Verbalinfusion will be on a short hiatus until January 5th or possibly 7th. Thanks for your patience and see you all in 2012!
-Jonny and Emily
Friday, December 30, 2011
Sunday, December 25, 2011
She Sees You When You're Sleeping
I can't decide which facet takes the Awkward Factor to 11 in this video, but I've narrowed the field down to three, or possibly four, contenders.
- Debilitating perfectionism manifested in a six-year-old (0:00-0:30)
- A narrow focus on inane fact vs. a broader understanding of global context, suggesting grossly underdeveloped cognitive and social skills (0:38-0:44)
- Portents of sociopathy (1:00)
- The bangs (1985-1991)
Have a wonderful and blessed Christmas!
Emily (and Jonny)
Friday, December 23, 2011
My Greatest Christmas Ever
By Jonny Walls
It was Christmas day. I was five, maybe six years old. All I wanted was a remote controlled car. That's all I had wanted for at least a year running. I had asked Santa. I had asked my parents. I had asked aunts, uncles, anyone who would listen. I was the Ralphie of the remote controlled car scene. I know they weren't afraid of me shooting my eye out. Maybe they were afraid of me running over my big toe?
Christmas day came and went, and I didn't get one.
I threw a tantrum. There I was, an unappreciative recipient of a mountain of gifts, throwing a fit because I didn't get the one I asked for. I'm not sure if I got spanked, (I would have spanked me) but I probably did. That was not my greatest Christmas.
The next year I asked again. I begged. I pleaded. I wrote letters to Santa. I dared to hope again, but this year it was with tempered expectations. Truth be told, I didn't expect to get one.
It was a snowy Christmas in Findlay, Ohio. It was getting well on into the day. I was down to my last gift and, sure enough, I tore through it to find not a remote controlled car, but some other, now forgotten item.
I didn't throw a fit this time. I didn't cry. But the sinking feeling of raw disappointment that had been ominously approaching sank in. I managed a meager thank you and put my dreams to bed once again.
I had learned an extremely valuable lesson, worth far more in gold than any silly electric toy car: You don't need possessions to fully receive the spirit of Christmas. I had grown. I had matured. I was a better person. Was this the best gift I could have received?
The answer is no.
Because next, there was a knock on the front door.
This was immediately bizarre, as no one ever came over on Christmas. Christmas was a day when you simply did not leave the house. My Aunt Liz disappeared around the corner into the front room and answered the door. What met my ears made my heart leap. She screamed in surprise and ran out the door.
"Oh my gosh! Santa!"
That moment was very telling. I have long held the belief that when someone is truly shocked, taken aback, startled, when something that seems literally impossible happens, that's when you can get a quick look, even if only for an instant or two, at raw humanity. All egos, masks, fabricated personalities, which are carefully tailored to every social situation, vanish.
Such was this moment for me. I didn't have time to think or decide upon which reaction to present to the world. The absolute truth rose to the surface. I had no doubt in my mind that I was about to see Santa, the mythical flying reindeer, the sleigh, all of it, in the flesh. It was going to happen right there in central Ohio. All doubts were demolished. All niggling questions and skeptical logistical issues were washed away. I leaped up in a flash, my sister Angie on my heels, and we darted around the corner and out the front door into the snow.
There was Aunt Liz, pointing off into the sky down the street, a wide eyed look of genuine surprise on her face. The hedge was obscuring my view. In one more second I'd be around the corner and at last I would see the most magical, unbelievable thing that there is to see in the known universe.
I rounded the corner. And...nothing. Nothing but an empty street save for the snow. I looked at Angie to see if she had seen anything. She too gazed hopefully up into the sky and then all around for any sign of the departed Santa.
I was disappointed not to see him, but a spark of excitement had given way to a blaze of wonder in that moment of otherworldly expectation.
"You just missed him!" Aunt Liz said.
"What happened?" It was my mom. She, my dad, and the rest of the family were standing in the doorway watching us. They all wore curious, expectant looks. Not a knowing, wry smile in the bunch.
"Oh my goodness, what's this?" My mom said. She was looking down at two beautiful red packages at her feet. In my haste, I had run right past them. We hurried back up to the house. One was labeled for me, the other for Angie. It was big, rectangular, moderately heavy...this could be it. A hush fell over the room as we settled back in with our new packages. Aunt Liz read the note attached.
"Dear Jonathan and Angie,
These fell down behind the seat in my sleigh. I got them here as soon as I found them. Merry Christmas! Love, Santa Claus."
Heart pounding and hands shaking, I tore away at the red wrapping to reveal, at last, my own remote controlled car. It was red, big and sleek with powerful rubber tires. This wasn't some rinky-dink controlled car on a wire. This was the real deal. My delight was unspeakable as I ripped it out of its package and Angie unwrapped a Cabbage Patch Doll beside me. It was extraordinary. We had just received a special delivery, straight to the front door, from the big man himself.
It didn't matter that I hadn't seen Santa. The experience had helped imbue that particular Christmas, and the very idea of Christmas, with something fantastic. Something not altogether human. Something miraculous. It was a lesson in belief, a lesson worth learning early. The Santa myth may not be true literally, but it alludes to something that is. It alludes to that indescribable magic, that touch of transcendence that one can practically taste, smell, feel and hear in the air every Christmas season. There's a reason it's there. It's something special, and best of all, it's Real.
Merry Christmas.
By Jonny Walls
 |
| Generic Christmas Related Photograph |
It was Christmas day. I was five, maybe six years old. All I wanted was a remote controlled car. That's all I had wanted for at least a year running. I had asked Santa. I had asked my parents. I had asked aunts, uncles, anyone who would listen. I was the Ralphie of the remote controlled car scene. I know they weren't afraid of me shooting my eye out. Maybe they were afraid of me running over my big toe?
Christmas day came and went, and I didn't get one.
I threw a tantrum. There I was, an unappreciative recipient of a mountain of gifts, throwing a fit because I didn't get the one I asked for. I'm not sure if I got spanked, (I would have spanked me) but I probably did. That was not my greatest Christmas.
The next year I asked again. I begged. I pleaded. I wrote letters to Santa. I dared to hope again, but this year it was with tempered expectations. Truth be told, I didn't expect to get one.
It was a snowy Christmas in Findlay, Ohio. It was getting well on into the day. I was down to my last gift and, sure enough, I tore through it to find not a remote controlled car, but some other, now forgotten item.
I didn't throw a fit this time. I didn't cry. But the sinking feeling of raw disappointment that had been ominously approaching sank in. I managed a meager thank you and put my dreams to bed once again.
I had learned an extremely valuable lesson, worth far more in gold than any silly electric toy car: You don't need possessions to fully receive the spirit of Christmas. I had grown. I had matured. I was a better person. Was this the best gift I could have received?
The answer is no.
Because next, there was a knock on the front door.
This was immediately bizarre, as no one ever came over on Christmas. Christmas was a day when you simply did not leave the house. My Aunt Liz disappeared around the corner into the front room and answered the door. What met my ears made my heart leap. She screamed in surprise and ran out the door.
"Oh my gosh! Santa!"
That moment was very telling. I have long held the belief that when someone is truly shocked, taken aback, startled, when something that seems literally impossible happens, that's when you can get a quick look, even if only for an instant or two, at raw humanity. All egos, masks, fabricated personalities, which are carefully tailored to every social situation, vanish.
Such was this moment for me. I didn't have time to think or decide upon which reaction to present to the world. The absolute truth rose to the surface. I had no doubt in my mind that I was about to see Santa, the mythical flying reindeer, the sleigh, all of it, in the flesh. It was going to happen right there in central Ohio. All doubts were demolished. All niggling questions and skeptical logistical issues were washed away. I leaped up in a flash, my sister Angie on my heels, and we darted around the corner and out the front door into the snow.
There was Aunt Liz, pointing off into the sky down the street, a wide eyed look of genuine surprise on her face. The hedge was obscuring my view. In one more second I'd be around the corner and at last I would see the most magical, unbelievable thing that there is to see in the known universe.
I rounded the corner. And...nothing. Nothing but an empty street save for the snow. I looked at Angie to see if she had seen anything. She too gazed hopefully up into the sky and then all around for any sign of the departed Santa.
I was disappointed not to see him, but a spark of excitement had given way to a blaze of wonder in that moment of otherworldly expectation.
"You just missed him!" Aunt Liz said.
"What happened?" It was my mom. She, my dad, and the rest of the family were standing in the doorway watching us. They all wore curious, expectant looks. Not a knowing, wry smile in the bunch.
"Oh my goodness, what's this?" My mom said. She was looking down at two beautiful red packages at her feet. In my haste, I had run right past them. We hurried back up to the house. One was labeled for me, the other for Angie. It was big, rectangular, moderately heavy...this could be it. A hush fell over the room as we settled back in with our new packages. Aunt Liz read the note attached.
"Dear Jonathan and Angie,
These fell down behind the seat in my sleigh. I got them here as soon as I found them. Merry Christmas! Love, Santa Claus."
Heart pounding and hands shaking, I tore away at the red wrapping to reveal, at last, my own remote controlled car. It was red, big and sleek with powerful rubber tires. This wasn't some rinky-dink controlled car on a wire. This was the real deal. My delight was unspeakable as I ripped it out of its package and Angie unwrapped a Cabbage Patch Doll beside me. It was extraordinary. We had just received a special delivery, straight to the front door, from the big man himself.
It didn't matter that I hadn't seen Santa. The experience had helped imbue that particular Christmas, and the very idea of Christmas, with something fantastic. Something not altogether human. Something miraculous. It was a lesson in belief, a lesson worth learning early. The Santa myth may not be true literally, but it alludes to something that is. It alludes to that indescribable magic, that touch of transcendence that one can practically taste, smell, feel and hear in the air every Christmas season. There's a reason it's there. It's something special, and best of all, it's Real.
Merry Christmas.
