Mawkish for the Nonce

Monday, January 29, 2007

PSA

Group,
La Misma can not keep going forever without response of any kind.

Pistolgal is nice enough to write fairly often. Apart from that, where is everyone?

Where is beckett? vacuous, have you stopped dropping by? creampuff, I haven't heard from you for yonks. Why have you all deserted me?

Were you put off by excessive self-analysis? Did a professed intention to "lighten things up" seem undercut by mention of suicidal ideation? Was the second to last post (now erased) too bathetic?

Remember, the theme of this blog is mawkishness. This is where I can be as mawkish as I want to be. And oh God, can I be mawkish.

I recoil at other people's mawkishness. I dislike several of Lars von Triers's movies because I think they push the wretchedness of the characters to such an extreme that it stops being moving. It's bathetic.

While I am mawkish, I try not to be bathetic. That's why I deleted my second-to-last post. Even I could feel a certain distaste at the mewling self-loathing on display, paired with a nursery-rhyme-style sunshininess and veiled plea for love. Ick. I can only imagine how soiled you, my readers, felt when you ... if you ... if you happened to read it.

Is that post why you have stopped coming?

I miss you. Oops -- bathos.

Saturday, January 27, 2007

WOW

Thursday, January 25, 2007

His Legs Bestrid the Colossus, His Reared Arm Crested the World



Did anyone else feel sorry for Bill O’Reilly on the Colbert Report? O’Reilly doesn’t seem to have counted on just how alien he’d feel in a sanctum created and supported by the sensibility he hates. He looked apprehensive when he made his entrance, and when he got some boos, he looked sad and trapped, like the most uncool kid in school being taunted by the coolest. And when Colbert pulled out a copy of his, O’Reilly’s, book with a big “30% Off” sticker on the cover, O’Reilly’s face froze in chagrin at his own naivete.

But also, it was a misstep on Colbert’s part. Colbert’s shtick revolves around how much he reveres O’Reilly, so why was he insulting him to his face? His entire persona is buttressed nightly by reverent mentions of O’Reilly. It was out of character for him to show a mocked up photograph of O’Reilly in leather bondage, squatting, with something that looked like his genitals exposed to ridicule. Was Colbert pandering to people who would want him to take shots at O’Reilly? But he doesn’t pander to them any other time. He stays rigorously in character – it’s part of his ballsiness.

Colbert is usually right on, someone you marvel at's swiftness, a comic genius with an uber-nerd's storehouse of knowledge. Something seemed off that night, though.

Saturday, January 20, 2007

Roddick Was Always a Serve and Volleyer



Some thoughts while watching the Australian Open:

Both Andy Roddick and James Blake stick their butts out before they serve. Just for a second they look like Jemima Puddleduck. Or some other member of the poultry family.

Roddick's game has improved under Jimmy Connors but not the way everyone is saying. Connors has gotten him to relax and hang at the baseline more. Andy used to constantly charge the net -- he never was just the power player everyone said -- but he'd choke and blow the shot.

Everyone is saying reverentially "Andy has changed so much. Now he'll come to net". Wrong! He always came to net but now he does so more judiciously.

Mary Jo Hernandez is aging oddly. She always had a girlish prettiness. Now I'm not sure what's going on. She's still pretty but she looks different. People do change as they age -- except me. Someone like David Bowie can go from looking like Greta Garbo to some little pug-faced Cockney, over time.

Patrick McEnroe has always had little rodenty hands. Every year they come out. He clutches them inward to make his points, and they make him look like a little woodland creature.

Patrick McEnroe, like his brother John, uses an Anglo locution: "He comes to net a lot, does Roddick" or "He's showing a lot of promise, is Ancic." I wonder if their Irish father used that phrasing.

Patrick McEnroe is plenty insightful but I miss Johnny Mac -- his wry jabs at himself, his shrewd tennis savvy.

Go Roddick.

