Just tell yourself, Ducky
You're really quite lucky.
Dr. Suess, Did I Ever Tell You How Lucky You Are? (1973)
NTD
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Monday, August 11, 2008
Mean People
The amazing Stewart left his 401K and other benefits behind him in order to help his girlfriend with her shop. That would be me and my store. While some view this merging and mingling as a precarious teetering toward potential disaster, I think that it is just peachy. A) I need the help, because all other wonderful people involved have health, family and educational conflicts, and B) Stewart is a completely excellent human being who knows how to open a cash register and make change.
Twenty one years of a very eccentric retail business has taught me that every day can be weirder than a series of Clerks outtakes. Take our bathroom: our loo has suffered everything from opiate works left behind on the toilet tank to clogged-up leavings from allegedly good friends who neglected to notice the plunger, and you can take both of those facts literally as well as metaphorically. My own daughter managed to open the superglue and taste the contents when she was two years old and another daughter was largely raised in an appliance-sized cardboard box filled with styrofoam peanuts and watercolor markers. They both ran credit card machines while too short to reach the cash register without a stool. I got divorced and fell in love (the latter more than once) while standing behind the counter. I fired one employee who had bragged about having sex in my dressing room, although that was not the particular offense which led to dismissal. I fired several others who sold drugs, stole merchandise, and/or would not leave their vicious dogs at home. Plus, there are the customers.
Stewart is already meeting The Mean People: The Mean Blind Girl, The Mean Dwarf. Any day now he'll meet The Mean Spitting One-Eyed Vietnam Vet, if no one sends him back to jail. Stewart is really nice, so he was trying to describe The Mean Blind Girl to me with compassion:
An interesting girl who couldn't see came in today, and I tried to help her with the rings...
"Oh my God! That mean blind bitch is back! Don't let her waste your time..."
He was taken aback by my nastiness, but I know this girl and her longsuffering older husband/parent/caretaker/whatever. She complains and insists on cutting deals in a charmless way:
Gimme a break, I'm blind... can't I have this twenty dollar ring for twelve? C'mon... God, why don't you have more rings my size... show me all your size nine rings with square stones, I don't like round ones... Harry! make her help me with this....
I try to look at Harry and imagine that he married this girl when she was fourteen and cute and has to face the aftemath forever, sort of how I also imagine Woody Allen and Soon-Yi. So I treat the couple like I would any other unpleasant customers and go about my business, leaving her sputtering and angry. It makes me smile.
The Mean Dwarf rarely comes in, he prefers to intimidate the tourists with a pack of spare-changing gutter punks. He has threatened to kick my ass when I declined to give him a quarter and I avoid him almost as much as the one-eyed Vietnam vet, who once spat on a friend of mine when she didn't pony up some change.
I know that the dwarf and the vet and the blind girl have had their hard knocks. Honestly, I think that they are far more entitled to their bad attitudes than, say, when a rich tourist gets huffy because I don't have a Coexist t-shirt in their preferred size and color. I just think that everyone would catch more flies with honey than vinegar, as my grandmother would say.
Welcome to the street, Stewart. No one but pregnant women and children in our employee bathroom, please. And don't ever let the mean people intimidate you into giving them something for nothing.
NTD
Twenty one years of a very eccentric retail business has taught me that every day can be weirder than a series of Clerks outtakes. Take our bathroom: our loo has suffered everything from opiate works left behind on the toilet tank to clogged-up leavings from allegedly good friends who neglected to notice the plunger, and you can take both of those facts literally as well as metaphorically. My own daughter managed to open the superglue and taste the contents when she was two years old and another daughter was largely raised in an appliance-sized cardboard box filled with styrofoam peanuts and watercolor markers. They both ran credit card machines while too short to reach the cash register without a stool. I got divorced and fell in love (the latter more than once) while standing behind the counter. I fired one employee who had bragged about having sex in my dressing room, although that was not the particular offense which led to dismissal. I fired several others who sold drugs, stole merchandise, and/or would not leave their vicious dogs at home. Plus, there are the customers.
Stewart is already meeting The Mean People: The Mean Blind Girl, The Mean Dwarf. Any day now he'll meet The Mean Spitting One-Eyed Vietnam Vet, if no one sends him back to jail. Stewart is really nice, so he was trying to describe The Mean Blind Girl to me with compassion:
An interesting girl who couldn't see came in today, and I tried to help her with the rings...