By Jonny Walls
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
I Pretty
I have several nieces, lovely ladies all, and the second of these is Sarah, my adorable, wonderful, precious girl. She is as old as my marriage, and at 2 1/2 she loves all things that sparkle. I understand this because I grew up in the 80s. Sparkles were all we knew.
So Sarah is now at the age where everything that is pretty must be worn at all times, and everything that sparkles must be handled. Earlier this year, my mom gave Sarah a pink fairy outfit complete with wings, and Sarah was understandably even more excited about this than I am when I discover at the end of the day that my underwear and socks accidentally match. Sarah twirled and sashayed and glowed and twinkled. She admired and cooed and bowed. She delighted and bloomed and declared in look and in word, "I pretty."
I can remember the day I received my twirly slip. We lived in Ohio at the time, so by default I was under six years old. I don't remember where we bought it, when we bought it, if I was with my mom at the time, nothing about its actual purchase. I remember putting on my twirly slip, gliding downstairs, and spinning around the kitchen floor, daring all eyes to observe my splendor. The twirly slip was something like satin on top and layer upon layer of lace on bottom. It reached to my knees and poofed out in dramatic waves of exaltation. Everyone knows that an adorable girl child is twice as adorable when her skirts splay perpendicular to the ground in folds of tulle and velvet. My mom purchased my twirly skirt for me to make me into Shirley Temple; I wore it to watch it spin and to convince all onlookers of what I already knew—I was beautiful.
My dad was an Air Force pilot, and occasionally he went on trips. To appease our disconsolate souls, he always promised my siblings and me a treat when he went away. He brought us gifts from the places he visited, say a fan from Japan or a seashell from Hawaii. On one such trip, I learned that he was going to the Southwest, and I requested a special gift. "Daddy, can you bring me a ring? I just want a ring." He said he would do his best. Two weeks later he returned, and when he brought out my present, I was inconsolably disappointed to unwrap a necklace. I was taught to be grateful for all gifts, and I believe on that day I did not embarrass my parents. I believe I accepted the gift and thanked my dad, but I could not feign excitement.
He said to me, "Emmy, don't you like your necklace?"
I said nothing.
"Oh, that's right, you wanted a ring, didn't you?"
A shrug. "Yes."
"Well, let's see what we can do here. Maybe I can change this necklace into a ring."
He took the necklace from my hands and passed it behind his back. He screwed up his mouth in concentration and focused with remarkable intent. "Now, maybe if I can just...let's see, if I put this here...yes, that should do it."
He pulled the necklace to the front for me to see, and in his hands was a miracle: instead of the bulky necklace, an Emily-sized, delicate, copper ring with a single turquoise mounted in its center. A real ring, a perfect ring, and just for me.
I believed entirely in the enchantment of my father's ruse. Knowing how much I desired a ring just for me, he had transformed the gaudy necklace into the very object of my longing. My daddy loved me, and he was magic.
Back to the slip. When I got my twirly slip, I showed off for my parents. I ran downstairs and spun for them and they oohed satisfactorily and ahhed pleasantly and told me I was the prettiest girl in town. I knew that they were absolutely correct. I was stunning.
Little Sarah knew that she was stunning too. She cried when it came time to remove her fairy outfit and repeated, "I pretty. No, it's my pretty," until my sister's heart broke. Sarah knew, as all little girls do, that her family had delighted in her beauty, that they had admired her, that she was the catch of the town.
In Bossypants, Tina Fey mentions an exercise she participated in with a bunch of other women where they were asked, "When did you first know you were a woman?" Most of the women responded with horror stories of the first time they were hit on by lowlifes. Tina's moment came when she purchased a suit. Mine happened in church when I was sixteen. It was at my first niece's dedication service. My dad had invited his coworkers to attend, and his supervisor had come. His supervisor sat alone among the congregation, so I made a point to talk to her after the service and thank her for supporting our family. I was wearing a green, 3/4 length shirt, a black maxi skirt, and my mom's suede coat from 1970. I remember that, and I have the worst memory. I spoke briefly with my dad's supervisor, she left, and then my dad sought me out and pulled me aside in the pew. "Emmy," he said, "I saw you talking to _____, and I just want you to know that I was struck by what a confident young woman you've become. I looked over at you and I just couldn't believe how poised you were. I'm so proud of you." I knew right at that very moment that I had grown up. I knew it because my daddy told me so.
Sarah twirled in her fairy outfit because her family gloried in her. I spun in my puffy slip because the crowd applauded me. My daddy changed my necklace into a ring because I was special. My dad told me I was poised because I had become so.
It has become politically incorrect to value a father's influence on his child, because so many children have to grow up without a father's influence. This is profoundly sad. Little girls and little boys can be restored through other means and, I believe, by the grace of God, but ideally, for every little one who spins before a mirror, there should be a daddy nearby who tells her she is a gem, she is a treasure. He should let her know what a darling she is through her pigtail phase, her braces disaster, her terrible bangs, her greasy t-zone, and even her training bra embarrassment.
I'm glad to see Sarah spinning in her skirt, and I'm dizzy with joy to see her dad beaming at her as she twirls. I hope that when she leaves the house in sixteen years, she'll have the confidence to reject a slew of idiots who tell her she "looks hot in those pants." I hope that she'll eat a doughnut every now and then. Mostly, I hope that she will know she is beautiful and loved, and it has nothing to do with her fairy outfit.
So Sarah is now at the age where everything that is pretty must be worn at all times, and everything that sparkles must be handled. Earlier this year, my mom gave Sarah a pink fairy outfit complete with wings, and Sarah was understandably even more excited about this than I am when I discover at the end of the day that my underwear and socks accidentally match. Sarah twirled and sashayed and glowed and twinkled. She admired and cooed and bowed. She delighted and bloomed and declared in look and in word, "I pretty."
I can remember the day I received my twirly slip. We lived in Ohio at the time, so by default I was under six years old. I don't remember where we bought it, when we bought it, if I was with my mom at the time, nothing about its actual purchase. I remember putting on my twirly slip, gliding downstairs, and spinning around the kitchen floor, daring all eyes to observe my splendor. The twirly slip was something like satin on top and layer upon layer of lace on bottom. It reached to my knees and poofed out in dramatic waves of exaltation. Everyone knows that an adorable girl child is twice as adorable when her skirts splay perpendicular to the ground in folds of tulle and velvet. My mom purchased my twirly skirt for me to make me into Shirley Temple; I wore it to watch it spin and to convince all onlookers of what I already knew—I was beautiful.
My dad was an Air Force pilot, and occasionally he went on trips. To appease our disconsolate souls, he always promised my siblings and me a treat when he went away. He brought us gifts from the places he visited, say a fan from Japan or a seashell from Hawaii. On one such trip, I learned that he was going to the Southwest, and I requested a special gift. "Daddy, can you bring me a ring? I just want a ring." He said he would do his best. Two weeks later he returned, and when he brought out my present, I was inconsolably disappointed to unwrap a necklace. I was taught to be grateful for all gifts, and I believe on that day I did not embarrass my parents. I believe I accepted the gift and thanked my dad, but I could not feign excitement.
He said to me, "Emmy, don't you like your necklace?"
I said nothing.
"Oh, that's right, you wanted a ring, didn't you?"
A shrug. "Yes."
"Well, let's see what we can do here. Maybe I can change this necklace into a ring."
He took the necklace from my hands and passed it behind his back. He screwed up his mouth in concentration and focused with remarkable intent. "Now, maybe if I can just...let's see, if I put this here...yes, that should do it."
He pulled the necklace to the front for me to see, and in his hands was a miracle: instead of the bulky necklace, an Emily-sized, delicate, copper ring with a single turquoise mounted in its center. A real ring, a perfect ring, and just for me.
I believed entirely in the enchantment of my father's ruse. Knowing how much I desired a ring just for me, he had transformed the gaudy necklace into the very object of my longing. My daddy loved me, and he was magic.
Back to the slip. When I got my twirly slip, I showed off for my parents. I ran downstairs and spun for them and they oohed satisfactorily and ahhed pleasantly and told me I was the prettiest girl in town. I knew that they were absolutely correct. I was stunning.
Little Sarah knew that she was stunning too. She cried when it came time to remove her fairy outfit and repeated, "I pretty. No, it's my pretty," until my sister's heart broke. Sarah knew, as all little girls do, that her family had delighted in her beauty, that they had admired her, that she was the catch of the town.
In Bossypants, Tina Fey mentions an exercise she participated in with a bunch of other women where they were asked, "When did you first know you were a woman?" Most of the women responded with horror stories of the first time they were hit on by lowlifes. Tina's moment came when she purchased a suit. Mine happened in church when I was sixteen. It was at my first niece's dedication service. My dad had invited his coworkers to attend, and his supervisor had come. His supervisor sat alone among the congregation, so I made a point to talk to her after the service and thank her for supporting our family. I was wearing a green, 3/4 length shirt, a black maxi skirt, and my mom's suede coat from 1970. I remember that, and I have the worst memory. I spoke briefly with my dad's supervisor, she left, and then my dad sought me out and pulled me aside in the pew. "Emmy," he said, "I saw you talking to _____, and I just want you to know that I was struck by what a confident young woman you've become. I looked over at you and I just couldn't believe how poised you were. I'm so proud of you." I knew right at that very moment that I had grown up. I knew it because my daddy told me so.
Sarah twirled in her fairy outfit because her family gloried in her. I spun in my puffy slip because the crowd applauded me. My daddy changed my necklace into a ring because I was special. My dad told me I was poised because I had become so.
It has become politically incorrect to value a father's influence on his child, because so many children have to grow up without a father's influence. This is profoundly sad. Little girls and little boys can be restored through other means and, I believe, by the grace of God, but ideally, for every little one who spins before a mirror, there should be a daddy nearby who tells her she is a gem, she is a treasure. He should let her know what a darling she is through her pigtail phase, her braces disaster, her terrible bangs, her greasy t-zone, and even her training bra embarrassment.
