Merrill Markoe's Blog, page 8

Okay, two announcements.  I think I said that already. Only the other time I added the word big.

1. I am now on Facebook. I resisted as long as I could in the name of being a life long contrarian.  But now I have taken the plunge. So if you would like to friend me, please feel free. I am listed under my name: Merrill Markoe. And I will probably say yes unless you are an annoying psycho.

2. I have a new book coming out in November. Its a book of funny essays. And its definitely my most personal set of essays ever. Years of writing novels have opened a trap door that is now impossible to close. I hope its stuff that the people who like my other books will want to read.

If there's a theme to the book, its the never ending task of coping with the crazy people who surround us all. ( I'm pretty sure I'm not the only one who is surrounded by crazy people. Am I? I'm not, am I?)  I have been trying to learn something, anything, from these experiences, since, as I understand it, that seems to be kind of the point. And for the sake of the book,  I'm going to go ahead and assume there is a point.

For example, the book contains  a piece about my problematic relationship with my extremely critical seemingly un-pleasable mother and the odd, thoroughly irritable travel diaries that I saw for the first time after she died.  I quote from them ver batim, which made me pretty nervous. But having gotten laughs  the few times I got up the nerve to read from them on stage, I was encouraged to turn them in to an essay that tries to add up the pieces and draw some conclusions , now that its over.

There's  an exhaustively thorough piece I began writing as a present to some of my  girl friends, as I sit back watching them  running headlong in to the endless variations of the miseries that dating has to offer.  Its based on a lifetime of  note taking as I lived through my own version of same. Its called "How to Spot an Asshole." and I'm pretty sure  I didn't leave anything out.

There's also a piece called 'Never Again' about the nerve wracking experience of falling in love again after swearing off love entirely. And the difference between having this experience  in the first half of life, and  in the second half.

Of course there are also a few pieces about dogs, because they are the craziest people of all.   I analyze why I love them with so much unswerving devotion, considering that they require me to tolerate behavior I will no longer tolerate from people.

I guess I'll say more about this whole thing as it gets closer to November.

I hope its a good book . You can pre-order it already, I'm told. Its for sale on Amazon and Barnes and Noble all the rest of the regular places that still sell what we, the creatures from the previous century, still laughingly refer to as 'books'.  The publisher is, once again, Randomhouse.

And those are my two big announcements.

Now back to our regularly scheduled programming:

So today you're saying he was unarmed and wasn't actually using a woman as a human shield?

I am usually kind of slow to anger. I weigh a lot of possible reactions before I give in.  I move chess pieces around. I argue pros and cons with myself.

So when something instantly enrages me, it gets my attention.  And I had that experience the other morning when I watched this video, which is entitled 'Ha Ha Ha mantra' .  Okay I know what my reaction to it is SUPPOSED to be. I'm supposed to look at this and think "She's so smart. See how she is teaching everyone that laughter is the best medicine?"  But only a few seconds into watching  this video,  I started to get angry.  About half way through, I was so furious I had to turn it off.

So I sat down to analyze why. After all,  I read enraging things in the news many many times a day. Most of them I file under the heading of that Serenity prayer .

Why does Gita piss me off SO MUCH?

Because of the importance I place on humor and laughter and all the elements that go into both. They are among my very favorite things in the world.  When I watch this video, I feel like I am witnessing a power mad woman who is totally co-opting the real actual release that laughter brings, when it is naturally caused by reactions of astonishment, surprise, delight or shock to a wide variety of things…good, bad or just plain nuts… that happen in life . There are few things I hate more than orchestrated crowd reactions, except possibly any occasion involving forced spontaneity and/or people telling you what to feel. This goes triple for someone saying "Very good. Very good. YAY." after you do as they ask.

So here is someone suggesting that the answer to life's mind boggling insanity is not to actually look for ways to find things funny but instead… to pretend to laugh, mindlessly, when she cues you. Despite the fact that she has done nothing at all to change your point of view or earn your laughter.  She is also missing what I think is the main point: that an attitude that sees the absurdity and humor in real life situations, and therefore allows someone to view the bewildering things that are everywhere in a whole different way,  is where the answer may lie. Not in a  forced version of the same thing cued by a crowd manipulator trying to forge a personal brand for herself.  There is a famous  book, in which Norman Cousins repaired his health with laughter… But he did it by watching The Marx Brothers and other stuff he found funny. Not by pretending to laugh at his own name.

And this despite the fact that his name certainly set him up for plenty of easy laughs.

