Thursday, July 24, 2014

Awkward scenes from my life #12

Making a domestic violence joke to someone, not realising he's been a victim of domestic violence.

The lesson? Don't make jokes about domestic violent, dipshit.

Tuesday, July 15, 2014


“With short hair you begin to crave pearl necklaces long earrings and a variety of sunglasses. And you brush your teeth more often. Short hair removes obvious femininity and replaces it with style. When it starts growing out a little and losing its style you have to wear sunglasses until you can get it to the hairdresser. That’s why you need a variety. Short hair makes you aware of subtraction as style. You can no longer wear puffed sleeves or ruffles the neat is suddenly preferable to the fussy. You eye the tweezers instead of the blusher. What else can you take away You can’t hide behind short hair… you may look a little androgynous a little unfinished a little bare… but your face is no longer a flat screen surrounded by a curtain: the world sees you in three dimensions.” (Joan Juliet Buck)

Wednesday, July 9, 2014

Songs to live by

Low points from an otherwise enjoyable trip to Marble Bar


1. Realising the door on the caravan I’d be sleeping in for three nights didn’t shut. At all. Not even a little bit.

2. Being told by the woman who ran the Marble Bar Caravan Park that she recommended “sticking a knife in it” to hold the door shut.

3. Realising I did not have a knife, either to try the door thing or to kill myself.

4. Being denied extra blankets by the caravan park woman because she didn’t have any spare. But how do they cope when it was time to wash the blankets, you might ask? EXACTLY.

5. Testing the claim, made by the aforementioned caravan park woman (of course), that the air-conditioner in the caravan was reverse cycle and would heat up "if left on long enough". It was not and it did not.

6. Waking up in the middle of the night in a pitch black caravan with a half-open door in time to hear a particularly gruesome bit of my American Psycho audio book. I guess that one's on me, Marble Bar Caravan Park.

Tuesday, July 8, 2014

Things I learned after reading (the completely enthralling) book Rebecca, having previously only seen the Hitchcock movie based on the book:

SPOILERS ON A 100+ YEAR OLD BOOK TO FOLLOW...


1. Not everyone feels that finding out your husband is a double (kinda) murderer is a turn-off.
2. Never listen to the help. They are always trying to fuck you over.
3. It's good to have land.

Roger Federer as Religious Experience


Confession: I didn't watch the Wimbledon finale. And, sure, now knowing what a great match it was I feel a little bad about that. But the thing about finals in any kind of sport, I tell myself, is that there's always another one. Seriously, it will be back and there will be another great final. Just give it time.

You know what there won't be another of? David Foster Wallace, whose essays I love even if I'm clearly just not smart enough to get into his novels. One day, Infinite Jest, one day you will be fine but life's too short to slug through something you don't enjoy. Anyway, Wallace's essays really are great: "Consider the Lobster" is possibly my favourite or "A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again", which I took on a cruise and which made me laugh like a drain. But one that's been doing the rounds this week for obvious reasons (and which I've linked to from this blog before) is also very good: "Roger Federer as Religious Experience". I mean, what a great title - you read that title and you know this thing you're about to read is not going to be quite like all those other things you've read. As someone who has pretty much zero interest in sports journalism or sports writing this is one of the very few pieces of sports-related writing I go back to again and again.
Almost anyone who loves tennis and follows the men’s tour on television has, over the last few years, had what might be termed Federer Moments. These are times, as you watch the young Swiss play, when the jaw drops and eyes protrude and sounds are made that bring spouses in from other rooms to see if you’re O.K. 
The Moments are more intense if you’ve played enough tennis to understand the impossibility of what you just saw him do. We’ve all got our examples. Here is one. It’s the finals of the 2005 U.S. Open, Federer serving to Andre Agassi early in the fourth set. There’s a medium-long exchange of groundstrokes, one with the distinctive butterfly shape of today’s power-baseline game, Federer and Agassi yanking each other from side to side, each trying to set up the baseline winner...until suddenly Agassi hits a hard heavy cross-court backhand that pulls Federer way out wide to his ad (=left) side, and Federer gets to it but slices the stretch backhand short, a couple feet past the service line, which of course is the sort of thing Agassi dines out on, and as Federer’s scrambling to reverse and get back to center, Agassi’s moving in to take the short ball on the rise, and he smacks it hard right back into the same ad corner, trying to wrong-foot Federer, which in fact he does — Federer’s still near the corner but running toward the centerline, and the ball’s heading to a point behind him now, where he just was, and there’s no time to turn his body around, and Agassi’s following the shot in to the net at an angle from the backhand side...and what Federer now does is somehow instantly reverse thrust and sort of skip backward three or four steps, impossibly fast, to hit a forehand out of his backhand corner, all his weight moving backward, and the forehand is a topspin screamer down the line past Agassi at net, who lunges for it but the ball’s past him, and it flies straight down the sideline and lands exactly in the deuce corner of Agassi’s side, a winner — Federer’s still dancing backward as it lands. 
And there’s that familiar little second of shocked silence from the New York crowd before it erupts, and John McEnroe with his color man’s headset on TV says (mostly to himself, it sounds like), “How do you hit a winner from that position?” And he’s right: given Agassi’s position and world-class quickness, Federer had to send that ball down a two-inch pipe of space in order to pass him, which he did, moving backwards, with no setup time and none of his weight behind the shot. It was impossible. It was like something out of “The Matrix.” I don’t know what-all sounds were involved, but my spouse says she hurried in and there was popcorn all over the couch and I was down on one knee and my eyeballs looked like novelty-shop eyeballs.
You can read the whole thing here and I strongly suggest that you do.