I'm glad to see Sarah spinning in her skirt, and I'm dizzy with joy to see her dad beaming at her as she twirls. I hope that when she leaves the house in sixteen years, she'll have the confidence to reject a slew of idiots who tell her she "looks hot in those pants." I hope that she'll eat a doughnut every now and then. Mostly, I hope that she will know she is beautiful and loved, and it has nothing to do with her fairy outfit.
Monday, December 19, 2011
The Only Sure-Fire Cure for the Christmas Shopping Blues
 |
| Visual Approximation of my "friend." Clearly, the green beer has gotten to him. |
Once, when I was talking to a group of my friends about our favorite holidays, one dolt actually had the gall to say that, of all things, St. Patrick’s Day topped his list. Incredulous, I told him to go jump in a lake. In the intervening years, I’ve encountered a fair few people who told similar lies, and I’ve made each of them the same offer I made the dolt. You see, I love Christmas so much that I literally can’t comprehend why others might think any other holiday superior in any way.
There are dozens of things to love about Christmas, and though I’m inclined to detail each of them for you here, I won’t. After all, we’re only a week away from the big day, and you can’t very well spend all the time between now and then parked in front of your computer, sifting through my ramblings. Instead, let me narrow my focus and sell you on the merits of one of the season’s most typically reviled pastimes: Christmas shopping.
People hate Christmas shopping for dozens of mostly valid and largely understandable reasons, chief among them crowds, lines, parking, and, perhaps most of all, the hanging reek of commercialization that hangs over every moment from Thanksgiving on. Every conceivable space seems filled with ads for smart phones or tablets or flat-panel TVs. For those of us with any sense of Christmas’ purpose beyond filling our homes with more and better technological wonders or clothes or jewelry or luxury sedans, it’s enough to turn the stomach. So what to do? I know the material barrage is sickening, but I contend that braving the hoards of red-eyed, wild-mouthed men and women who comprise the mass of holiday shoppers is totally worth it for one reason: Christmas shopping leads to Christmas giving—the most enjoyable part of the entire season.
I know how that makes me sound, but I don’t care because it’s the truth. I love giving people gifts. Few sensations can match the feeling of figuring out, in a blinding flash, the perfect gift for one of your friends or family. Sometimes (and this is rare, but unquestionably the most wonderful of shopping events), you don’t even realize you’ve actually found a great gift until you’re staring right at it. In that moment, the person and the present come together in your mind, united, never to be torn asunder. The whole process is fantastic, and if you really give yourself over to it, it can transform the way you view an ordinarily laborious task.
Take today for example. I went with my wife to Hamburg Pavilion in Lexington, Kentucky. If you’ve never had the ill fortune to navigate Hamburg at Christmas-time, let me assure you that few commercial centers on earth are so poorly designed. The best stores seem arranged so that each is as geographically removed from the others as is possible, and every turn into or out of the parking lots is blind. And yet.
My frustration with navigating that hellish quagmire born in the dark corners of some demented civil engineer’s mind was almost entirely diffused because of the acute sense of the hunt. I was shopping for five people, and, as is my custom, I started in a bookstore (this is, as I think I’ve pointed out previously, a building in which bound pages are sold, usually over counters). I love giving books for a couple of reasons. First, and most obvious, I love to get books, and so it makes sense for me to give them, at least to those people in my life who like to read. Second, and more importantly, books make great gifts because they say something about both the person giving the gift and the person receiving it, and if the giver has matched the recipient with the right book, they’ve given not just an object, but an experience, and in so doing they forge a permanent and important link, one that isn’t likely to diminish for quite a long time.
We remember great gifts not only because of what those gifts do for us, but also what they do to us, and what they say about us. Like films and books and music (especially if the gift is one of those things), we associate gifts with the times when they came into our lives and with the people who brought them. That feeling, that connection, is almost intoxicating, and once you get into the habit of searching for, finding, and giving meaningful (although not necessarily costly) gifts to those people most important to you, it becomes difficult to stop. And Christmas gives us the perfect reason to keep the cycle going.
So, today, when I found it, when that perfect gift for a friend of mine (who I’ll not mention lest he read this) revealed itself, I was drunk again on the thrill of anticipation, knowing that sometime over the next two weeks I get to make that connection again.
I know that giving gifts, no matter the spirit behind the action, isn’t what Christmas is about, and I wouldn’t want to turn this season into any more of a glossed-up mess of misdirected priorities than it is. But remember that in Christ's birth, we ourselves have received a gift, and I do think it’s vital to keep the spirit of that gift alive and take every opportunity to engage the feeling of sacrifice, to make others’ days a little brighter simply by giving them something—even an ultimately frivolous, material thing—that speaks to their personalities and lets them know that we’ve spent time and energy finding something cool or funny or interesting, just for them.
So shop with relish! Know that your time and frustration is currency that you’re spending to bring some happiness to a friend, family member, or even nemesis (you know, the guy you bought the Dan Brown novel for). Give with relish too. Make a habit of exchanging single gifts with people you might not have bought for in a while. Keep it as simple and economical as need be, and take the time to enjoy the giving and the getting.
Have a great Christmas, everybody!
By Josh Corman
P.S. - I can’t help it. Cue it up!
Monday, December 12, 2011
Kentucky Je T'aime (or, There's No Place Like Home)
By Jonny Walls
If you've never heard Ryan Adams' "Oh My Sweet Carolina" off of his debut solo album, Heartbreaker, please do yourself a favor and listen to it right now.
You'll notice there's a line near the end that goes:
"Up here in the city, feels like things are closing in. The sunset's just my light bulb burning out. I miss Kentucky and I miss my family. Oh, the sweetest winds they blow across the south."
My light bulb doesn't need to be burning out for these words, sung over Ryan's slightly muted, dusty guitar tones, to send a bittersweet bolt of longing up my spine and through my heart.
I grew up in Kentucky, lived there from age three to age twenty-six. Two years ago, Emily and I moved away to a life in Los Angeles, chasing a dream. We left our home behind. As the Christmas season rolls in and I (fortunately) prepare myself for another trip to Kentucky to see family and friends, I find myself reflecting on home more than usual.
The meaning of the word "home" is varied. In a literal sense, home is where one comes to rest. To eat, abide, and live.
In another sense, the word "home" takes on a more nuanced meaning. It transcends geography and physical presence. This is home in the profoundest, most immovable sense.
Since moving away from home, the potency of power with which this song tortures and delights me has grown exponentially. Caught up in the song's trance recently, I was stolen over with irresistible affection for my home state. For better or worse, the good and the bad, I've loved it.
The following is not meant to dazzle, but rather, to illuminate the heavy load of affection for home that I carry with me. I now share it with you:
I love Kentucky.
I love her green rolling hills. I love how quiet, open, mysterious, yet warm and inviting they are. I love them covered in snow, the black bare trees the only breaks in the otherwise pristine blanket of white.
I love the rain. In the summer, it's warm rain. It's like showering outdoors. Elvis knew it then, and I know it now.
I love Red River Gorge in the fall. I love the leaves. I love every rock climbed, every peak gained, every cigar smoked.
I love every Kentucky sunset.
I love Kentucky Basketball—the tradition, Rupp Arena, the collective longing of the Bluegrass Faithful to see our beloved Cats rise to victory. I love the unity of it all.
I love the Kentucky River. I love every paddle stroke of every canoe trip, every fishing line cast, every bass caught, every catfish not caught (by me), every precarious walk across the locks, every craned neck strained toward the palisades, every frigid drop of the Dix River, every night camped on her banks.
I love the winding back roads. I love every stone fence, every horse farm. I love every summer drive with the top down. I love every late night adventure into strange counties. I love Indian Falls. I love every tree bent, every trail traversed.
I love the reflection of the Louisville skyline on the Ohio River at night.
I love Lexington. I love Triangle Park and every late night walk by the lighted fountains: proms, weddings, impromptu trips with friends. I love Lexington Green, Joseph-Beth, and every wintertime conversation by the fire in the cafe. I love every cup of vanilla almond tea.
I love Nicholasville. I love every Jamboree, JYSA soccer game, and snow cone. I love West Jessamine High. I love every class skipped (every single one of them). I love every 4 a.m. Wal-Mart run, every 4 a.m. Waffle House run. I love Fiesta Mexico. I even love Edgewood plaza.
I love Wilmore. I love every business come and gone, every church, every long summer night of church camp. I love Wilmore UM and everyone who came through its doors. I love every fire in the bell tower (which I did not start). I love every walk across town, every Ale8 drunk, every rule broken, every cop called, every game of bicycle tag, every house TP'd, every back yard sneaked. I love every local rock show. I love every all-night gaming session. I love every glass of bourbon, every Camel Light, Turkish, Jade and Silver, every kiss, every rejection, every band practice, every gathering, every party, every blowout. I love every ice storm, every drought, every snow day, every summer night. Every laugh. Every tear.
I love my home. I love everyone who was a part of it: friends, my family, and everyone else.
It's funny how death is such an integral part of Life. We must constantly put parts of our lives, parts of ourselves, to death. It's imperative to growth, to movement. We all, sooner or later, have to let go of someone or something. Letting go doesn't have to mean ceasing to remember, to love. But it means moving on.
I live in California now. I love it here, and this is where Emily and I need to be. The part of me that calls Kentucky home in the literal sense is no longer calling the shots, but he's still hanging around. Maybe he always knew it would come to this. Maybe he's the one who kept insisting we listen to "Oh My Sweet Carolina," building his case for the day when he would try to drive me back east. He must be put to death. It's harder than one might think. It's a process. It hurts, but it's necessary.
Is there some version of you hanging around that needs to be put down?
The part of me that calls Kentucky home in that other sense, however, he's not going anywhere. Ever. He'll always be here, reminding me who I am and where I came from. He'll always find new ways and excuses to point my toes back east, even if it's for just a few days at a time.
Kentucky, I love you. I always will.
By Jonny Walls
If you've never heard Ryan Adams' "Oh My Sweet Carolina" off of his debut solo album, Heartbreaker, please do yourself a favor and listen to it right now.