Though now that I think about it, if Ms. Gittelman conducted her classes in the front rows of open mic nights, maybe she could still do some good.  Except that would be giving bad comedians the wrong idea. And in that case no one wins.

Got it. How about this: For a sequel, she can branch out in to teaching groups of people  how to fake orgasms?

herself.

I was just perusing my new Urban Outfitters catalog because I actually like Urban Outfitters.  I think I'm drawn in by the amount of  pissed off looking models who wear bangs. "They have bangs! I have bangs" i think to myself,forgetting what a long distance I am from the fifteen year old girl who appears to be the target audience. Lately, though, the Urban Outfitter style book is drifting farther and farther away from the metaphorical dock on which I anchor my hypothetical boat.

At first I thought the new U.O. style might be called Laundry Day Couture. I used to work with a guy whose wardrobe reflected  how far in to his laundry basket he had gotten.First part of the month he was all preppy and Gappy and Ralph Laurenny. Last day before  laundry he wore tuxedo pants and whatever promotional tee shirt he had been given recently. Not unlike the guy on the far right of the fashion spread below in his faded jeans and his wing tips. Or the unhappy looking blond girl in her old worn Mickey Mouse sweatshirt, her full length floral skirt, and her scarf that reminds me of a baby blanket.

Then it came to me what to call the new look  that they are selling.

Its Dust Bowl Chic.

There they stand, four people transported in to an unhappy limbo; the dark haired girl in her unmatched clothing…  making the best of  an orange striped cotton shirt,  yellow and black striped sandals and  a full length blue nightgown print dress.  All four of them making a brave attempt to rise above  dire circumstances. Times are tough. Now they must make a meal of  the only food they could find that day in the supermarket dumpster.. left over cake. How ironic is that?

Except they had to buy all these items brand new .

Too bad Dorothea Lange didn't live long enough to get the U.O. account.

Westminster happened earlier this week. By which I mean the big Westminster Kennel Club Show at Madison Square Garden.  Every year I watch that show and have the same thought about how impossible it would be to be a human being leaping around the ring with those pure bred dogs. Last year I did a piece about just the women participants  that I have been watching in my head for  the past 15 years.  This year I did the sequel, about the guys.

Here is the original piece.

When it comes to love,  seems to me that no creature on the face of the earth is as generally clueless about what to do as the human being.  Witness this  clip of two albatrosses in love. (spoiler alert: Albatross porn. Parental guidance advised.) Both members of the lovely couple  were clearly born fully loaded with detailed instructional software that explained to them how they should perform this incredibly appealing highly effective mating ritual . I personally find it so moving and convincing that I would join their species happily if only it were an option.

And  I mention all this because it is almost that most potentially nightmarish repository of dashed hopes : Valentines Day.  Not even New Years Eve has the ability to cause its celebrants as much spiritual  disappointment. More often than not, Valentines Day seems like more of a trap than a holiday at all.  Its bad enough that we  human beings apparently lost all track of whatever instincts we may have  had  with regard to love during the dawn of civilization. (That is, assuming we ever  had them to begin with.) But even if the Neanderthals did at one time have some kind of a behavioral clue,  its been so long buried in  centuries of incomprehensible bad advice and awful role models  that its become almost impossible to know where to look for real sanity.

Bad enough that many of our parents screwed  up their own lives and thus taught us badly,   but the media continues banging the gong for the Ashlee Simpson/Pete Wentz paradigm of romantic grandeur. To refresh your memory,  this epic romance started out in 2008 with a highly publicized wedding requiring "10,000 black magic roses from Ecuador, a checkerboard dance floor, red carpets, crystal chandeliers and three-course dinner  catered by Wolfgang Puck." only to end in a divorce announcement this very week. Another one of those greatest loves the world has ever known, born in pricey romantic details and then up in flames in  two years flat.

I've had first dates that lasted longer than that.

I guess what I most dislike about Valentine's Day  is how its celebratory rules and regulations manage to be both high pressure and  vague at the same time. It seems perfectly constructed to make sure that no one participating ever feels like they've not let somebody down.  Great. Perfect. Thank you St. Valentine.   Its not like love and its maintenance didn't have enough impenetrable labyrinthian details already without throwing a bunch of poorly defined holiday expectations  in to the mix .Great idea. What a perfect addition to an already endlessly Byzantine situation.

