Article of note

There's a new book out about my favorite religion:

One fine chapter covers swearing and gender. Research shows we are much more judgmental of women who swear than we are of men. “Sometime around the early eighteenth century there was a significant change in culture” — that is, in Western Europe and the Americas. The shift in language was power for men and purity for women. Women were expected to adopt a “clean” language, while men retained the right to swear and its power of expression: “Those insisting that women’s language should be pure managed to rip the most powerful linguistic tool out of the hands (and mouths and minds) of women for centuries.”


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DHWS Getaway

My only piece of life advice is to find good friends and keep them.

Off the cuff

Let's see:

1. I went to Chicago on Tuesday to rent an apartment. And when I say "Chicago," I mean the suburbs, as I am done with big cities for a good long while. My increasingly fragile constitution needs a rest.

1.1. My feelings about the suburbs are thus (this is from Richard Ford in The Sportswriter):

[I]n the two years since my divorce I’ve sometimes walked out in these winding, bowery streets after dark on some ruminative errand or other and looked in at these same houses, windows lit with bronzy cheer, dark cars hove to the curbs, the sound of laughing and glasses tinkling and spirited chatter floating out, and thought to myself: what good rooms these are. What complete life is here, audible. And though I myself wasn’t part of it and wouldn’t much like it if I were, I was stirred to think all of us were living steadfast and accountable lives … but it is for just such uses that suburban streets are ideal, and the only way neighbors here can be neighborly.

You don't have to love the suburbs, but I do. We all will survive.

2. I saw Hamilton yesterday. It really did blow me away.

3. I also saw friends who soon will be friends I see often, again. I'm thrilled by the simple fact of that reality.

4. I got to O'Hare at about 5:30 this morning for my flight back to New York. After sailing through security (TSA Pre√) I purchased an iced coffee at Starbucks and carried it to a small grove of those electronically activated resting tables that decorate the corridors of international travel hubs these days, where I intended to rest. I set the coffee on the table, swung my backpack off my shoulder, and knocked the coffee off the table and onto the floor. All of this happened before I even unwrapped the straw from its paper.

4.1 I sat there for a minute, a little stunned, and then I threw the cup away, cleaned what I could off the floor, and walked back to Starbucks to purchase a second iced coffee.

4.2 I purchased a second iced coffee.

4.2.1 I carried that second iced coffee back to the same grove of tables but selected a different table this time, since the floor was still wet where I had spilled the first one and I did not wish to be identified (although I did notify a cleaning person).

4.2.2 I set that second coffee on that table, swung my backpack off my shoulder, and knocked that second goddamn motherfucking coffee off the table, onto the floor.

4.2.3 I sat there for a minute, a little stunned, and wondered if I was having a stroke.

4.2.4 I was not having a stroke.

4.3 I threw the second cup away, cleaned what I could off the floor, and walked to a different Starbucks to purchase a third iced coffee. I drank it standing up, with my backpack on. I didn't notify anybody of anything.

5. The flight back was not quite full, so there was room in the overhead bin for my Eddie Bauer coat (long, black, quilted, faux-fur-trim hood). We landed a little early but taxied for a while, and by the time the captain pulled the parking brake I was ready to bolt. Isn't everybody? Are you dying to spend more time on an airplane? I stood up when released and pulled my coat from the overhead bin, and I checked it: Eddie Bauer, long, black, quilted, faux-fur-trim hood. I had no second bag, so I grabbed my backpack and headed for the taxi queue.

5.1 Whilst standing in the rain in the taxi queue, I pulled on this goddamn motherfucking Eddie Bauer coat and thought, hmmm. It seems to have grown. I reached inside one pocket and thought, hmmm. This is not my lip balm. I reached inside the other pocket and thought well, this is not my crumpled Kleenex.

5.1.1 I stood there for a minute, a little stunned, and wondered if I should steal this stranger's coat that I was already standing outside wearing, in the rain.

5.1.2 I did not steal a stranger's coat.

5.1.3 I walked back into the terminal and dropped off the coat at the United baggage claim lost & found. Then I walked back outside, stood in queue in the rain without a coat, and took a taxi home.

[be] bright, daring, joyful

Sometimes I forget that I’m brave, that I’ve done brave things in my life and will do them again. That there’s no quota on the number of times I can jump without a net, or rewrite my own rules. I forget because my life on a day-to-day basis has been quite small, and safe, and even a little boring. This is fine! More people would be happy if they understood a little boring is fine. If there's one secret to survival in this world, I think this is it.

