I'm It: Reference Edition

Ok, ok... I give. I have been tagged. This means that I am "it" and must follow certain rules and play the game, or risk being labeled "no fun." Since I have never, ever been referred to as "no fun" I will do as instructed. Here are the rules (blatantly copied from daytripper):

• Find the nearest book
• Name the title and author
• Turn to p. 123
• Post sentences 6-8
• Tag 3 more people

Seems simple enough. Yet, turning to the book closest to me, I find myself looking at "Elder Law: Statutes and Regulations." Oh boy. Page 123 contains an excerpt from the Age Discrimination in Employment Act. Hmmm. This particular page is rife with long, winding legal prose dense with semi-colons and bulleted lists. Sentence 6 starts two-thirds of the way down the page and there is no sentence 8 on this page. I can't do this. What do the rules say? The nearest book? Looking at this book, I realize it is not so much a book as a reference text or treatise. No, this is not a "book" as the rule writers probably intended, and since sentence 8 doesn't even exist on page 123 of this text, it seems reasonable to disqualify "Elder Law" as it does not satisfy the spirit of the game.

I move on to the next-nearest, non-legal book. Here sits "The America's Test Kitchen Family Cookbook." On page 123 I find two recipes for cooking vegetables. Looks good so far, especially if you are a beet-lover or are craving a little broccoli rabe. However, there is another problem: the rules state that sentences are to be posted. So, if I remember correctly, in its most basic form a sentence contains a subject and a verb. Also, it seems a reasonable assumption that the intention of the game is that the sentences should be consecutive. After all, the rules require that sentences 6-8 are posted. Surely those who created the rules intended and expected that sentence 6 would be followed consecutively by sentence 7, and sentence 7 by sentence 8? Of course! But, looking at the recipes, I'm having a little trouble finding complete sentences and, when I do find them, I can't seem to find them consecutively. Does the fragment following a sentence count as a sentence? Do descriptions without verbs which are clearly not sentences count? And where do I start counting? At the first complete sentence, or at the first sentence that is consecutively followed by another? Because this book doesn't actually contain complete, consecutive sentences, and I can't figure a clear way to count sentences, I quickly determine that this book also falls outside the rules of the game.

Continuing to the next-nearest, nearest book, I come across "American Place Names: A Concise and Selective Dictionary for the Continental United States of America" by George R. Stewart. This looks promising. And sure enough, on page 123 I find that sentences 6-8 are indeed complete. Unfortunately they are not consecutive. Headers break-up the flow. Do headers count as sentences? Applying the Cookbook Rule to this book, I eliminate it and move on.

Now, standing in front of a bookcase, I will undoubtedly find a book that satisfies the spirit of the game while also containing complete, consecutive sentences. Trying to retain some of the intended randomness "nearest book" implies, I close my eyes and wave my arm around (as though this will disorient my arm and ensure a random pick). I move my hand toward the bookcase and pluck the book my hand first lands on. It is "Modern Art" (2nd ed.) by Sam Hunter and John Jacobus. And lo and behold, there are complete, consecutive sentences:

"Klee's semiautomatic techniques and hieroglyphs also offer close parallel with the emerging Surrealist movement and its practices after the mid-1920s, especially as expressed in the organic semiabstract imagery of Joan Miro. His imagination, however, was not directed specifically to the unconscious or to any programmatic exploration of free association. Rather, he sought signs and images for man's tragi-comic predicament, in a humorous and punning fashion, without much explicit psychological content, or, alternately, he explored symbols for universal forces much as Marc and Kandinsky had done."

So there. It is done and the rules and spirit of the game have been upheld.

But I can't help but wonder what it says about me that I don't have anything even slightly entertaining handy? What does it mean that every book within reach is a reference book? Well, it might mean I spend a lot of time wondering Why or How. But I fear that it only means that I have found myself in a "tragi-comic predicament without much explicit psychological content." Damn, I need to go buy some fiction.

Who's next? You're it:

• Footsie Jones (because I'm always interested in what you're reading)
• DSYU (because you read and write, and if you don' t blog, you should)
• Random jottings of... (because you think a lot, and I enjoy your random jottings)

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photo: books, and none of them fun.