And by love, I mean reasonable love.  Every other kind is just too brain bleedy. The goal of love should be simply this: Don't be INSANE.  If you are insane, please go give your love to someone else.  Really, I won't feel slighted in the least.  I promise.

In the name of sanity and mental health,  I would advise any Valentines Day reveler  to proceed with caution upon receiving a Valentine's Day card like any of the following:

Number one: This first Valentine's Day Card that seems to have been designed for someone who is abusive, yet still  celebratory,  to give to his or her victim.

Note to recipient and/or author of this card: Guess what? How anyone is acting on the outside IS A BIG DEAL. The outside is the part WE CAN SEE!!! If someone is acting all rage filled and creepy on the outside, it pretty much doesn't matter what they are  doing on the inside. Seriously: Not important!!! Richard Ramirez, 'The Night Stalker', who killed thirteen people, got married since he was incarcerated and  continues to have a steady stream of women writing him love letters . These  women  no doubt feel that no matter how he is acting on the outside, there's something beautiful and touching happening deep inside of him.  WRONG. Probably not true but even if it is:  Not good enough!! No! If someone gives you this card, go in and pack.

Card Number two:

This one seems to have been produced for stalkers and/or Valentines who have OCD.  Yes, yes…I remember how being fixated on someone is supposed to be all passionate and sexually alive. But really: No.  Its not. Its not adorable to spend the day obsessed with someone. Its scary and horrible AND a big waste of time. Creepy. Creepy. Creepy. NEITHER A GIVER NOR AN ACCEPTOR OF THIS SENTIMENT BE.

If I may offer some advice: Try and find someone who has something else on their minds besides you.  Outside interests are good for a relationship! You will both need the subject matter and the additional company!

And the same holds true for the following type of Valentine.

Card Number three:

Here we see a photo of a football player.  So this is a card meant to be either 1) given by a girl to a boy who likes football or 2) by a boy who identifies with the football player but wants to impress the object of his affection. In either case,it is by design completely one sided and narcissistic. For one thing  It totally leaves the other person out of the picture.  Even if it is meant for one gay boy to give another, there's only very unromantic looking player pictured and he is NOT even the person giving the card so….I'd say that no matter what the age group, sexual preference or demographic sample, there is no reason to have hope for much in the way of  interactive happy moments  with a person who gives you this card.

But lets look on the bright side now.  The good news is that Valentines Day only lasts a few hours.  And this year its on a Monday, which is chock full of built in excuses and limitations for plans.  Meanwhile, if you are still stranded, without any good ideas about what to do to get through it,  now that I have shot down all the card ideas you were secretly planning, go back and watch that albatross video.  It wouldn't be  hard to learn that whole  routine. The albatrosses don't have a copyright on it. And really, love doesn't get too much better than that.

Okay, I know it is The Superbowl next Sunday. And I know this, even though I don't watch any sports. There. I said it.  None. Nothing. And I am fortunate enough to now live with a man who shares my lack of interest. (In fact, just last night he said to me "Who is playing this year? The Spiders versus The Coconuts?")

If there is one thing I do even less than watch sports, it is enter contests. At least not since  I was eight.  Even then, it has seemed like an exercise in that Fran Lebowitz comment about entering The Lottery ("I figure you have the same chance of winning the lottery whether you play or not.").  Nevertheless, for some insane reason  the year before last, when I saw that there was a contest that offered  a prize of  a million dollars for making a Dorito commercial that was supposedly going to air on The Superbowl, I had a momentary brain white out and decided to enter.  "No way I can be the worst person entering this contest." I said to myself, I said, I said, " And who knows? Maybe I will be one of the best!"

And thus did I throw myself in to this delusional headwind,  and spend one crazed weekend making a theoretical Dorito commercial.   I should add at this point that I didn't prepare for my task by studying existing Dorito commercials  to make sure that I was playing the correct ball park. No no….None of those creativity restrictions for me. So, that wasn't smart. I should have done my research. But instead, inspired by my own idea, I just leaped forward.  And I did this despite the fact that I don't even like Doritos. Where salty snacks are concerned, Doritos are not in my top twenty.  Looking back, that probably didn't work in my favor either.

Still, I very much liked the idea of winning a million dollars.  So come with my now to the golden year of 2009 as we look at my hypothetical theoretical Dorito commercial . .

Come on…you have to give it up for my Dorito trees!