You'll notice there's a line near the end that goes:
"Up here in the city, feels like things are closing in. The sunset's just my light bulb burning out. I miss Kentucky and I miss my family. Oh, the sweetest winds they blow across the south."
My light bulb doesn't need to be burning out for these words, sung over Ryan's slightly muted, dusty guitar tones, to send a bittersweet bolt of longing up my spine and through my heart.
I grew up in Kentucky, lived there from age three to age twenty-six. Two years ago, Emily and I moved away to a life in Los Angeles, chasing a dream. We left our home behind. As the Christmas season rolls in and I (fortunately) prepare myself for another trip to Kentucky to see family and friends, I find myself reflecting on home more than usual.
The meaning of the word "home" is varied. In a literal sense, home is where one comes to rest. To eat, abide, and live.
In another sense, the word "home" takes on a more nuanced meaning. It transcends geography and physical presence. This is home in the profoundest, most immovable sense.
Since moving away from home, the potency of power with which this song tortures and delights me has grown exponentially. Caught up in the song's trance recently, I was stolen over with irresistible affection for my home state. For better or worse, the good and the bad, I've loved it.
The following is not meant to dazzle, but rather, to illuminate the heavy load of affection for home that I carry with me. I now share it with you:
I love Kentucky.
 |
| Photo by Audra Stratton |
 |
| Photo by Jonny Walls |
I love her green rolling hills. I love how quiet, open, mysterious, yet warm and inviting they are. I love them covered in snow, the black bare trees the only breaks in the otherwise pristine blanket of white.
I love the rain. In the summer, it's warm rain. It's like showering outdoors. Elvis knew it then, and I know it now.
I love Red River Gorge in the fall. I love the leaves. I love every rock climbed, every peak gained, every cigar smoked.
I love every Kentucky sunset.
I love Kentucky Basketball—the tradition, Rupp Arena, the collective longing of the Bluegrass Faithful to see our beloved Cats rise to victory. I love the unity of it all.
I love the Kentucky River. I love every paddle stroke of every canoe trip, every fishing line cast, every bass caught, every catfish not caught (by me), every precarious walk across the locks, every craned neck strained toward the palisades, every frigid drop of the Dix River, every night camped on her banks.
I love the winding back roads. I love every stone fence, every horse farm. I love every summer drive with the top down. I love every late night adventure into strange counties. I love Indian Falls. I love every tree bent, every trail traversed.
I love the reflection of the Louisville skyline on the Ohio River at night.
I love Lexington. I love Triangle Park and every late night walk by the lighted fountains: proms, weddings, impromptu trips with friends. I love Lexington Green, Joseph-Beth, and every wintertime conversation by the fire in the cafe. I love every cup of vanilla almond tea.
I love Nicholasville. I love every Jamboree, JYSA soccer game, and snow cone. I love West Jessamine High. I love every class skipped (every single one of them). I love every 4 a.m. Wal-Mart run, every 4 a.m. Waffle House run. I love Fiesta Mexico. I even love Edgewood plaza.
I love Wilmore. I love every business come and gone, every church, every long summer night of church camp. I love Wilmore UM and everyone who came through its doors. I love every fire in the bell tower (which I did not start). I love every walk across town, every Ale8 drunk, every rule broken, every cop called, every game of bicycle tag, every house TP'd, every back yard sneaked. I love every local rock show. I love every all-night gaming session. I love every glass of bourbon, every Camel Light, Turkish, Jade and Silver, every kiss, every rejection, every band practice, every gathering, every party, every blowout. I love every ice storm, every drought, every snow day, every summer night. Every laugh. Every tear.
I love my home. I love everyone who was a part of it: friends, my family, and everyone else.
It's funny how death is such an integral part of Life. We must constantly put parts of our lives, parts of ourselves, to death. It's imperative to growth, to movement. We all, sooner or later, have to let go of someone or something. Letting go doesn't have to mean ceasing to remember, to love. But it means moving on.
I live in California now. I love it here, and this is where Emily and I need to be. The part of me that calls Kentucky home in the literal sense is no longer calling the shots, but he's still hanging around. Maybe he always knew it would come to this. Maybe he's the one who kept insisting we listen to "Oh My Sweet Carolina," building his case for the day when he would try to drive me back east. He must be put to death. It's harder than one might think. It's a process. It hurts, but it's necessary.
Is there some version of you hanging around that needs to be put down?
The part of me that calls Kentucky home in that other sense, however, he's not going anywhere. Ever. He'll always be here, reminding me who I am and where I came from. He'll always find new ways and excuses to point my toes back east, even if it's for just a few days at a time.
Kentucky, I love you. I always will.
By Jonny Walls
Where Did the Silver in Those Bells Come From? Merry [Guilt-Free] Christmas!
Today we are proud to present our first guest post from the ever talented Elizabeth Glass-Turner. When you finish here, check out her blog: thethreadbarecouch.com
By Elizabeth Glass-Turner
I suppose you’d say I was a conscientious child. Well, except for that regrettable incident in which I framed my brother so that I didn’t have to play outside anymore.
I believed rules were meant to be followed. I liked to check with authority figures about things. My sins (barring the aforementioned) tended to run along the lines of attitude or tone, not action. I never sneaked across fields in the middle of the night as the Respected Barkeep of this Establishment did. My transgressions involved avoiding a glance at the clock when reading in bed because I knew if I looked, it would be later than my bedtime, and I’d be responsible for knowing, and thus would have to put my book down and turn out the light.
Such was the extent of my BadAssery.
But, as Hermione relaxed and was “much nicer for it,” I grew out of my elementary
legalism and the internal guilt monitor that accompanied it.
Except…I can’t. I mean, I can, and all. But have you noticed how much guilt is out there? Oh, I don’t mean Catholic schoolteacher nuns who rap your knuckles til they bleed.
I mean, can you even shop for Christmas without glancing over your shoulder for the Consumer Police?
Silver bells? Where was that silver mined, I’d like to know! In terrible working conditions in a Third-World country?
Sugar plums? Better make sure they’re artisanal, organic and free-trade. None of these Big Business chemical-laden sweets for that picky recipient, thank you very much.
Chestnuts? Where do chestnuts come from? What’s the carbon footprint for shipping them across the country? Is that farm subsidized? Are laborers used on that farm? Are they compensated appropriately?
Don’t even consider “O Tannenbaum.” Plastic trees are manufactured in China, emitting staggering levels of pollution in a nation with terrible human rights, and live trees? Fageddaboudit. You may as well kick a puppy in the groin.
And what about the peppermint fudge you were going to give? Forget something? That person’s a vegan.
BOO-YAH. You can’t win.
Now, I have a confession to make. Every chance I get, I attempt to purchase things manufactured in places other than China. It’s a pet peeve of mine. Something about not wanting to support a corrupt system that enforces a barbaric one-child law, among other human rights abuses too numerous to mention. But looking at where things are made takes time, and turns shopping into rather a chore.
And that’s just one instance. Can you enter Bath & Body Works without worrying about the paraben levels in their products? Can you browse jewelry without wondering if that’s a blood ruby?
People say it’s the kind of knowledge you need, even if it’s uncomfortable. But between Today show segments on your kids’ sodium intake, magazine articles on going organic and websites dedicated to fighting human rights abuses around the world, no wonder the average consumer starts to go a little cross-eyed. Globalization has made us a nation of neurotic shoppers. What, we wonder, are the unintended consequences of our purchase?
Case in point: I take modern-day slavery pretty seriously. The other day, a very commendable faith-based nonprofit justice organization linked to a great website.
Great, if you didn’t grow up hyper-conscientious.
After taking a short survey in which I estimated a few key household goods, I was told that, plus or minus a few, I employ 49 slaves, worldwide – slaves defined as people who are coerced into work environments, forced to work without pay, or work with pay too little to live on even in their economic context.
“What’s the matter?” my husband asks a few minutes later. I explain we have what we have due to slave labor, thinking back to William Wilberforce and wondering whether he would have owned technological gadgets dependent on raw ore mined by slaves.
“Oh no…” said husband – not because of the whole slave thing, but because he Recognized The Signs.
A few months ago, during a panic attack (I get them occasionally), he had asked what was wrong.
“The Holocaust,” I said.
“What???”
“IsawthisspecialontvabouttheholocaustmonthsagoandtheytouredAuschwitzandtherewerepilesofJewsshoesandtherewasthislittleredpairofgirlsshoeswaaaaaaaah.”
Which is why John doesn’t like it when I watch too many documentaries or TV specials. Because six months later, they show up in panic attacks.
It’s a legitimate question, though – asking how shopping choices impact others: a question that is, however, a luxury – the poorest often can’t be picky about where something was made, or whether it was sprayed with chemicals, if it’s on sale.
And what kind of exercise would that be? To have to buy what a person with truly limited means could afford? It would mean more dollar store, less artisanal. It would mean more carbs, less lean protein. It would mean more cheap apples, fewer organic strawberries.
So what about you? Do you feel that making so-called ethical shopping decisions is part of the gift? Or does picturing eight year olds working on some part of your product sap the joy of choosing a gift?
I propose something this Christmas:
Be grateful for whatever you can purchase.
Be grateful that the shelves are filled with options, rather than worried that you’re choosing the wrong one.
Be grateful you can afford something at all.
Go without organic, or vegan, if it means you have more grocery money to share with the Salvation Army.
Buy something made in China if it means giving a gift in the Toys for Tots box at the store.
Have yourself a merry little guilt-free Christmas.
After all, who wants to miss the symbolism of gold, frankincense, and myrrh, because they’re too busy asking how they were mined or who processed them?
And remember not to look a gift horse in the mouth: no matter what your personal preferences are, be grateful for all gifts given in a spirit of generosity.
Let your guilt go up in smoke along with the logs in the fireplace. Guilt is the enemy of gratitude. No gift given sacrificially is small. And, dear friend, if your budget is as small as the proverbial church mouse’s, don’t give in to guilt that you cannot give largely. Give personally, give thoughtfully, even if it is a token or a handwritten letter.