"Oh my God! That mean blind bitch is back! Don't let her waste your time..."
He was taken aback by my nastiness, but I know this girl and her longsuffering older husband/parent/caretaker/whatever. She complains and insists on cutting deals in a charmless way:
Gimme a break, I'm blind... can't I have this twenty dollar ring for twelve? C'mon... God, why don't you have more rings my size... show me all your size nine rings with square stones, I don't like round ones... Harry! make her help me with this....
I try to look at Harry and imagine that he married this girl when she was fourteen and cute and has to face the aftemath forever, sort of how I also imagine Woody Allen and Soon-Yi. So I treat the couple like I would any other unpleasant customers and go about my business, leaving her sputtering and angry. It makes me smile.
The Mean Dwarf rarely comes in, he prefers to intimidate the tourists with a pack of spare-changing gutter punks. He has threatened to kick my ass when I declined to give him a quarter and I avoid him almost as much as the one-eyed Vietnam vet, who once spat on a friend of mine when she didn't pony up some change.
I know that the dwarf and the vet and the blind girl have had their hard knocks. Honestly, I think that they are far more entitled to their bad attitudes than, say, when a rich tourist gets huffy because I don't have a Coexist t-shirt in their preferred size and color. I just think that everyone would catch more flies with honey than vinegar, as my grandmother would say.
Welcome to the street, Stewart. No one but pregnant women and children in our employee bathroom, please. And don't ever let the mean people intimidate you into giving them something for nothing.
NTD
Friday, August 1, 2008
The Hazard of Googling One's Self
In an entirely weak moment on a lazy Sunday, I typed my own name into Google. Big mistake. For days now, I have been hot and bothered about a particularly mean-spirited tirade on my newspaper column. I really should rise above a standard flaming incident. However, it is infinitely more pleasurable on a hot summer night to jump directly into the fray.
I frequently discourage my boyfriend from reading message board tripe out loud to me when I am about two sips into my morning coffee. Why would one spoil one's mood with so much negativism, I say. But hypocrisy is so human, now that I have pulled up the personally offensive post and made him read it once more just to refresh his memory before I point out all the flaws in the writer's logic.
As an op-ed writer, one must roll with the punches. It's the reasonable, mature thing to do. You can't please all of the people all of the time, and columnists are not even aiming for universal appeal. We invite controversy, right? However, in cyberspace, intellectual discourse is rarely the goal; personal attacks are the standard-bearer. Critics are not bound by regular debate procedure, or even decent manners. In this case, the writer describes his dislike of me largely due to nonexistent details about my personal life - i.e. he doesn't even know me, but rails on, unencumbered by reality.
The kicker here? The rant against me was written by a Macon writer who also happens to be a columnist for that edition of our paper. We are unseen co-workers in the virtual office space.
Dear Macon Columnist: For the record, I am rarely one to blather on about jambands. In fact, the major events I have attended in 2008 would include the Lou Reed show in Asheville and Tom Waits at the Fabulous Fox. I would bet good money that either Lou or Tom would curbstomp anyone who linked their names to the term "jam band". I also don't smoke pot, I hate the music of Dave Matthews, am friends with many soldiers, have never aligned myself with the libertarian party, have lived a tattoo-free life, and never stepped inside a yurt. I don't feel as though I am compensating for a lack of some earlier, essential life experience by being a middle-aged person who writes two columns a month. I will eat the occasional veggie burger, but prefer barbecued pork a la Vandy's of Statesboro. I don't speak derisively of the troops, although when a security guard screams that he has been to Iraq before touching breasts in a so-called patdown, I think that I can call a spade a spade without criticism from someone who wasn't even present to witness this.
I do, however, own a pair of Crocs as you surmised. But so do most Americans, so that's only a half credit for a lucky guess.
In other words, it is lazy thinking to attempt to turn anyone, either liberal or conservative, into a cultural stereotype so that the person does not have to be dealt with as a real human being. My life extends far beyond the boundaries of newspaper and web pages, as does yours.