I carefully waded through many bags of Doritos in order to select just the ones with a big loopy fold so I could organically drape them over my plants.  Proving once again that you can take the girl out of the art school, but you can't take the art school out of the girl.  In fact, since I'm reviving this whole memory for my own humiliation, I'd like to now  re visit some highlights of my Dorito plants.  Andy (who also supplied the voice over) thinks that we would have won if we had  referred to the raw, still-to-be-picked fruits of the Dorito plant as "dorts".

I could be wrong, but somehow I don't think this would have changed anything.

dorito trees

There is a new show at the Morgan Library and Museum, in NYC, that appears to be retrospective of the human being and his centuries old need to present himself and his life through the keeping of diaries.  From the review I read in the N.Y. Times, it looks  like an exhibit I would love. The show appears to contain everything from a fifteenth century " first printed edition of St. Augustine's 'Confessions,' and that book's 18th-century secular heir, Rousseau's "Confessions" to the hand written  musings of assorted luminaries such as Sir Walter Scott,  Emily Bronte, and Nathaniel Hawthorne and his wife (see below). There are also contributions from that old diary perennial Anais Nin as well as  musings from Bob Dylan, Tennessee Williams and a policeman at the site of the World Trade Center during 9/11. All appear to share the amazing details of being alive in their particular moment. Somehow everyone seems to know instinctively how to create the kind of entry that deserves to be placed upon the sands of time and burned in to the pages of history.

But speaking now as someone who has been keeping diaries since I was in the third grade,  I was a little stung that I wasn't asked to contribute.  Yes, yes…of course I am aware that I don't exactly occupy the same space and weight in the world as a Sir Walter Scott or a St. Augustine. But still…does not every life matter equally in some a kind of a basically incomprehensible quantum physics kind of way? That was what I was telling myself as I  went in to the closet to fish out my earliest diaries and examine them for relevance.  What, I was wondering, might I have been  able to contribute to the exhibit had I only but been allowed a chance?

My instincts were correct.  What I found were the richly rewarding texts written by  my younger self as I documented daily life at the beginning of the sixties.  The excitement of that decade's rebellious  spirit of  social upheaval comes alive on every page, as we clearly see in my first entry below which was written when I was in the fourth grade. Its interesting to note how  l  reject the constraints and gender expectations of a post war American middle class,  while also predicting the coming  feminist wave . In a follow up entry written just several days later,(not shown) I go even further down this path as I  boldly dismiss the idea of having anything having to do with the idea of menstruation, entirely. 

Illustration two, written a few weeks after that,  shows an oddly prescient sampling of the change in consciousness that this tumultuous decade would eventually bring.  The truth is that  every page of this amazing diary is such a treasure trove of  textured insights, it was hard for me to pick just a few pages to highlight for this summary. Nevertheless, I will close with one that  offers a tantalizing glimpse of the woman I would one day become as it tells the engaging tale of my attempt to triumph in  a contest  being held by a local television show called The Jim Dooley Hour. Then, as now, I was overcome by a heart felt desire to win a personal visit from a chimpanzee. (illustration 3)

Summing up,  I would like to say that there are many many many other pages just as worthy as these.  And since The Morgan exhibit doesn't even close until May, there is  plenty of time for them to give me a call.  (Note to curator : Also available upon request are diaries from the fifth, sixth, seventh and eighth grades.)

I kind of like cooking. Therefore I like cooking dinner for my friends on special occasions.  But on this, the twentieth day of the first month of a new year, I am making a new house rule:

Do not bring your brand new one true love to my house for a home cooked meal until you have gone with them at least a year.

I have a number of friends who are currently engaged in the difficult, sometimes barbaric, seemingly endless search for the right person. They have my sympathy.  I was dating my brains out for years and  am still so so sick of the whole idea that  the thought of having to return to that moment again makes me shudder the way I do when I imagine voluntarily making trips out to the coin operated laundromat now that I own a washer and dryer. Thats not a good analogy.  Dating is so much worse than the laundromat.  Though the laundromat  still gives me nightmares.

But here is what I learned about dating: You can not tell who it is you have become involved with until around month four. It is just impossible.  The first three months are a honeymoon period where both parties put on a great big fake show for each other.  Then, after that, it takes at least another 8 or 9 months to gather enough information to guess whether or not  this new relationship is going to last.  That year will turn out to be a combination of exhilarating (Hey! Hot new sex!!) and frustrating (I can't believe what just happened last night!)  This is all just par for the course.   That's the way a new relationship works.