Calmly Running Around and Franticly Sitting Still

Between March of 2001 and July 2004, I spent a lot of time and energy trying to decide where I wanted to be, and what I wanted to do. It all started when I quit my job in San Francisco; sold my house in Berkeley, California; took ten days to drive 2600 miles with two women, one man, and one dog in a little car with a U-Haul trailer; noticed the man's smile in the Grand Canyon; stopped along the way with the man, the two ladies, and the dog at the Arizona Meteor Crater (very cool!), Roswell, New Mexico (very weird), and the Alamo (remember it?); knew I was in love by New Orleans (alas, dropping the man off at the airport); visited the Civil Rights Memorial with the ladies and the dog in Montgomery, Alabama; got very drunk in Atlanta at the haunted Days Inn with the ladies and the dog; dropped off the two women at the Atlanta airport (alas, hung-over); arrived with the dog at my sister's house in Knoxville, Tennessee; drove out for a week-long date with the man in Nashville, Tennessee; hit the road again for a peaceful, long weekend by myself in Chapel Hill, North Carolina; from there, drove north to celebrate a hot, rainy Fourth of July with family in Washington, D.C.; returned to Knoxville, only to get on an airplane and visit the man in Oakland, California; returned to Knoxville, then got back in the car and had a few spectacular days with the man in Raleigh-Durham, North Carolina; let a couple months pass in Knoxville, then turned around and drove with the dog and the man the whole 2600 miles back to California -- this time taking the northern route through Metropolis, Illinois (Superman!) and Kansas City, Missouri (city in a park!); saw the Corn Palace in Mitchell, South Dakota (corny! - really), visited Mt. Rushmore and the Black Hills in South Dakota (both awe-inspiring), and drove across miles of salt flats by the Great Salt Lake in Utah (surprisingly beautiful); bought a house in Oakland, California; got a job in San Francisco (yes, in that order); celebrated a crazy, excruciatingly hot Fourth of July with the family and the man in Washington, D.C. and Williamsburg, Virginia; back in Oakland, hosted the Thanksgiving of all Thanksgivings with the man, the dog, and legions of family in the new house; couldn't cure the dog's cancer, and on the rainiest, saddest winter day ever, had to put him to sleep; went back to Knoxville to celebrate Christmas with the man and the family; got a crazy puppy; sold the house in Oakland; spent two long weekends looking at more than 40 houses in Kansas City, Missouri; bought a house in Kansas City; returned to California; took 10 luxurious days with the man to drive 650 miles up the California coast and over to Mt. St. Helens, Oregon; took two more days to drive the same distance back, stopping at Oregon's Crater Lake on the way; took the crazy puppy and the man and drove 1800 miles in about two-and-a-half days to make the move to Kansas City; quit my job in San Francisco (yes, in that order); got married in Oakland (this time we took an airplane); and then, in the fall of 2004, I took a deep breath and tried sitting still and concentrating for three years straight (that was when I entered law school).

I'm in that third year of sitting still and concentrating and, I swear, it has felt more like franticly running in circles than anything else I've ever done.

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map: My years of driving around.

Postpartum Attachment

She still felt a sickening sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach every time she thought about it. How could it have happened? Imagine mistaking the Krazy Glue for the diaper rash ointment! If only she hadn’t set the baby down on the floor when the dogs started barking… now, how was she ever going to explain to her in-laws why they couldn’t pick up the baby?

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photo: this photo is captioned "Princess with Son." Sorry to say, I have no idea who she is, or who her little would-be king might be.

A Different Drummer

Finally, after what seemed like years of winter, we had a day of summer. It almost never happens in San Francisco, but on this day I swear it was about a hundred degrees. We were in the full sun, digging, clipping, pruning, and planting as though it might never be sunny again.

I was concentrating on pulling dead growth from my yucca when Mike said in all earnestness, "you know, I don't think the Beatles would have had nearly the impact if they had kept Pete Best. Ringo made the difference for them, don't you think?"

Mike's eyes had all the sincerity of a dog trying to nab a snack. Guess I'd really never thought about it in quite that way.

My fuschia was wilted and my succulents were getting way too much sun. Mike was trying to find the right place in the yard for that giant fern that had adopted us many homes ago. Pete Best? "What about if The Beatles had found Keith Moon before he found The Who?" I asked.

Mike shook his head. "Sometimes," he thought to himself, "she just doesn't understand."

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photo, l-r: Keith Moon, Pete Best, and Ringo Starr

Sophie Was Worried About the Farm

Sophie (seated to the right) was worried about the farm. The men in the field never seemed to accomplish much and the crops were coming in weedy and wilted. It wasn’t just the ill-effects of a long, dry summer; it was the men’s fault. If times were different, she and her sisters could send the men away and tend to the farm themselves. She could plow a field, sow the seeds, and reap the crops just fine without anyone’s (likely inept) help. But sadly, they lived in the wrong era for that kind of nerve and independence. Maybe someday the suffragette movement would secure a woman’s right to vote and a woman’s right to own property, but Sophie knew that day would come long after the men had blown it and let the farm go to hell.

