I Like The White Stripes

I mention this because I hadn’t heard that many of their songs and I thought I didn’t. But I do. I think it was the looks of them I didn’t like. I thought they looked mean. But they don’t sound mean, they sound like stuff I listened to in college. And around these parts, we like songs with choruses like, “I’m thinking about the doorbell ringing gonna ring it yeah I’m gonna ring it!” because we make up songs like this on a regular basis, although our melodies tend to be a little more… eclectic. I also like The New Pornographers and the soundtrack to the movie Happy Endings, which movie I had mixed feelings about until the last third when I decided I liked it, even though Maggie Gyllenhall’s character made me so uncomfortable I was about to not watch the rest. And I say this not because I don’t like her, I actually like her a lot, and am doubly impressed by the fact that she sang several songs in this movie, you know, well, and would love her to be my next new best friend, even if she is so smart-seeming and cool I can barely stand it, and if we double dated with her and Peter Saaaarsgaaaard I might be overloaded by the smart-seeming coolness.

Wholphin

Lately my new obsession is very very short movies. I mentioned before that our friend Gene is producing some and now McSweeney’s is starting a whole magazine dedicated to them. The most recent issue of the Believer comes with a DVD of a bunch of short films, which is a great marketing tool, because many of these films are delightful and now I want to subscribe to the new magazine. One was written by Miranda July, called Are You The Favorite Person of Anybody? Which is great, and my other favorite is called The Delicious, about a guy who suddenly develops a weird relationship with his mother-in-law’s red jumpsuit. And I would be remiss if I didn’t mention the guy who sings Stairway to Heaven backward, but then plays the tape forward. Anyway, as a short story writer, it doesn’t surprise me that I’m charmed by this form, and that I have hope for movies again and that my long lost desire to be a filmmaker has been rekindled. I just found out that Megan and Christopher made that movie on their digital camera, so I’m super psyched.

Mashed Potatoes Are Easy

I am pretty sure I never mashed a potato before yesterday, and the reason for that is because, well, partly because I’m no genius in the kitchen, but also because I imagined that in some way mashed potatoes were both complicated and involved a good deal of physical exertion in the mashing portion of the potato mashing.
Had I known how easy it was to make mashed potatoes, I might have started mashing a long time ago. Ben enjoys potatoes in many forms. I recently bought a potato masher, you know, a tool with a wavy metal thing at the end?
It is not complicated and does not require very much physical exertion at all. It is safe to say that not many calories were burned in the mashing of the potatoes. In fact, the simple potato masher is what I find to be a brilliant utensil – whoever thought of it designed the perfect thing to mash through the potatoes with ease. So if there’s one person out there who shares my fear of mashed potatoes? Here’s my very own recipe:

Mashed Potatoes (serves 2)

boil potatoes (2)
mash
add a little bit of cream and a little bit of garlic
mash a bit more
put on plate


You can of course, make as many or as few as you like, and however many you boil is how many servings you’ll have.
I found this whole process very exciting and revelatory, in that I am the sort of person who can imagine anything, including things like the making of mashed potatoes to be difficult, stressful, and emotionally complex.
And plus also? They tasted good.

Everywhere Betsy

The other day Ben mentioned that he’d heard a band called Eight Inch Betsy, and I was reminded that at one point I was collecting a list of band names that had Betsy in them, proving what I’m not sure but probably my pet theory that Betsy was an irretrievably dated name that is now being used ironically. So this morning this led me to try to search band name databases, but I couldn’t find a free one, so the only other Betsy band names I could come up with were thus:
Bullocks to Betsy
Fire Up Betsy
(of course)
Heavens to Betsy
Betsy and the Boneshakers
and my favorites so far:
Betsy in the Gene Pool
and
betsy!
BUT, in my search, I had one of those totally wonderful accidental childhood flashbacks, because it turns out that eight inch Betsy, I’m almost positive, is a reference to the size of a “Betsy McCall” doll, which I did not personally have, but I was an avid fan, for obvious reasons, of the Betsy McCall paper doll, and today is one of those rare days when I really really wish I had a color printer. Dig Betsy’s awesome a-line dresses. I had some just like those, in that era, and I’m pretty sure my mom made them. In fact, I bore a rather strong overall resemblance to Betsy McC if you figure in a little photoshop magic leg-chubbening.

Dang

Okay, it’s great and all that this review for “Consider the Lobster” is more or less glowing, but if David Foster Wallace’s last two story collections are throwaways, I never ever ever want to know what mine are.

Are They British?

Why do I feel like it would upset some delicate balancc over at Netflix if I decided one day to refer to my queue as a line?

I read two really awesome stories last night, one by Joyce Carol Oates and one by John Edgar Wideman, but I don't have time to tell you about them right now. Except to say, Damn, if I add another name can I start writing like that?

I Don’t Know What The Title Should Be Here, I Only Know You Need To Know It

The other day I brought home a black and white cookie from Olivia’s Market, the only place I know of that sells them in Chicago. (I have a recipe from the Times, and I made them once, and they tasted okay, but not the same, and if you haven't ever had one, but had my homemade ones first, even if you happened to love them, you wouldn't really have any idea what the real thing was, and, if you haven't ever had one, you should go get one right now.) Anyway, when Ben got home, I said, “Hey, I brought you a treat.”
He said, “Is it astronaut ice cream?”

Stop it, Kevin

I’m rooting for you and Brit, no lie. We share an anniversary that means something to me, and you and Britney have a child. But this needs to stop. This is something that can be very very funny in the privacy of your own home, assuming you are making it up on the spot, but in the general public is just all kinds of unfortunate.

From The Department Of Does It Get Creepier Than This - Don't Answer That

On the very next page of Harper’s, is a reprint of the instructions for “REALdoll”, a $6500 life-size silicone sex doll. Now, okay, whatever. I know people have their sexual weirdnesses, and you know, it would seem that this could potentially meet certain no-muss no-fuss needs with a little more illusion of verite than a simple blow-up doll. But because this doll requires a certain amount of upkeep (the title of the article is “High Maintenance”) – instructions for use include, when cleaning your doll, “carefully remove the tongue…” “always remove the face slowly, working between Velcro pads to separate…” “tightening the jaw can be done with a Phillips-head screwdriver…” and my personal favorite, “when you wish to use your REALdoll in the ‘face down’ positions, it is highly recommended tar you remove her face.”

I’m thinking, if my lover’s face is you know, detachable, and I have to be the one to detach it, before lovemaking? Mmmm, I might just lose the mood. Because I’m thinking, Westworld? Not a turn-on so much.

And the Award for Best Collection of Linked Short Stories by A Former New Yorker in Chicago, Using A Lot of Parentheses and (award title cont'd below)

Not So Much in the Way of Periods, Occasional Elements of Fantasy and or Flights of Fancy, and Featuring the Word "Glory" in the Title Goes To...

So there’s an article in this month’s Harper’s by some Harvard dude about the dubiousness of prizes and awards and basically it makes a strong case for why the proliferation of these awards diminishes the value of any of them, from the Oscar to the Booker to the Nobel to some virtually unheard of awards.

But and still? I want to win.