This year, may your Christmas be guilt-free.
By Elizabeth Glass-Turner
http://www.thethreadbarecouch.com/
By Elizabeth Glass-Turner
I suppose you’d say I was a conscientious child. Well, except for that regrettable incident in which I framed my brother so that I didn’t have to play outside anymore.
I believed rules were meant to be followed. I liked to check with authority figures about things. My sins (barring the aforementioned) tended to run along the lines of attitude or tone, not action. I never sneaked across fields in the middle of the night as the Respected Barkeep of this Establishment did. My transgressions involved avoiding a glance at the clock when reading in bed because I knew if I looked, it would be later than my bedtime, and I’d be responsible for knowing, and thus would have to put my book down and turn out the light.
Such was the extent of my BadAssery.
But, as Hermione relaxed and was “much nicer for it,” I grew out of my elementary
legalism and the internal guilt monitor that accompanied it.
Except…I can’t. I mean, I can, and all. But have you noticed how much guilt is out there? Oh, I don’t mean Catholic schoolteacher nuns who rap your knuckles til they bleed.
I mean, can you even shop for Christmas without glancing over your shoulder for the Consumer Police?
Silver bells? Where was that silver mined, I’d like to know! In terrible working conditions in a Third-World country?
Sugar plums? Better make sure they’re artisanal, organic and free-trade. None of these Big Business chemical-laden sweets for that picky recipient, thank you very much.
Chestnuts? Where do chestnuts come from? What’s the carbon footprint for shipping them across the country? Is that farm subsidized? Are laborers used on that farm? Are they compensated appropriately?
Don’t even consider “O Tannenbaum.” Plastic trees are manufactured in China, emitting staggering levels of pollution in a nation with terrible human rights, and live trees? Fageddaboudit. You may as well kick a puppy in the groin.
And what about the peppermint fudge you were going to give? Forget something? That person’s a vegan.
BOO-YAH. You can’t win.
Now, I have a confession to make. Every chance I get, I attempt to purchase things manufactured in places other than China. It’s a pet peeve of mine. Something about not wanting to support a corrupt system that enforces a barbaric one-child law, among other human rights abuses too numerous to mention. But looking at where things are made takes time, and turns shopping into rather a chore.
And that’s just one instance. Can you enter Bath & Body Works without worrying about the paraben levels in their products? Can you browse jewelry without wondering if that’s a blood ruby?
People say it’s the kind of knowledge you need, even if it’s uncomfortable. But between Today show segments on your kids’ sodium intake, magazine articles on going organic and websites dedicated to fighting human rights abuses around the world, no wonder the average consumer starts to go a little cross-eyed. Globalization has made us a nation of neurotic shoppers. What, we wonder, are the unintended consequences of our purchase?
Case in point: I take modern-day slavery pretty seriously. The other day, a very commendable faith-based nonprofit justice organization linked to a great website.
Great, if you didn’t grow up hyper-conscientious.
After taking a short survey in which I estimated a few key household goods, I was told that, plus or minus a few, I employ 49 slaves, worldwide – slaves defined as people who are coerced into work environments, forced to work without pay, or work with pay too little to live on even in their economic context.
“What’s the matter?” my husband asks a few minutes later. I explain we have what we have due to slave labor, thinking back to William Wilberforce and wondering whether he would have owned technological gadgets dependent on raw ore mined by slaves.
“Oh no…” said husband – not because of the whole slave thing, but because he Recognized The Signs.
A few months ago, during a panic attack (I get them occasionally), he had asked what was wrong.
“The Holocaust,” I said.
“What???”
“IsawthisspecialontvabouttheholocaustmonthsagoandtheytouredAuschwitzandtherewerepilesofJewsshoesandtherewasthislittleredpairofgirlsshoeswaaaaaaaah.”
Which is why John doesn’t like it when I watch too many documentaries or TV specials. Because six months later, they show up in panic attacks.
It’s a legitimate question, though – asking how shopping choices impact others: a question that is, however, a luxury – the poorest often can’t be picky about where something was made, or whether it was sprayed with chemicals, if it’s on sale.
And what kind of exercise would that be? To have to buy what a person with truly limited means could afford? It would mean more dollar store, less artisanal. It would mean more carbs, less lean protein. It would mean more cheap apples, fewer organic strawberries.
So what about you? Do you feel that making so-called ethical shopping decisions is part of the gift? Or does picturing eight year olds working on some part of your product sap the joy of choosing a gift?
I propose something this Christmas:
Be grateful for whatever you can purchase.
Be grateful that the shelves are filled with options, rather than worried that you’re choosing the wrong one.
Be grateful you can afford something at all.
Go without organic, or vegan, if it means you have more grocery money to share with the Salvation Army.
Buy something made in China if it means giving a gift in the Toys for Tots box at the store.
Have yourself a merry little guilt-free Christmas.
After all, who wants to miss the symbolism of gold, frankincense, and myrrh, because they’re too busy asking how they were mined or who processed them?
And remember not to look a gift horse in the mouth: no matter what your personal preferences are, be grateful for all gifts given in a spirit of generosity.
Let your guilt go up in smoke along with the logs in the fireplace. Guilt is the enemy of gratitude. No gift given sacrificially is small. And, dear friend, if your budget is as small as the proverbial church mouse’s, don’t give in to guilt that you cannot give largely. Give personally, give thoughtfully, even if it is a token or a handwritten letter.
This year, may your Christmas be guilt-free.
By Elizabeth Glass-Turner
http://www.thethreadbarecouch.com/
Friday, December 9, 2011
Top Five Christmas Must-Haves (if you live with the Jetsons)
By Emily Walls
Dear Reader,
The Christmas season is full upon us, and if you're at all like me, you've wasted your time reading A Christmas Carol, singing Christmas hymns, and spending time with your stupid friends.
If you're like me, you also have not yet purchased Present One. I don't have any gift suggestions for you this year. No, this year, procrastinating Reader, you are on your own. Thirty-nine years from now, however, I might be of some service to you with the Top 5 Must-Have Home Appliances for the 2050 Christmas season. Prepare now, and save yourself the heartache of last-minute shopping.
5. The Bio Robot Refrigerator
This little beauty of a prototype requires zero energy. It's silent, unobtrusive, and—best of all—it reminds me of the Jell-O trampoline that Goofy masters in Mickey and the Beanstalk. This refrigerator has no moving parts. It cools your food inside a slab of biopolymer gel, an odorless, non-sticky substance that I shall henceforth refer to as the Blob. Basically, you suspend your food inside the Blob, and when you're ready to eat, you stick your hand into the questionable substance to retrieve the desired victuals. No more humming behemoth in your kitchen. No more ten-man crews on moving day. No more opportunities for your vegetables to plot evil schemes behind closed doors (I'm looking at you, celery stalk). You'll be able to see everything at a glance.
Now, I could see this system working for pickle jars and tubs of sour cream, but what do I do with gallons of milk and leftover casseroles? How does the Blob respond to moldy mashed potatoes? How does one keep the Blob clean from surface dust and Kool-Aid spills? Future manufacturers, you have thirty-nine years to address my concerns. Get cracking.
4. The Vertical Bathroom
I plan to be wildly wealthy in thirty-nine years, and I figure it's a guarantee, because Marty McFly told me that if I put my mind to it, I can accomplish anything. I'm putting my mind to being Scrooge McDuck. That said, I live in Los Angeles where every inch of land that isn't a boulder has been covered in concrete and piled high with buildings. If I don't want to move out of the city, I'm going to have to learn to make do with smaller spaces. That's where our next appliance comes into play. It's an all-in-one bathroom column for the wildly wealthy among us who choose to live in spaces too small for the conventional shower/toilet/sink combo (also known as the Japanese.)
With the Vertical Bathroom, your shower, sink, toilet, and storage all align in one unassuming pillar. Need to shower? Just pivot the shower section out to let the water flow. Guests coming over? Display the toilet and sink for their use, but keep the medicine cabinet hidden from prying eyes. Late for work? Align the shower head and toilet vertically to combine your morning constitutional and shower into one, time-saving activity.
3. My Uncle's Toilet
Speaking of the Japanese...
As if we needed another example of how far ahead Japan is as compared to the rest of the world, the Japanese went ahead and proved that they poop better than everyone else too. Their magical toilet of wonder and awe has been the standard in Japan for years, but sadly (horrifyingly?) it has not yet made its way to the West.
Because my uncle owns one, this item has the distinction of being the only appliance on my list that I've actually used, and let me tell you, it is an experience that will ruin all other toilets for you forever.
Let's explore a few of its key characteristics.
2. The Safe Table Saw
Because nothing says "Peace on Earth" like furiously spinning blades.
This is a table saw that uses an electrical current to detect the moisture in your skin. If the blade comes into contact with skin—say, your finger—it will immediately shut down and collapse into the table. Miraculously, your finger will remain unscathed. Check out this video where they demonstrate the technology with a hot dog.
Now it would be easy to write this off as some gimmickry of the camera or optical illusion, but let's keep an open mind here. This is clearly voodoo black magic. I'll sacrifice the finger and keep my ever living soul, thank you very much.
1. A Hoverboard*
It's 2050. Surely, surely, they've been invented.
By Emily Walls
*Technically, not an appliance.
Dear Reader,
The Christmas season is full upon us, and if you're at all like me, you've wasted your time reading A Christmas Carol, singing Christmas hymns, and spending time with your stupid friends.
 |
| Idiots |
5. The Bio Robot Refrigerator
This little beauty of a prototype requires zero energy. It's silent, unobtrusive, and—best of all—it reminds me of the Jell-O trampoline that Goofy masters in Mickey and the Beanstalk. This refrigerator has no moving parts. It cools your food inside a slab of biopolymer gel, an odorless, non-sticky substance that I shall henceforth refer to as the Blob. Basically, you suspend your food inside the Blob, and when you're ready to eat, you stick your hand into the questionable substance to retrieve the desired victuals. No more humming behemoth in your kitchen. No more ten-man crews on moving day. No more opportunities for your vegetables to plot evil schemes behind closed doors (I'm looking at you, celery stalk). You'll be able to see everything at a glance.