I moved to Chicago alone in 1996, without knowing anybody. A few years later I left a good job to freelance full time, and I hired and managed my own team. I had no idea what I was doing and it was the scariest thing I've ever done but I did that myself, and I was successful. I moved to New York alone, I spent a month in Paris alone, I made my own money and paid my own bills and I did okay. I made all of that happen. I took a temp job that turned into a permanent job and I’ve worked there for over six years. It's been a good job. I've been incredibly lucky, but I also worked hard, and I was successful. I made that happen.

It hasn't been easy: I talk a good game but let's not kid ourselves. Near the end of Casablanca, Ilsa says to Rick, "You decide! You think for both of us." I don't have that. Nobody can decide for me, or be brave for me, or catch me if I fall. Other people forget that sometimes, but I never do. I can't afford to. But I promised myself a long time ago that I would never let fear make a decision for me. I have no Rick, but I'm no Ilsa, either. I also don't have Nazis on my tail, but that's another story.

I told my boss today that I was leaving. We've talked about this before so it wasn't a total surprise to her, but it was a hard thing for me to say out loud. I like this job, the company, my boss, and I'm not leaving because of them. I’m leaving because my priorities have shifted, and I want different things now than I did when I first came here, once upon a time. I have no job yet and no apartment, but I’m ready to move on to something new that is, finally, also familiar—I'm ready for a softer landing.

What I've learned in the past few years—what I know for sure—is that you can't cling to old dreams, or live on old memories. I know the Chicago I'm moving back to is not the one I left. It moved on without me, too. Some friends are gone and some friendships have ended. "Life is made up of meetings and partings," Kermit tells his frog/pig family in The Muppet Christmas Carol: "That is the way of it." Lord knows I don't believe in God, or frogs breeding with pigs, but to this I say amen.

p.s. clarere audere gaudere

Do what you are doing*

I waited patiently for the end of January to set my 2018 goal, which is to be more patient. I set a delayed timer on it in order to test myself and have thus far—obviously, because I'm writing about it—exceeded all expectations.

It has not escaped my notice that "patience" can also equal "laziness," which is a state of being I long ago absorbed into my body, like a tapeworm. One may therefore assert that the two always run hand in hand, but one would be wrong. While I am indeed very lazy I also have zero patience and a tragically short fuse. So when my wi-fi started acting up in November, I lazily neglected to seek professional help while throwing an enormous tantrum every time the signal dropped out, which happened, on average, three or four times a day. How I didn't have an aneurysm, I'll never know. But through sheer laziness I gave the problem plenty of time to sort itself out, which naturally it failed to do, since a cable company was involved.

Anyway, this story is making no sense to me even as I type it, but the TL;DR is that I finally got off my can, scheduled an appointment, waited two weeks for that fucking appointment, and now I have a brand new modem. Glory be! Praise the [fill in the blank]! Buy American! (Just kidding: it's made in China.) So far it seems much slower, load-time-wise, than the faulty equipment it's replacing, which is where I truly start learning the patience, unless of course I kill somebody.

& etc.

 Bearing the above stated goal of "patience" in mind, I appreciated this piece by Firoozeh Dumas in the NYT this morning, about having surgery in Germany:

The anesthesiologist explained that during surgery and recovery I would be given strong painkillers, but once I got home the pain would not require narcotics. To paraphrase him, he said: “Pain is a part of life. We cannot eliminate it nor do we want to. The pain will guide you. You will know when to rest more; you will know when you are healing. If I give you Vicodin, you will no longer feel the pain, yes, but you will no longer know what your body is telling you. You might overexert yourself because you are no longer feeling the pain signals. All you need is rest. And please be careful with ibuprofen. It’s not good for your kidneys. Only take it if you must. Your body will heal itself with rest.”

Personally I would have been tempted to slug this man, but it's a nice lesson from a German to think about, if you're into that sort of thing.

* I recently found this List of Latin phrases (full), which I shall henceforth use for stupid blog post titles. Sometimes lazy just = smart.

Happy to be stuck with you

This song was playing in our elevator lobby today when I left for lunch. It's a nice song, you should take 4:29 out of your harried schedule and listen to it. I mean really l-i-s-t-e-n to it, and then ask yourself: does anyone have a friendlier voice than Huey Lewis? Could there be a sweeter, more sensible, more grounded-in-reality sentiment on which to base both a relationship and a catchy mass-market mid-80s pop tune; i.e., sometimes success in love and life comes down to laziness? No. There couldn't. People should learn from Huey Lewis and his non-"news" News. Thanks.


The blogs are gone. And those who blogged the blogs are gone. (fyi: nerd check)

Why blog? Nobody knows. There is no reason. Who blogs? Nobody. Read all of this, though. A fine era is ending.