Like her sister Sophie, Mildred (seated to the left) believed she was as capable, if not more, than most men she knew. However, Mildred’s strength was her intellect. Mildred was an avid reader and had educated herself well over her lifetime. Thanks to Godey’s Lady’s Book, she knew about poetry and literature as well as sewing and women’s arts. Mildred knew that idle hands are the devil’s workshop so she let the men have their run of the farm. It didn't matter that they didn't do it well; it kept them out of trouble. It was a bonus that it also kept them out of her way. On her best days, without anyone wandering through the house wondering what time supper was being served, Mildred could turn out three or four doilies and still have time for reading. Of course, now that her hair was turning gray her hands were less dexterous with her tatting and her eyes often grew weary from hours of reading, but her work kept her busy and kept her mind off trifles such as men.

Eunice, the mother of the girls (seated in the middle) didn’t know what all the fuss was about. Give her a good pipe and a warm blanket, and she had all she needed. She knew where the men hid their corn liquor and she didn’t care. In fact, she might even sneak out to that old barn and have a nip herself when they weren’t looking. Let them have their fun, and she would have hers. The crops would take care of themselves.

But Inez (standing) had other ideas. She had dreamed once about a very large horse. In her dream she was riding the horse bareback and she was wearing trousers and she rode the horse western style. The horse ran fast and she could feel its muscles rippling beneath her legs, and its power felt good. Although she never wore her hair down loose in public, in her dream her hair flowed in the wind behind her and she felt free. Inez was pretty sure that the dream had something to do with getting out of Illinois. Maybe after this damn photographer was finished she would tell her mother she was moving out West. And maybe Carl, the hired hand, might want to go with her.

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photo: I don't recall their names, but the old woman in the middle is my grandmother's great grandmother. The women with her are her daughters. They were all God-fearing women who never dreamed about horses or running the farm on their own.

Stephen and John

My father, Stephen, was a painter. He died when I was three years old. By all accounts he was handsome and charming in the way young men were in the 1960’s. He had just finished grad school where he obtained a master’s degree as a landscape architect and was an up-and-coming artist, beginning to gain recognition on a large scale. He was twenty-eight and even though he had a wife and two young daughters, he was what most 60s artists were: adventurous and walking that fine line between forcing and coaxing his inspiration.

My mother speculated that my father was driven by a sense of competition with his own father, John. John wasn’t the type of father to encourage with praise. John was moody and somehow managed to be both self-loathing and an egomaniac. One of my early memories of John is of him sitting in the living room at the large round coffee table. On the table was a small black-and-white TV, a pitcher of gin martinis, a jar of pickled onions, a box of Saltine crackers, and a small jar of caviar, with all the appropriate accoutrements. Later, I realized he also had a small brown bottle of Valium in his shirt pocket. He left no nerve untouched. John stayed in front of the TV all afternoon, only moving to change stations to the next sporting event when an ad would come on.

Even though Stephen’s paintings were garnering critical praise in the national modern art community, John had never acknowledged to him that his work was good. My mother later said my father was put in the position of having to prove to John that he was good at things. They had become competitive, and Stephen would eventually win. Stephen painted as well as his father, he earned a similar academic standing, and he abused as harsh substances as his father. It was almost ironic that Stephen died when he did and silenced the competition once and for all – proving himself as a more effective substance abuser than his father ever was. John spent his entire 75 years trying to kill himself, but never actually succeeded on his own. Stephen never consciously tried to kill himself, but succeeded nonetheless while chasing a 60s pop culture muse of hepatitis-infused heroin. He died in July 1968.

Many years later, I suspect my mother had no qualms about phoning the Hemlock Society on John’s behalf. It did occur to me that she might not have had completely altruistic intentions where John’s life was concerned, but in the years since then I have come to think of her phone call as the ultimate act of mercy. She provided John with the information he needed to end the chronic pain of the cancers that were slowly destroying his body. And maybe more importantly, she finally gave him his answer. He would finally understand which steps he had overlooked all those other times when he had tried and failed at what Stephen so effectively accidentally accomplished nearly 20 years previously.

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top: "Lightning Express" (1968)
bottom: "Chocolate Landscape and Boxwork's Dream" (1968).

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footnote: check out Grandpa John in "U.S.A. vs. Tokyo Rose" now showing on the Documentary Channel. There he is: disgruntled grand juror and one of two hold-outs against the prosecution. Although he has less than a minute of airtime, it is classic John. No one says "God-damned" quite the way he did.

hoof-in-mouth

I used to work for a small software company in San Francisco. My desk was in Engineering -- basically a small room with ten or so desks at right angles to each other, and absolutely no privacy.

One day Dave, a practical joker in our IT department, came running into the room shouting something about winning the lottery. We all knew that he had a punchline ready and was just waiting for one of us to give some sort of benign response so he could blurt it out. So, I obliged. "HOLY COW!" I said in mock surprise. It was only then that I realized I was only one of two people in engineering not originally from India.

Fortunately, after a few seconds of very uncomfortable silence, everyone laughed. Unfortunately, we never got to hear Dave's punchline.