Now, I could see this system working for pickle jars and tubs of sour cream, but what do I do with gallons of milk and leftover casseroles? How does the Blob respond to moldy mashed potatoes? How does one keep the Blob clean from surface dust and Kool-Aid spills? Future manufacturers, you have thirty-nine years to address my concerns. Get cracking.
4. The Vertical Bathroom
I plan to be wildly wealthy in thirty-nine years, and I figure it's a guarantee, because Marty McFly told me that if I put my mind to it, I can accomplish anything. I'm putting my mind to being Scrooge McDuck. That said, I live in Los Angeles where every inch of land that isn't a boulder has been covered in concrete and piled high with buildings. If I don't want to move out of the city, I'm going to have to learn to make do with smaller spaces. That's where our next appliance comes into play. It's an all-in-one bathroom column for the wildly wealthy among us who choose to live in spaces too small for the conventional shower/toilet/sink combo (also known as the Japanese.)
 |
| Found via Unplggd |
3. My Uncle's Toilet
Speaking of the Japanese...
As if we needed another example of how far ahead Japan is as compared to the rest of the world, the Japanese went ahead and proved that they poop better than everyone else too. Their magical toilet of wonder and awe has been the standard in Japan for years, but sadly (horrifyingly?) it has not yet made its way to the West.
 |
| This, on the other hand, came right over. |
Let's explore a few of its key characteristics.
- It greets you. No more groping in the dark for the light switch during your 2 a.m. relieving. When this puppy detects motion, it lifts its lid in greeting and activates its landing lights.
- It comes equipped with a seat warmer.
- It has a built-in, interior fan. During use, a fan inside the toilet bowl whirs away pesky odors and associated troubles.
- It sports a built-in, remote controlled bidet. Continue to use your primitive toilet paper if you like. I shall opt for the bidet wand that responds to my every command. I simply press a button on the remote control and voila! a jet of warm water lands precisely where it is required. I can direct the wand to move back and forth or around, and I can control the water pressure. The higher end models mix soap with the water for extra cleanliness.
- After a thorough cleansing, you can use the remote control to activate the built-in dryer.
2. The Safe Table Saw
Because nothing says "Peace on Earth" like furiously spinning blades.
This is a table saw that uses an electrical current to detect the moisture in your skin. If the blade comes into contact with skin—say, your finger—it will immediately shut down and collapse into the table. Miraculously, your finger will remain unscathed. Check out this video where they demonstrate the technology with a hot dog.
Now it would be easy to write this off as some gimmickry of the camera or optical illusion, but let's keep an open mind here. This is clearly voodoo black magic. I'll sacrifice the finger and keep my ever living soul, thank you very much.
1. A Hoverboard*
It's 2050. Surely, surely, they've been invented.
By Emily Walls
*Technically, not an appliance.
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
How to Read A Christmas Carol All in One Night
Editor's Note- The pictures featured below may or may not work for you when you view this page. This problem is on Blogger's end, and is therefore something we can't fix. Hopefully they'll get their stuff working correctly soon. In the meantime, if the pictures don't work for you, read the captions and use your imagination. It'll be fun!
By Philip Tallon
For the last ten years or so my wife and I have hosted a reading of A Christmas Carol during advent/peak consumer activity season. This is almost always our favorite night in December. We gather together a small group of friends and plow though the Dickens novella in one evening.
This is wonderful for a bunch of reasons.
Reason one is that this book is a total classic. Almost every paragraph has delightful turns of phrase and a profound insight into human life. Unlike a lot of classic stories that have been endlessly adapted, the original text of A Christmas Carol still supersedes all adaptations. As example, here's one bit of insightful, funny, and at a turn, politely creepy prose:
Reason two why we love our yearly reading is that we have this one friend, James Mace (pictured), who reads with such joy and enthusiasm that we save the best parts (e.g. the dance at Fezziwig's) for him to read. If you can find yourself a James Mace, I recommend doing so. Point of fact, we need to find ourselves another James Mace, since the original has now moved to Scotland (as seen in the picture, standing in a castle).
Reason three this reading time is so memorable is that NOBODY does this kind of thing anymore. It just stands out from our normal evening habit of quietly fiddling with our laptops side-by-side and then quietly watching Parks and Recreation on Hulu on one of the aforementioned laptops. Reading aloud is entertaining but totally participatory. You get to hear each person's unique way of dramatizing the story, and in turn, get to bring the story to life for others. I suppose the other example of participatory entertainment is playing a board/video game. But when we read A Christmas Carol, everybody wins.
One word of warning, however. Reading this book aloud can be a bit tricky. Sometimes people get bogged down trying this for the first time. So here are a few suggestions for first-timers.
1. Start early and don't take long breaks. Reading A Christmas Carol takes about 3 hours and change. So plan on starting soon after dinner and the party breaking up not long after you finish. Possible alternative: There's a short version of A Christmas Carol Dickens himself created for public readings, apparently after getting bogged down with a 3+ hour reading one time. The abridged version is available here. I can't speak for the authorized edit's quality because we've never tried the shorter version. Mainly, we couldn't bear to do without the whole text. There just aren't any bad parts to the story. Also, abridgment is for sissies (like Charles Dickens).
2. Even if you normally drink at Christmas parties, don't drink too much during the reading. Do three shots of bourbon and then try to read this sentence and you'll understand: "The fog and frost so hung about the black old gateway of the house, that it seemed as if the Genius of the Weather sat in mournful meditation on the threshold." (Disclaimer: I haven't tried this experiment.)
3. Let the good readers read more than the bad readers. I'm sure there's a politer way to say this, but I'll let you figure that out for yourself in the moment. Reading out loud is a skill you have to develop, and not everyone is awesome at it. Normally, less skilled readers either avoid reading or just read for a short bit then hand the book on to the next person. However, if you *know* that you will have some bad readers (or "less awesome readers") at the party who will insist on reading, here's a suggestion. You can get some cheap copies of the text on Amazon and assign parts. Then, cleverly give the bad readers the smaller parts. Free idea: Your friend with that terrible stutter can be Tiny Tim!
4. Don't be afraid to do voices. You feel silly doing them, but everybody loves it when you try on your bad English accent. I'm not kidding.
5. My final piece of advice is just to go ahead and host a reading this season, even if you can only round up three or four people. A Christmas Carol is the perfect piece of literature to read together. It's a rich, funny, fully human, and also divine story. It's a story about poetic grace being offered to a nearly damned soul. And it also works a bit of grace on the readers as well. I promise you'll love it. And if you don't, well then, screw you.
God bless us every one.
***
Philip Tallon is a guy who wrote a book. He's also on Twitter: @philiptallon.
By Philip Tallon
For the last ten years or so my wife and I have hosted a reading of A Christmas Carol during advent/peak consumer activity season. This is almost always our favorite night in December. We gather together a small group of friends and plow though the Dickens novella in one evening.
This is wonderful for a bunch of reasons.
Reason one is that this book is a total classic. Almost every paragraph has delightful turns of phrase and a profound insight into human life. Unlike a lot of classic stories that have been endlessly adapted, the original text of A Christmas Carol still supersedes all adaptations. As example, here's one bit of insightful, funny, and at a turn, politely creepy prose:
Scrooge took his melancholy dinner in his usual melancholy tavern; and having read all the newspapers, and beguiled the rest of the evening with his banker's-book, went home to bed. He lived in chambers which had once belonged to his deceased partner. They were a gloomy suite of rooms, in a lowering pile of building up a yard, where it had so little business to be, that one could scarcely help fancying it must have run there when it was a young house, playing at hide-and-seek with other houses, and forgotten the way out again. It was old enough now, and dreary enough, for nobody lived in it but Scrooge, the other rooms being all let out as offices. The yard was so dark that even Scrooge, who knew its every stone, was fain to grope with his hands....
Now, it is a fact, that there was nothing at all particular about the knocker on the door, except that it was very large. It is also a fact, that Scrooge had seen it, night and morning, during his whole residence in that place; also that Scrooge had as little of what is called fancy about him as any man in the city of London, even including—which is a bold word —the corporation, aldermen, and livery. Let it also be borne in mind that Scrooge had not bestowed one thought on Marley, since his last mention of his seven years' dead partner that afternoon. And then let any man explain to me, if he can, how it happened that Scrooge, having his key in the lock of the door, saw in the knocker, without its undergoing any intermediate process of change—not a knocker, but Marley's face.What more do I need to say? The book makes you laugh, it makes you cry, it makes you wish you knew what "aldermen" meant, and it makes you want to be a better person. Boom.
Reason two why we love our yearly reading is that we have this one friend, James Mace (pictured), who reads with such joy and enthusiasm that we save the best parts (e.g. the dance at Fezziwig's) for him to read. If you can find yourself a James Mace, I recommend doing so. Point of fact, we need to find ourselves another James Mace, since the original has now moved to Scotland (as seen in the picture, standing in a castle).
 |
| Pictured: A Christmas Carol reading Bad-Ass, level 99. |
Reason three this reading time is so memorable is that NOBODY does this kind of thing anymore. It just stands out from our normal evening habit of quietly fiddling with our laptops side-by-side and then quietly watching Parks and Recreation on Hulu on one of the aforementioned laptops. Reading aloud is entertaining but totally participatory. You get to hear each person's unique way of dramatizing the story, and in turn, get to bring the story to life for others. I suppose the other example of participatory entertainment is playing a board/video game. But when we read A Christmas Carol, everybody wins.
One word of warning, however. Reading this book aloud can be a bit tricky. Sometimes people get bogged down trying this for the first time. So here are a few suggestions for first-timers.