+ Magic 8 Ball says I'll come up with something blog-ish or blog-like or at least tangentially blog-adjacent sooner or later. Blog-sensitive, even, in order to maintain my highly respected blog cred. In the meantime, here are some interesting takes on recent news!

From trusted internet writer Kaitlyn Tiffany at The Verge: The Aziz Ansari story is a mess, but so are the arguments against it:

But as the Babe story has demonstrated, there’s also been an uncomfortable collision between that democratizing force and the traditional media gatekeepers who seem to resent it, or resent their inability to control it. They do a disservice to the truth when they are willing to call a woman a liar because her choice of platform seems unsavory or unserious, despite its careful vetting of the facts. And it’s problematic that they would choose not to believe she was harmed because she was able to speak of a complicated and painful experience with some candor and humor.

In a perfect world, Grace would have walked out the door. But women are so strongly socialized to put others’ comfort ahead of our own that even when we are furiously uncomfortable, it feels paralyzing to assert ourselves. This is especially true when we are young.

When feminists do try to talk about this sexual imbalance, we get written off as anti-sex prudes. This is strange, because what we actually want is a norm of good sex for everyone involved, instead of the status quo of sex as a male-led endeavor, centered on male pleasure. Women seem to have two sexual possibilities: yes or no. Note that men never have to say “no means no” or even “yes means yes”. They’re the ones posing the question, not answering it.

Men aren’t morons, and they know as well as anyone that a woman who is silent, physically stiff, or pulling away is not exactly aflame with desire. But they also know that we are collectively invested in a social script wherein men push to get sex until women acquiesce. And so they push, even when they know it’s unwelcome, because they can.

Both of these pieces helped me examine my own initial reactions to this story, and that's the end of what I can handle vis-à-vis "news" news these days. I read the news, I share the news, I support the news, but maybe—maybe?—there's too much of it. News for thought.

Instead there's this:

Take time to celebrate everything about today, because what we know now is that whatever happens it won’t be as bad as tomorrow.

And also this!

There is no God, obviously. But Dolly bless us, everyone.



1. It looks like my head compressed and expanded simultaneously, but I've come too far to go back now.

2. On Wednesday I went to the dermatologist for my annual mole patrol, and as always in the midst of all the poking and prodding she said "those are just age spots" about the age spots on my left cheekbone and we both shrugged, because we both know age spots are the best possible outcome of this exercise.

3. This random astrology site that showed up as the #1 googlet for CAPRICORN confirms the following:

  • Strengths: Responsible, disciplined, self-control, good managers
  • Weaknesses: Know-it-all, unforgiving, condescending, expecting the worst
  • Capricorn likes: Family, tradition, music, understated status, quality craftsmanship
  • Capricorn dislikes: Almost everything at some point

4. All true!

5. It also calls us "the Goat of Fear."

Hello! etc.

So, here we are. I read a tweet this week by someone responding to another tweet who was deeply offended by the tweeter of origin starting their original tweet with "So," and I tried real hard to imagine a world in which I would care about such a thing. You can see which side of the fence I finally came down on.

Then I read this bit about the em dash yesterday and thought well yes, that's me:

You can get along without it and most people do. I don’t remember being taught to use it in elementary, middle, or high school English classes; I’m not even sure I was aware of it then, and I have no clear recollection of when or why I began to rely on it, yet it has become an indispensable component of my writing.

I went back through all the business emails I sent yesterday—it was a lot of emails because I'm very important, as you can imagine—and there wasn't one that didn't include an em dash. Probably the people with whom I work feel I'm addled in some very specific yet harmless way, which is fine and maybe even accurate. I write how I write, man, and I dig punctuation! No harm/no foul. Real talk, though: how do you get along without em dashes? How do you write long sentences without wanting to take a breath? Do you stick to commas (newsflash: I also love commas, parentheses, ampersands & colons), or do you just barrel right through? I'm genuinely curious about this.

/cf. why using periods in texts makes you a monster/

This week was also the first time in many moons that I've been forced to wear actual boots built for snow, rather than my sad battered workaday five-year-old Blundstones, which are fine for almost anything other than a deeply freezing clime. My tip for you: get insulated! I yanked these snow boots from the top shelf at the back of my closet and was lucky they still fit, although my left ankle bone did not agree. Last night after work I had to pick up a 3-lb Amazon package from a locker at D'Agostino, which is five blocks from my apartment, and then an 11-lb sack of laundry from the laundry, which is two blocks away, and by the time I got home I was limping from severe ankle bone trauma. If I were a Civil War-era soldier they likely would have to amputate, due to potential gangrene, but I keep a lot of Polysporin and Band-Aids on hand for just such pedestrian emergencies. I'll live, is what I'm saying. But I will give these boots away.