The larger point is not which sort of columnist is more interesting, the one who aspires to be Charles Bukowski or the one who aspires to be Molly Ivins. That’s based entirely on whether one is more concerned with tales of excessive drinking, or tales of political life. I enjoy a stiff drink considerably more than I enjoy the presidential campaign, but there’s only so much I can say about alcohol. I’ve seen its destructive power on close friends, so it would be dishonest of me to recommend it wholesale, particularly to a readership of largely twentysomethings. I might hate politics on some level, but am afraid of what happens to the world when too many good people ignore it. We can’t let the bastards shoot up and poison Planet Earth without a fight. So I write about the things I care about; and those who regale us with drinking stories are also writing about what they care about. Only the late great Hunter S. Thompson and a chosen few get to write about it all.
Write what you know, that’s the first rule of all writing.
It’s a brave thing to put yourself out there, no matter how a person chooses to do it. I commend all those who write with their own faces and names - I avoided it as long as possible myself until served with a photographic ultimatum, and deliberately chose a picture that my daughter took of me from a safe distance. I behold the hundreds of photos that the current generation fearlessly uploads online with a sense of wonder as they smile confidently at the universe. I hope that such self-assurance will follow them all the days of their lives. The lessons here are slight - don’t Google what you don’t want to read, and when it’s too late, try to work through what it is that bugs you. Be honest, and avoid cheap shots - that’s too easy, and ultimately is unsatisfying. Feel free to respond, whether privately or within a suitable public arena. Then get over it, because life is way too short to do anything else.
I frequently discourage my boyfriend from reading message board tripe out loud to me when I am about two sips into my morning coffee. Why would one spoil one's mood with so much negativism, I say. But hypocrisy is so human, now that I have pulled up the personally offensive post and made him read it once more just to refresh his memory before I point out all the flaws in the writer's logic.
As an op-ed writer, one must roll with the punches. It's the reasonable, mature thing to do. You can't please all of the people all of the time, and columnists are not even aiming for universal appeal. We invite controversy, right? However, in cyberspace, intellectual discourse is rarely the goal; personal attacks are the standard-bearer. Critics are not bound by regular debate procedure, or even decent manners. In this case, the writer describes his dislike of me largely due to nonexistent details about my personal life - i.e. he doesn't even know me, but rails on, unencumbered by reality.
The kicker here? The rant against me was written by a Macon writer who also happens to be a columnist for that edition of our paper. We are unseen co-workers in the virtual office space.
Dear Macon Columnist: For the record, I am rarely one to blather on about jambands. In fact, the major events I have attended in 2008 would include the Lou Reed show in Asheville and Tom Waits at the Fabulous Fox. I would bet good money that either Lou or Tom would curbstomp anyone who linked their names to the term "jam band". I also don't smoke pot, I hate the music of Dave Matthews, am friends with many soldiers, have never aligned myself with the libertarian party, have lived a tattoo-free life, and never stepped inside a yurt. I don't feel as though I am compensating for a lack of some earlier, essential life experience by being a middle-aged person who writes two columns a month. I will eat the occasional veggie burger, but prefer barbecued pork a la Vandy's of Statesboro. I don't speak derisively of the troops, although when a security guard screams that he has been to Iraq before touching breasts in a so-called patdown, I think that I can call a spade a spade without criticism from someone who wasn't even present to witness this.
I do, however, own a pair of Crocs as you surmised. But so do most Americans, so that's only a half credit for a lucky guess.
In other words, it is lazy thinking to attempt to turn anyone, either liberal or conservative, into a cultural stereotype so that the person does not have to be dealt with as a real human being. My life extends far beyond the boundaries of newspaper and web pages, as does yours.
The larger point is not which sort of columnist is more interesting, the one who aspires to be Charles Bukowski or the one who aspires to be Molly Ivins. That’s based entirely on whether one is more concerned with tales of excessive drinking, or tales of political life. I enjoy a stiff drink considerably more than I enjoy the presidential campaign, but there’s only so much I can say about alcohol. I’ve seen its destructive power on close friends, so it would be dishonest of me to recommend it wholesale, particularly to a readership of largely twentysomethings. I might hate politics on some level, but am afraid of what happens to the world when too many good people ignore it. We can’t let the bastards shoot up and poison Planet Earth without a fight. So I write about the things I care about; and those who regale us with drinking stories are also writing about what they care about. Only the late great Hunter S. Thompson and a chosen few get to write about it all.
Write what you know, that’s the first rule of all writing.