1. Start early and don't take long breaks. Reading A Christmas Carol takes about 3 hours and change. So plan on starting soon after dinner and the party breaking up not long after you finish. Possible alternative: There's a short version of A Christmas Carol Dickens himself created for public readings, apparently after getting bogged down with a 3+ hour reading one time. The abridged version is available here. I can't speak for the authorized edit's quality because we've never tried the shorter version. Mainly, we couldn't bear to do without the whole text. There just aren't any bad parts to the story. Also, abridgment is for sissies (like Charles Dickens).
 |
| Don't let the beard fool you. |
2. Even if you normally drink at Christmas parties, don't drink too much during the reading. Do three shots of bourbon and then try to read this sentence and you'll understand: "The fog and frost so hung about the black old gateway of the house, that it seemed as if the Genius of the Weather sat in mournful meditation on the threshold." (Disclaimer: I haven't tried this experiment.)
 |
| " 'Gah Hamburg?' Am I reading this correctly?...Oh, right, I'm wasted." |
4. Don't be afraid to do voices. You feel silly doing them, but everybody loves it when you try on your bad English accent. I'm not kidding.
 |
| "I've gone from English, to Scottish, to Australian, to Pirate in one evening. It's like watching Troy." |
5. My final piece of advice is just to go ahead and host a reading this season, even if you can only round up three or four people. A Christmas Carol is the perfect piece of literature to read together. It's a rich, funny, fully human, and also divine story. It's a story about poetic grace being offered to a nearly damned soul. And it also works a bit of grace on the readers as well. I promise you'll love it. And if you don't, well then, screw you.
God bless us every one.
***
Philip Tallon is a guy who wrote a book. He's also on Twitter: @philiptallon.
Sunday, December 4, 2011
In Lieu of Dr. Spock: Corman's Parenting Tips
By Josh Corman (follow me on Twitter @JoshACorman)
1. Bribery’s downside has been MASSIVELY overhyped
The lobbyists of big parenthood would love you to believe that children need the firm, loving guidance of parents committed to the principles of discipline more than they need another Tootsie Roll Pop or hour in front of the television. They get their information from "research" done by "doctors." They make it all sound very official.
The lobbyists of big parenthood would love you to believe that children need the firm, loving guidance of parents committed to the principles of discipline more than they need another Tootsie Roll Pop or hour in front of the television. They get their information from "research" done by "doctors." They make it all sound very official.
Theory is nice, but I live in the real world.
Do you know how many things upset children? Literally, it’s almost everything. They get mad when they’re tired, hungry, gassy, sick, hot, cold, or neglected. They don’t like loud noises, every little skinned knee or pinched finger turns them into needy, snotty, incomprehensible monsters, and they get totally bent out of shape if they don’t “see” their parents for a “long” time.
Often, this all feels like too much, and as a parent, the overwhelming feeling of not being able to satisfy your child’s most elemental desires and calm their greatest fears can lead you to the brink of despair. Luckily, there are any number of products you can use to stand in for the sort of dedicated, time-consuming parenting that radicals call “basic responsibility.” First off, candy works like a charm, especially suckers. When Benjamin is upset, a sucker will get him off my back no matter what. Sometimes he gets upset when I give him a flavor he doesn’t like, so I’ve taken to just leaving a fresh bag in his room every week, so he can pick to suit his mood.
Now, I know what you’re thinking: “But what about when my child is too young for hard candy? How do I distract him then?” While it’s true that those first few months are the hardest (even Tootsie Rolls and Twizzlers give infants a hard time), you must persevere! Around the time a child can reliably hold a bottle (also known to many parents as “The Greatest Day of My Life”), he can reliably hold a sucker. Until that time, small pieces of chocolate—which, annoyingly, they are usually unable to break off themselves—will have to suffice.
If hopping your kids up on wildly unhealthy sugar and high fructose corn syrup sounds like a bad idea, I understand where you’re coming from. Hyperactivity from a sugar overload often just creates an even greater desire in the child to interact with you, often during the most important moments of major sporting events. Luckily, the other great element to successful bribery—television—is here to help.
Do you know how many things upset children? Literally, it’s almost everything. They get mad when they’re tired, hungry, gassy, sick, hot, cold, or neglected. They don’t like loud noises, every little skinned knee or pinched finger turns them into needy, snotty, incomprehensible monsters, and they get totally bent out of shape if they don’t “see” their parents for a “long” time.
Often, this all feels like too much, and as a parent, the overwhelming feeling of not being able to satisfy your child’s most elemental desires and calm their greatest fears can lead you to the brink of despair. Luckily, there are any number of products you can use to stand in for the sort of dedicated, time-consuming parenting that radicals call “basic responsibility.” First off, candy works like a charm, especially suckers. When Benjamin is upset, a sucker will get him off my back no matter what. Sometimes he gets upset when I give him a flavor he doesn’t like, so I’ve taken to just leaving a fresh bag in his room every week, so he can pick to suit his mood.
Now, I know what you’re thinking: “But what about when my child is too young for hard candy? How do I distract him then?” While it’s true that those first few months are the hardest (even Tootsie Rolls and Twizzlers give infants a hard time), you must persevere! Around the time a child can reliably hold a bottle (also known to many parents as “The Greatest Day of My Life”), he can reliably hold a sucker. Until that time, small pieces of chocolate—which, annoyingly, they are usually unable to break off themselves—will have to suffice.
If hopping your kids up on wildly unhealthy sugar and high fructose corn syrup sounds like a bad idea, I understand where you’re coming from. Hyperactivity from a sugar overload often just creates an even greater desire in the child to interact with you, often during the most important moments of major sporting events. Luckily, the other great element to successful bribery—television—is here to help.
TV has been around since the early fifties, and parents have been using it as a babysitter from day one. It must have been tough in those early days counting on the Eds (Murrow and Sullivan) for reliable child distraction. Combine dull programming, three measly channels, and a blurry picture, and you're basically begging your child to wander away from the screen in search of you. Luckily, DVD players, Hi-Def picture, and the magic of Pixar Animation Studios has transformed every television in America into a potentially never-ending carousel of high action entertainment. Children love Pixar movies, and, because Pixar has taken merchandising to levels that give even George Lucas pause, children also love the toys, cars, monsters, and robots (but, weirdly, not insects or rats) represented in their favorite movies. Combining these toys with a daily triple-feature makes living the rest of your life as a parent so much simpler. Trips to the grocery are a breeze when you don't have to cart along a two-year old who seems hell-bent on raking every package he can reach into the cart. In fact, if you plan well enough (a bag of the aforementioned candy, four or five sippy cups filled with juice or water, a multi-disc DVD player with every available Pixar title, a webcam, and a fresh heavy duty diaper), an overnight escape to a bed and breakfast is totally doable. Babysitters are running scared.
Yep, you can get your kids to do pretty much anything for the promise of candy and television. These are your weapons. Use them recklessly.
2. Some Things Should NOT Be Given Out Like Candy
Your kids love you. They need you. Desperately, in fact. You know how dogs beg for your attention and approval? Well, children are like that, only exponentially more so. Use this to your advantage.
We've all read the children's classic If You Give a Mouse a Cookie, the story of a greedy rodent and his quest to bankrupt the people stupid enough to hand over their baked goods without demanding sufficient collateral. That story should teach us a valuable truth about parenting: as a parent, you possess one thing of such tremendous value that to dole it out without prudent, judicious consideration can only be called folly. That thing is your approval.
Let me paint you a disturbing picture. A little girl learns to ride her bike. In her endless excitement over the time-consuming, sometimes painful achievement of this goal, she rushes into the house and begs her parents to come watch her ride without the aid of training wheels. They do, and when they see her ride they cheer and congratulate her and offer her ceaseless, genuine praise. The pride is visible on their faces.
Horrifying, isn't it? We can all see where this is going. Twenty years from now, that little girl will be a layabout ne'er-do-well still living in her room upstairs working the register at Hobby Lobby while she works on her "poetry," all because Mom and Dad poured their praise and affection on her like champagne on a stripper in a rap video. Soon, the girl became complacent and felt entitled to "do what made her happy" and "pursue her dreams." If only they had kept that carrot dangling a little longer, just out of reach, their child could have been successful.
Kids need to be hungry to succeed. The surest way to keep someone hungry? Starve him. Make your kids crave your approval by issuing it in brief, unadorned doses. The other day, Benjamin came and asked me to come look in his room. I went (not right away, of course) and saw that he had stacked some wooden blocks over his train tracks, forming a long tunnel, and he was pushing one of his trains through to the other side. "It's a tunnel!" he said. I was thrilled at how carefully he had stacked the blocks and how much time and creative energy he had spent on getting the tunnel just right, but I had to keep the long view in mind. "I guess," I said. "But not very symmetrical. A real engineer would laugh at you."
Of course it was difficult to watch his little chin drop onto his chest in defeat, but nobody said parenting is supposed to be easy. If you want to be a successful parent, you have to take some lumps. I'll warn you, it takes practice. I've been watching my favorite sports teams without cheering because I know when Benjamin starts playing that I'll have to work hard to look annoyed and disinterested enough to make him outwork his opponents.
Remember, if you give your children a compliment, they'll soon want constant affirmation and reassurances of your love. Proceed with caution.
3. Culture is a Must
A lot of so-called experts say that reading to your child is one of the best things you can do to ensure strong cognitive development and language skills. Maybe, but who has the time?
Think about it. Kids are exhausting. You already have to sleep a couple of extra hours after they're born because they tire you out so much (DO NOT deprive yourself of sleep; remember, crying won't kill a baby), plus, with all the time you have to spend updating your Facebook page with pictures of them and feeding them, doing their laundry and changing their diapers, who has time for reading?
Still, the fact remains that children need to be exposed to language so that they can enter school on par with their peers. What's a busy parent to do? The answer is simple: rap music. Think about it. If you need your child exposed to language, what better way than the poetry of stars like Kanye West and Rick Ross? High school English teachers have long been using rap as a way to connect with wayward youths, and now hipster journalists from Brooklyn (home of Jay-Z, hip-hop's equivalent to Shakespeare) are writing books about it, imbuing it with a sense of high culture parents are crazy for. Baby Mozart, anyone? And Mozart's music doesn't even have lyrics. How are they supposed to learn anything apart from how to fall asleep more quickly? Crank the Lupe Fiasco, and your child will soon be lost in appreciation of our beautiful language.