Friday, January 19, 2007

Dumb It Down, Love



A friend of mine, quizzing me on why a blazingly or even modestly successful comedy writing career has yet to materialize for me, asked, "What's the difference between you and Amy Sedaris?" She takes more drugs, was my first thought. Later I thought about it again and concluded, Amy Sedaris takes herself way less seriously than I do me. She seems to lark through life seeing mostly the goofy side. I just read on the web that she'd like to do a sitcom of "Night, Mother" where the girl commits suicide a different way every night. That's funny! Also she has all these stuffed squirrels in her apartment, while I have towering bookcases full of important tomes.

My friend alluded to this when he said "she doesn't walk around thinking about fucking Dostoyevsky." I took this as a swipe at my recent post on Anna Karenina, but my friend denied that, saying it was more about my refusal to let go of my academic side that causes my comedy to be littered with references to post-structuralism, Zizek and Freudian theory.

"Dumb it down," my friend advised. And he's a poet! He's not some creepy 26-year-old TV producer whose advice I would spurn automatically (to my career peril).

I have to admit he's right. My comedy remains too literary and not nearly hilarious enough. I blame it on suicidal ideation. It's hard to be funny when you think you're disappearing or you don't see the point in going on.

I'm not working, still or again. I get to sit around the house all day, every day. Part of me loves this silence, this nothingness. But yesterday I was brushing my hair and looking at my face in the mirror and suddenly I couldn't tell if it was me -- I felt detached from the image. I was flooded with panic and had to leave the house immediately just to get away from any mirrors. I had a ham and cheese sandwich at a nearby patisserie and the transaction went fine and I had a fizzy orange drink and it felt reassuring. I did not have a psychotic break. Not that day.

I obviously need more drugs, though. K'yuh!

Wednesday, January 10, 2007

Oh England



You don't need moisturizer there.

The air is soft, damp and breezy and your skin stays supple.

That's one of many ways I thought England seemed better than the U.S.

Another was organization. When you got on a bus for another city, you were informed in a clear voice over a working loudspeaker about the journey ahead. The driver told us about a detour because of an accident on the highway. (Motorway.) The bus pulled out smartly on schedule. Announcements occurred at the slightest need for explanation.

I took this as a sign of the country's commitment to mass transit.

On the other hand, we come out ahead in the bathroom category. The bathrooms on the inter-city buses are horrific. After a bad experience, my family told me they never used them and to avoid it at all costs. Also, the bathrooms in restaurants, bars etc. are unheated. I give this a resounding frowny face. It seems needlessly primitive.

Food often runs out in the grocery stores. I find this charming. Behind the empty vegetable bins seems to be a more relaxed work ethic, and an attitude of "So what? No greens. We'll have to have turnips" or whatever. Making do with what you have. Far from the North American ethos of striving tensely after perfection for each meal. Not to mention the pressure on stores and workers to serve the customers like they are the kings of Siam.

On the other hand: Table service is very slow in England and sometimes they don't have a good part of what's listed on the menu. This can seem charming or feckless, depending. (It kind of makes you see where the "Cheese Shop" skit by Monty Python came from.)

Coffee: We come out on top. They don't know what ordinary, brewed coffee is. All they know how to make is the espresso drinks. Those are fine for flavor but sometimes you want a regular cup of good, strong coffee -- forget it! If you score one it's as weak as tea.

Tea. What's up with that tea, tea, tea thing? Tea is fine once in a while. It can be nice first thing. But all day? At every turn? What's the attraction? It's hot water that doesn't taste enough like coffee, to me.

Atmosphere: They win. Hands down. The country is smaller, and there isn't the sense of disorganized misery that pervades the U.S. There's more sense of community in England, even if only from the tiny size and the teeny little trips they take to visit each other (compared with ours). I recently read an interview with Chris Hedges on Salon -- he has a new book out about the religious right, and he said that it appeals to the lost, lonely Americans who have no community structure, who live vacant, sad, disconnected lives. I agree in spades.

Jolliness: They win. Whether it's a nice cuppa or a magnum of champagne, they're always ready to have a liquid stimulant and get on with things. I love that moment in "The Queen" when Helen Mirren gets off the phone, having had a very difficult conversation with someone about Diana, and walks into the other room saying cheerfully: "Tea!"

Wednesday, January 03, 2007

New York City, After Hokusai





My favorite moment riding the subway is when you're on an express train and you sail through a non-express station. It makes you feel like a grandee.

Trochee, spondee.