Sunday, June 29, 2014

Things I wanted to say but did not say to the person who made the comments below"

1. If you don't want to be photographed (doing a thing) maybe you should consider not (doing a thing).

2. The fact that you're shouting "You have an attitude! You're horrible!" at me makes me think you might be the one who is both horrible and has an attitude. Call me crazy.

3. You saying that you're good friends with (someone sort of important) doesn't make me more likely to do what you want me to do. It's actually kinda the opposite.

Things I was told today in the course of doing my job by just another satisfied customer:

1. "You've got a real attitude".

2. "You don't feel bad".

3. "You're horrible".

Simon Snow and Baz on the other hand...


Call me naive but until I read Rainbow Rowell's wonderful novel, Fangirl, it never occurred to me anyone would consider Draco Malfoy hooking up with Harry Potter. It still strikes me as deeply wrong on a number of levels but that's not to say this piece of fan art, via Cremebunny.tumblr.com, doesn't charm. For starters, where can I buy a pair of Harry's awesomely high pants? Inquiring minds want to know.

Tuesday, June 24, 2014

On Maintenance


There's nothing I can say about Nora Ephron that hasn't already been said. Either you've read her and you love her or you... haven't and/or don't. To my shame I didn't start reading her essays until quite recently - drawn in by the irresistible title I Feel Bad About My Neck, so I can't claim she's been a huge influence or that I know every word she's written intimately. She hasn't and I don't... which is sort of good news since it means there's still plenty out there for me to read for the first time.

All I do know is that she's clever and funny and very, very readable. Since this week marks the two year anniversary of her death I thought I'd post a link to just one of her very nice essays on, well, Maintenance. It starts like this:
You know what maintenance is, I'm sure. Maintenance is what they mean when they say, "After a certain point, it's just patch, patch, patch." Maintenance is what you have to do just so you can walk out the door knowing that if you go to the market and bump into a guy who once rejected you, you won't have to hide behind a stack of canned food. I don't mean to be too literal about this. There are a couple of old boyfriends whom I always worry about bumping into, but there's no chance—if I ever did—that I would recognize either of them. On top of which they live in other cities. But the point is that I still think about them every time I'm tempted to leave the house without eyeliner. 
There are two types of maintenance, of course. There's Status Quo Maintenance—the things you have to do daily or weekly, just to stay more or less even. And then there's the maintenance you have to do monthly or yearly or every couple of years or so—maintenance I think of as Pathetic Attempts to Turn Back the Clock. Into this category fall such things as facelifts, liposuction, Botox, major dental work, and the general area of Removal of Unsightly Things—of varicose veins, for instance, and skin tags, and those irritating little red spots that crop up on your torso after a certain age for no real reason. I'm not going to discuss such issues here—for now, I'm concentrating only on the routine, everyday things required just to keep you from looking like someone who no longer cares.
(You can and you should read the rest here)

Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again


I love considering opening lines in novels - why they work, which ones don't work, the point at which a cute attempt to suck the reader in becomes irritating. A good opening line stays with me even if the novel turns out to be a little bit of the meh variety. So I very much enjoyed Glen Weldon's blog post on the subject, not least because he included two of my favourites. I mean no surprises there - these lines are kind of everyone's favourites, that's why they're famous. But still:
“It was the afternoon of my eighty-first birthday, and I was in bed with my catamite when Ali announced that the archbishop had come to see me.” – Anthony Burgess, Earthly Powers
"The sun shone, having no alternative, on the nothing new.” – Samuel Beckett, Murphy


Sunday, June 22, 2014

Via Into The Gloss

I don't often read interviews with people and wish we were friends so I could pop around, drink cocktails and just Let Them Speak but, yeah, Debi Mazar you got me. You got me.