It’s a brave thing to put yourself out there, no matter how a person chooses to do it. I commend all those who write with their own faces and names - I avoided it as long as possible myself until served with a photographic ultimatum, and deliberately chose a picture that my daughter took of me from a safe distance. I behold the hundreds of photos that the current generation fearlessly uploads online with a sense of wonder as they smile confidently at the universe. I hope that such self-assurance will follow them all the days of their lives. The lessons here are slight - don’t Google what you don’t want to read, and when it’s too late, try to work through what it is that bugs you. Be honest, and avoid cheap shots - that’s too easy, and ultimately is unsatisfying. Feel free to respond, whether privately or within a suitable public arena. Then get over it, because life is way too short to do anything else.
Monday, July 7, 2008
Quote of the Day
'Stuff your eyes with wonder,' he said, 'live as if you'd drop dead in ten seconds. See the world. It's more fantastic than any dream made or paid for in factories. Ask no guarantees, ask for no security, there never was such an animal. And if there were, it would be related to the great sloth which hangs upside down in a tree all day every day, sleeping its life away. To hell with that,' he said, 'shake the tree and knock the great sloth down on his ass.'
-Ray Bradbury
-Ray Bradbury
Monday, June 16, 2008
Summer Hiatus
It's not as if there is nothing to say; I've rarely been accused of that, at least since I turned eleven and decided that speaking to others was a skill worth honing for my personal benefit. This was fifth grade, after the late winter of fourth grade, when the kid who picked his nose in the back of the classroom raised a snotty finger and pointed it at me. The boys were choosing dance partners for the Georgia Day square dance. That was the defining moment when I realized that I had to raise my voice in protest of something. I had to set limits and control my destiny. But I didn't. So the first hand of the opposite sex that I held belonged to the booger-laden class pariah whom I despised, because I was too shy to prevent it.
I pondered this humiliation during the summer. By the first day of fifth grade, I determined to quit being the mousey girl. I opened my mouth and spoke to classmates.
By sixth grade, I had advanced to spreading rumors about bra-stuffing simply because I hated a girl. I gossiped, lied, bragged, and sometimes even said nice things when I ran out of bile and nonsense.
I have rarely been at a loss for words ever since. This has made blogging easy for me, and my newspaper column has steadily hummed along for five and a half years.
But this summer I have been struggling with family illness, business, and other stuff of life. I want to write but have difficulty finding time for the blog right now.
Long story short, I'm taking a few weeks off and will be back to posting when life settles down. This worries me - not because there are hundreds of readers out there hanging onto my wise words - but rather because I love the discipline required by regular posting. It's writing practice, and the process helps me order my otherwise chaotic existence. I had tried to achieve this via purely private writing before starting to write online three years ago. But this site has worked remarkably well for me, so much better than pen and paper. Even the most mundane post requires reflection and focused intent. This page keeps me honest - I'm beyond spreading rumors about classmates' brassieres. I have to make sure that I'm not stuffing wads of paper down my own shirt.
So I'll get back to online wordsmithing by the dog days of August - I suppose that if I were still in school, that would be the beginning of the 41st grade.
NTD
I pondered this humiliation during the summer. By the first day of fifth grade, I determined to quit being the mousey girl. I opened my mouth and spoke to classmates.
By sixth grade, I had advanced to spreading rumors about bra-stuffing simply because I hated a girl. I gossiped, lied, bragged, and sometimes even said nice things when I ran out of bile and nonsense.
I have rarely been at a loss for words ever since. This has made blogging easy for me, and my newspaper column has steadily hummed along for five and a half years.
But this summer I have been struggling with family illness, business, and other stuff of life. I want to write but have difficulty finding time for the blog right now.
Long story short, I'm taking a few weeks off and will be back to posting when life settles down. This worries me - not because there are hundreds of readers out there hanging onto my wise words - but rather because I love the discipline required by regular posting. It's writing practice, and the process helps me order my otherwise chaotic existence. I had tried to achieve this via purely private writing before starting to write online three years ago. But this site has worked remarkably well for me, so much better than pen and paper. Even the most mundane post requires reflection and focused intent. This page keeps me honest - I'm beyond spreading rumors about classmates' brassieres. I have to make sure that I'm not stuffing wads of paper down my own shirt.
So I'll get back to online wordsmithing by the dog days of August - I suppose that if I were still in school, that would be the beginning of the 41st grade.
NTD
Thursday, June 5, 2008
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