Now, I know this one is likely to raise a few questions. First, does it have to be rap? The answer is obvious. While you may be partial to the lyrics of Paul Simon or Neil Young, those guys don't pack nearly as many words per minute into their songs. Remember, you're doing this for your kids. Language acquisition is the goal, and rap music simply suits that goal better than all others. Imagine if every R.E.M. song had as many words in it as "It's the End of the World as We Know It." Rap specializes in that sort of efficiency, and makes itself the only sensible option as a replacement for reading.
But Corman, you're saying, what about all the profanity? Might I suggest that those four-letter words fix more problems than they create? Parents dread the moment when their child comes to them and asks about the meaning of some vulgar word he heard on the street. This way, that crisis is averted, because the child will be so used to the words that he either will already know what they mean (saving the parent an awkward conversation) or he'll be so used to them that hearing them again won't even make him flinch. I was, however, also concerned about the high density of foul language in hip-hop, and I tried to remedy that at first with edited versions of big name albums, but when Benjamin started speaking he left out every fourth word, so I had to revert to the originals. I would suggest you stick to the same. Now get clicking on that iTunes icon!
There you are, friends. A few helpful pointers from one who is daily fighting the good fight, carving out a little space for those parents who care.
I'll be back in a couple of weeks with a Christmas post (probably about how the lump of coal can be strategically used to elicit all kinds of legally binding promises from your kids). Until then, enjoy!
By Josh Corman (follow me on Twitter @JoshACorman)
Friday, December 2, 2011
Cormac McCarthy Writes for Us!
And other holiday lies
By Emily Walls
On Sunday, Jonny and I bought the most adorable Christmas tree that has ever been. No other Christmas tree will ever surpass it in charm and charisma.
In celebration of its welcome in our home, I present to you the story of its acquiring.
One story, five authors.
Charlotte Bronte (Jane Eyre)
There was no possibility of walking to Ralphs that day. We had been out of doors much indeed, earlier in the season; and though our bright California sun shone with perpetual vivacity (we often wore thin stockings even in November), the day was drawing to its close and would shortly exchange its vibrant orb for its luminous, nocturnal sister, ere we had accomplished our mission. I ordered the Camry and, together with Mr. Walls, set out at a brisk, steady pace across the dusky Burbank moors. Having gained the shop in good time, I surveyed the meagre selection, a collection of verdure I cared little for, upon inspection. Dismayed, I turned my eye toward the aisles of sundries, for I had much to gather for the return journey, and girded my inner resolve with contemplation upon future, successful ventures to the market, when I beheld just beyond the storefront casement an overlooked row of subjacent evergreens that would, I was sure, suit our chamber. I chose the most agreeable among them; I was satisfied; and having collected my scanty chattels, I called Mr. Walls to myself and undertook the short sojourn home.
Solomon (Song of)
Like the red pin in the bowling alley
is my tree among other evergreens.
I sit in the comfort of its knitting circle
and delight in the afghan of its stems.
Its topmost branch is like a fire brigade,
Like a brigade of flaming men is my tree.
Its foliage is like octuplet skeet discs,
Girded with the strength of a thousand Mongols.
Its leaves glisten like parakeets,
Staving off plantains.
Its trunk is a murder of crows,
Bedecked in the foreskins of its enemies.
Come with me, my shrub, my tree!
Come into my glen and drink of its wine coolers.
Awake, North Wind!
Arise, Burbank town center!
Flabbergast my Christmas tree
and gather its needles to your bosom.
Cormac McCarthy (The Road, All the Pretty Horses)
We cant choose this one Jonny.
I know.
How tall is that?
I dont know. Six feet. Maybe eight.
Do you think we'll find one?
No. We wont find one.
It might find us.
Yes. It might find us.
Ok.
Ok.
Anthony Burgess (A Clockwork Orange)
What sloochatted, of course, my brothers, was that my chelloveck and I scatted in the nochy kavortny-like through the slanky muck-a-muck for the place one young devotchka said we might crast some eververdures. Having viddied the sorry stock of right lank green greens, I shrugged my pletchoes, my rot rounded for a boohoohoo, and I slovoed Jonny that we may as well filly HOME as stay. Just as we were knocking like to canter off, oh my brothers, I viddied out the corner of my glazzy a privy trove of right horrorshow rooty plots. Having plenty of deng, we tended the pretty polly real skorry to the veck at the counter and slooshied to the Jingle Jingle the whole way HOME.
Stephanie Meyer (Twilight)
She had been looking forward to getting a Christmas tree for a long time. She wanted a small, short, petite, pocket-sized tree that would fill her home with wonderful, bright Christmas cheer. He took her to the nearest store, a Ralphs.
"Now, be sure to pick out a good one," he warned.
"Oh, I don't mind what we get," she lied.
They browsed the rows of spruces and douglas firs, but nothing looked right—they were all too tall.
"It's hopeless," she moaned. "We'll never find one that will fit in our place."
"Don't worry," he consoled as he brushed a stray hair from her forehead. "Just take a deep breath, stay calm, and keep looking." He smiled the same boyish grin that always sent shivers down her spine.
She inhaled slowly, breathing in his scent—a comforting mixture of aftershave and ocean spray. Being close to him was like spending a day at the beach.
"Ok," she replied. "We'll keep looking."
They wandered among the evergreens for a few more minutes. Finally giving up on the Christmas tree, they headed inside the store to restock their supply of milk and bread—the typical groceries. To her amazement, they spied a separate section of trees just inside the store.
"I can't believe it!" she exclaimed. "Look! These are the perfect size for our apartment. They're not too big, and they're not too small."
"It's true," he replied, picking one up by its base. The sinews of his arms flexed beneath his shirt. Her heart quickened.
"This one is perfect," he said.
"You're perfect," she thought.
The End
On Sunday, Jonny and I bought the most adorable Christmas tree that has ever been. No other Christmas tree will ever surpass it in charm and charisma.
 |
| Told you. |
One story, five authors.
Charlotte Bronte (Jane Eyre)
There was no possibility of walking to Ralphs that day. We had been out of doors much indeed, earlier in the season; and though our bright California sun shone with perpetual vivacity (we often wore thin stockings even in November), the day was drawing to its close and would shortly exchange its vibrant orb for its luminous, nocturnal sister, ere we had accomplished our mission. I ordered the Camry and, together with Mr. Walls, set out at a brisk, steady pace across the dusky Burbank moors. Having gained the shop in good time, I surveyed the meagre selection, a collection of verdure I cared little for, upon inspection. Dismayed, I turned my eye toward the aisles of sundries, for I had much to gather for the return journey, and girded my inner resolve with contemplation upon future, successful ventures to the market, when I beheld just beyond the storefront casement an overlooked row of subjacent evergreens that would, I was sure, suit our chamber. I chose the most agreeable among them; I was satisfied; and having collected my scanty chattels, I called Mr. Walls to myself and undertook the short sojourn home.
Solomon (Song of)
Like the red pin in the bowling alley
is my tree among other evergreens.
I sit in the comfort of its knitting circle
and delight in the afghan of its stems.
Its topmost branch is like a fire brigade,
Like a brigade of flaming men is my tree.
Its foliage is like octuplet skeet discs,
Girded with the strength of a thousand Mongols.
Its leaves glisten like parakeets,
Staving off plantains.
Its trunk is a murder of crows,
Bedecked in the foreskins of its enemies.
Come with me, my shrub, my tree!
Come into my glen and drink of its wine coolers.
Awake, North Wind!
Arise, Burbank town center!
Flabbergast my Christmas tree
and gather its needles to your bosom.
Cormac McCarthy (The Road, All the Pretty Horses)
We cant choose this one Jonny.
I know.
How tall is that?
I dont know. Six feet. Maybe eight.
Do you think we'll find one?
No. We wont find one.
It might find us.
Yes. It might find us.
Ok.
Ok.
Anthony Burgess (A Clockwork Orange)
What sloochatted, of course, my brothers, was that my chelloveck and I scatted in the nochy kavortny-like through the slanky muck-a-muck for the place one young devotchka said we might crast some eververdures. Having viddied the sorry stock of right lank green greens, I shrugged my pletchoes, my rot rounded for a boohoohoo, and I slovoed Jonny that we may as well filly HOME as stay. Just as we were knocking like to canter off, oh my brothers, I viddied out the corner of my glazzy a privy trove of right horrorshow rooty plots. Having plenty of deng, we tended the pretty polly real skorry to the veck at the counter and slooshied to the Jingle Jingle the whole way HOME.
Stephanie Meyer (Twilight)
She had been looking forward to getting a Christmas tree for a long time. She wanted a small, short, petite, pocket-sized tree that would fill her home with wonderful, bright Christmas cheer. He took her to the nearest store, a Ralphs.
"Now, be sure to pick out a good one," he warned.
"Oh, I don't mind what we get," she lied.
They browsed the rows of spruces and douglas firs, but nothing looked right—they were all too tall.
"It's hopeless," she moaned. "We'll never find one that will fit in our place."
"Don't worry," he consoled as he brushed a stray hair from her forehead. "Just take a deep breath, stay calm, and keep looking." He smiled the same boyish grin that always sent shivers down her spine.
She inhaled slowly, breathing in his scent—a comforting mixture of aftershave and ocean spray. Being close to him was like spending a day at the beach.
"Ok," she replied. "We'll keep looking."
They wandered among the evergreens for a few more minutes. Finally giving up on the Christmas tree, they headed inside the store to restock their supply of milk and bread—the typical groceries. To her amazement, they spied a separate section of trees just inside the store.
"I can't believe it!" she exclaimed. "Look! These are the perfect size for our apartment. They're not too big, and they're not too small."
"It's true," he replied, picking one up by its base. The sinews of his arms flexed beneath his shirt. Her heart quickened.
"This one is perfect," he said.
"You're perfect," she thought.
The End
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)