. I only want to point to Molly's hair -- paint it white-blonde and you've got Miss Jessup's hair. Well, if you pooch it up a bit higher, you do.
Miss Jessup was in her 20s and was attractive in the way starlets are attractive: noticeably, and as the result of much effort. She dressed like a starlet too. She had a big bust like Mae West, what appeared to be an 18-inch waist and wore skintight dresses every day. She was like a blonde Betty Boop. Her hair was, as I've said, higher than Mrs. Slocombe's and bleached almost white. She wore it arranged in ringlets that towered over her head, and the whole thing was lacquered into place. You would not see a hair move on Miss Jessup's head. There was never any doubt about this.
She wore very high heels, and rightly so. She must have been about 5 feet tall, if that. And she existed within a ball of perfume. I was too young to know what scent it was, but it was there. You couldn't possibly miss it.
She'd take me into her tiny piano room, a little closet, actually, with a white stand-up piano against the far wall, and we would go over my lesson. I didn't play well, had no talent at all, in fact. But I could read music and could brute-practice my way into being able to play a tune -- much to the horror of those who had to listen for months as I learned it.
She would ask me to play the lesson she'd assigned me, and after I did, she'd show me how to play it correctly. That was the Miss Jessup Moment. I would sit close by her right side, breathing in her cloud of perfume as I marveled at her white-painted nails, clicking madly over the keys. Miss Jessup's nails provided her own percussion as she played.
That's all I remember from our lessons: the Miss Jessup Moments when I would float in a ball of her perfume, staring at her make-up and nails and hair and clothes, and pay absolutely no attention to the music. I never learned a thing from Miss Jessup but I enjoyed my lessons thoroughly. I wonder if she's still out there.
Yoo hoo, Miss Jessup! Are you still among us? And more importantly, do you still dress like you live in a movie?
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Assange has contacted me regarding Doctor Vito!
I just received an email from Julian Assange. I can hardly type these words, I'm shaking so badly. Here is the exact message I received, in its entirety:
That's it. I know no more. But, OMG! The elite Assassin Castrati have Doctor Vito! And what hurts the most is that he's such a virile man.Dear WriteNow,
I am afraid I have depressing news for you and your legion of readers. My operatives have yet to confirm some of the more sordid details, but I can tell you one thing right now.
Those were not women who went to Doctor Vito's room the night he disappeared. Far from it. They were the special Vatican eunuchs -- the elite Assassin Castrati. These agents of evil plied their (seemingly) womenly wares and in this way lured the normally vigilant but oversexed Doctor Vito into their trap. The demons rendered him unconscious and spirited him away, taking him deep below the Earth, into the darkest, most ancient tunnels beneath the Vatican -- 22 stories down. What happened to him after that, none can say, other than the popey guy. The Assassin Castrati are his personal army; they do nothing without his orders.
My operatives are still confirming other, quite intriguing aspects of the crime. I will not hint at their nature until I can present you with the big picture. Nonetheless, at this time we can state with certainty that what was done to your philosopher king was both horrendous -- and an international crime. Rest assured, Wikileaks will get to the bottom of this.
I hear my operatives calling me. I must go. For now, keep clapping, people! Whatever you do, don't stop.
Julian Assange
Rest assured, the moment I receive a fuller report from Wikileaks -- you will have it. I know my readers feel the loss of this great man as keenly as I do. And now, I must try to get some rest. I haven't slept since Doctor Vito was taken -- truly. But I think Wikileaks can proceed now without my help. So I'm going to stagger over to the cot I set up here in the Situation Room, and try to catch a few winks. Ciao. And you heard Julian: keep clapping!
(Pssst, if you don't know anything about this and wonder what the hell we're talking about, click the Doctor Vito tag below. You'll find all the posts about him there. And then start clapping; fer gawd's sake, start clapping!)
Don't forget to mark your calendars
Don't forget that May 21, 2011 is the end of the world and the second coming of Jeebus. Make sure you take a shower and for god's sake, be sure your underwear are clean!
You know what's great fun? The day before the end of the world, May 20th, 2011, is Everybody Draw Mohammed Day.
This could make for a great one-two punch. I say we go for it. Everybody draw Mohammed on Friday the 20th and then we'll all go together to meet the lord on Saturday the 21st. BYOB. Fun times!
You know what's great fun? The day before the end of the world, May 20th, 2011, is Everybody Draw Mohammed Day.
This could make for a great one-two punch. I say we go for it. Everybody draw Mohammed on Friday the 20th and then we'll all go together to meet the lord on Saturday the 21st. BYOB. Fun times!
Friday, May 6, 2011
Heaven, the playground of the dead
Ah, what fun they must have up there in heaven where it's always swell, and all. What a joy it must be to get up each morning, ready for a robust day of god-adoring. It sounds grand!
And just think: all the dried-up, nasty old church people you always detested are up there, too! It'll be swell to see them, and the saints and all. And of course, as the popey guy makes new saints they'll pop up in heaven, all fabulous and everything, their stature established for all time. And these saint-raisings are great because they break up the monotony.
Oh, wait. Did I say monotony? I meant ecstasy. Sorry, and of course I meant pious ecstasy not the other kind, the bad kind. (And certainly not the drug!) No, there' s none of that sort of thing in heaven. You don't want to let the riff-raff in and that other kind of ecstasy might attract them. That's why there's no pleasure in heaven -- to keep out the unsavory types. None of that element up in heaven.
Oh, let us go adore him right now. Snore. Yes, indeed. It must be great in heaven! And just think: it's almost May 21st! We'll be there soon! Woot!
And just think: all the dried-up, nasty old church people you always detested are up there, too! It'll be swell to see them, and the saints and all. And of course, as the popey guy makes new saints they'll pop up in heaven, all fabulous and everything, their stature established for all time. And these saint-raisings are great because they break up the monotony.
Oh, wait. Did I say monotony? I meant ecstasy. Sorry, and of course I meant pious ecstasy not the other kind, the bad kind. (And certainly not the drug!) No, there' s none of that sort of thing in heaven. You don't want to let the riff-raff in and that other kind of ecstasy might attract them. That's why there's no pleasure in heaven -- to keep out the unsavory types. None of that element up in heaven.
Oh, let us go adore him right now. Snore. Yes, indeed. It must be great in heaven! And just think: it's almost May 21st! We'll be there soon! Woot!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)