Friday, January 30, 2004

Self-Denial

I had to get another little notebook.  The one I had, where at least a dozen valuable ideas and phone numbers were mouldering, waiting for me to switch them to a more permanent home, are lost.  I think I put it down when I was shopping for a camera, and I never picked it up again.  I’ve spent two weeks waiting for it to resurface, in case it was just in my coat pocket or under the sofa or something, but I couldn’t wait any longer.  Here’s why:

I’d been realizing that I hadn’t written any good fiction - any fiction, period - for a long time.  And as I realized this, at the princess party last weekend, surrounded by 4 year old girls and their tipsy and pork-addled parents, I had a great, great, great idea for a story.  No need to write it down, even if I hadn’t lost my notebook - an idea this good will automatically stick to the inside of my head. 

You can see this one coming, can’t you?  I have no idea what that story was about now.  No clue.  No setting, no theme, no sense of character - though I’m pretty sure there were only two of them… in frustration, I got a new notebook today for those special ideas that will only come to me when I lack the wherewithal to write them down.  But by way of making it up to you, let me share the one idea that did stick to my meninges while I was at the party:

I had been gorging and grazing with impugnity, stuffing myself at both the kids’ and adults’ tables.  A smoked pork-shoulder sandwich… a little pbj sandwich with the crusts cut off… some cole slaw.... then a cupcake… and back and forth for several hours.  At one point someone brushed past me to grab another little egg salad sandwich.  They seemed to be going like hotcakes (although no actual hotcakes were on the table for a comparative analysis).  However, this particular egg-salad-sandwich-eater feelingly told me, “these are really good.  You should have one, right away.”

I looked at the mound of little sandwiches with their smeary yellow filling, and at the other kinds of sandwiches and the other condiments, comestibles and sweetmeats piled on the groaning board.  I was feeling full and, frankly, my cholesterol doesn’t need any help in getting elevated (that’s right, the acorn doesn’t fall far from the tree).  I finished chewing whatever I’d stuffed in my mouth and replied, “I can’t deny myself much - but I can deny myself egg salad.”

Words to live by, for the next few days at least.  If I think of any more, I’ve got a snazzy new yellow notebook wherein to inscribe them.  For the record, I’ll be spending a nice chunk of my weekend programming my phone, so if I’m supposed to have your phone number or you’d just prefer if I did, email me.  If not, well, I didn’t want your stupid phone number anyway.  I’ll just sit in the dark and grouse.  (Not in a darkened grouse.  That would be very confining.  And what’s the plural of grouse - grice?  Greese?  To hell with it.  Have a happy weekend and don’t forget to tell me all about it.)

Thursday, January 29, 2004

Don’t Apologize

My boss was reading to me today from a document a law librarian had compiled.  They have an “ask a law librarian” service, where you can email a law librarian “24/7” - live during business hours, or you get a response the next day if you leave a message late.  One of these on-line law librarians just compiled all the inquiries and messages he got during a one-month period.  It looked like a lot of material.  My boss was going through some of the questions, wondering how he’d understood them well enough to offer an answer that was helpful while still being within the bounds of legal propriety. 

One question in particular affected me.  It was in the form of a long missive, larded with court language but used in an uncomfortable and stilted way, like a really bad fake foreign accent; he was asking for information about child custody and support under circumstances that were sketchy and vague in many ways - it sounded like it could have been very serious or totally bogus.  But he sounded sincere and more than a little desperate.  And then he caught me by surprise.  His last sentence was something I hadn’t been ready for.  He ended his message to the on-line law librarian by saying, “I’m sorry I type so slow.”

Dude - take your time.  Typing speed should be the least of your concerns.  And good luck getting back with your daughter.

Three from the Fish

Yesterday was not a bad day, and it got progressively better as it went.  I’m therefore privileged to share with you, THREE THINGS ABOUT SEEING HOT TUNA AT THE FILLMORE:

1) The phrase “souped up” has always meant, to me, “supercharged,” like a muscle car with extra muscles or a particularly high-powered version of anything.  Well now my cellphone is “souped up” too, in that last night as I knelt on the sidewalk while I waited in line, getting my big ol’ tub of udon soup out of a take-out bag , my phone slipped out of my coat pocket and fell neatly and cleanly into superheated broth.  I plucked it out instantly (my finger is even a little burned now, yes, that finger, the good one) but to no avail.  Amid general hilarity, I confirmed that the phone was and is dead. 

So here’s a request to blogsville: if I’m supposed to have your phone number, I probably don’t have it anymore.  Please feel free to bring me up to speed.  In fact, I’m going to solicit any phone numbers people want to share with me.  I will promise one personal chat for every working number I get.  I solemnly promise not to call you during my favorite television shows, but it would be so nice to be able to tell you that I’m thinking of you those late nights and early mornings when I just can’t sleep.  What, you didn’t have that problem?  Sorry to wake you up but since I’ve got you on the line… what’s cooking?  Not soup, I hope…