The only thing I am saying is that during this sometimes exciting and frequently tumultuous period, there is no real reason for you to bring this new person over to meet me. Because in at least 90% of cases, it will turn out that you are only weeks away from sitting me down to listen to you deliver a speech where you will want my empathy and sympathy as you explain in detail how the afore mentioned new person turned out to be a total asshole.

Obviously I am going to want to give you that empathy and sympathy.  You are my friend.  I want the best for you in all circumstances.  All I am asking is that you restrain yourself from making it my responsibility  to cook dinner for someone who is about to ruin your life, before the fact.

Its a lot of work cooking dinner. I search through recipes.  I fret. I have to drive to the store ten times.  Then we clean the house and sweep the porch and wash the tablecloth .   Its expensive and exhausting.  And don't forget all that energy spent dressing up before hand and  cleaning up afterward. And then, of course, we have to lock the dogs in the back of the house so they won't eat all the snacks or get hair all over the guests. And boy, they hate that.

Though I don't mind doing it for people I like. Because I love when they do it for me.  But here's the thing: I absolutely mind doing it for people  I am not only going to never see again, but am going to  later  find out are personality disordered cretins who have treated a friend of mine badly.  Call me crazy but I don't want to work hard to help an amoral vindictive monster have a lovely relaxing afternoon or evening.  Which brings me to the stress of searching for topics of conversation to engage a person who, in a few weeks, we will all have agreed was mentally ill and all decided we hate. I don't want to serve them horsd'oevres and wine and find out where they are from.

I guess I should mention at this point that I have several friends who have brought more than four such relationship candidates over for a long long evening. In one case, five.

Or just as bad: what if I end up bonding with this new person? And then later find out that YOU are the one who acted like the big asshole?  I chose my friends pretty carefully. And I don't need or want that kind of information about someone I thought was my friend.

So go ahead and fall in love briefly with whoever you chose.  Obviously you don't need my permission . If you want to waste your time and money and  dreams on  fantasies about this new person, before you have any real idea who they are…well, its your life.  You alone will wind up with the cocktail party anecdotes and the short story rights to whatever crazy thing unfolds. Just do me the courtesy of not insisting that I  join you as  captain, chef and entertainment committee on your  voyage before the whole ship capsizes.

As my friend John Hodgman likes to say at this point: That is all.

On this, the eve of the release of the brand new novel by Snooki, I am thinking about my new kindle.

I just bought one a few months ago, after a lot of contemplation and quite a few recommendations from smart friends.  I wasn't sure how I felt about the whole idea but I did know that lack of shelf space was becoming a problem in my house.  Also, my local library was down for remodeling…not that I used it that much since buying books on impulse was one habit I have never figured out how to curtail.

So I bought a kindle.

Once I got it hooked up, I began to debate with myself what to read for my maiden voyage. Which books was I willing to spend money on but didn't care if I owned in 3 D?  So I downloaded Room by Emma Donoghue and Glass Castle  by Jeanette Walls, two books I had been thinking about reading but for some reason hadn't gotten around to yet.  And it was very impressive how, in seconds, there they were. Or should I say, there were their titles on my kindle…more quickly than I can sometimes open a g-mail.

Right away, I read both at the speed of light and enjoyed them. Everything seemed perfect, including how happy I was not having to store either volume on a shelf when I was finished. I loved how I was able to hold a kindle in one hand, with no pages to restrain or to dog ear. The reading surface was nicely lit. It was all very manageable, convenient and easy.

But as I continued forward in my kindling pursuits,  it began to occur to me that there are kindle books, and then there are the ones you still probably have to buy. And of course, when I say you I mean me.

For example, it wasn't that much fun to read a play.  The dialogue doesn't print in the same organized fashion as on the page of a play. The stage directions are kind of discombobulated and hard to follow . I mean,  it wasn't all that bad. But having a standard play book is better.

It  was the next book I tried  that  brought the problem front and center.  This one, recommended by a friend, was the kind of book that takes  a little time to get in to.  I could tell from the first page that eventually it would be an enjoyable, satisfying read. But it wasn't an instant page turner. That was when I started sensing  the kindle problem  .

When it comes to  a book that is a little bit challenging, it helps to have the object there  in 3 D. At least, its helpful to me. I want to shuffle thru the pages and find that part two pages ago that I  must have overlooked or something.  I want to stare at the cover and/or the author's picture and ruminate on whether the book is worth reading.  Challenging books are by definition more of an experience. And an experience is supposed to exist in 3D.

The kindle amounts to a different version of the same problem that I have  reading articles on line. Or should I say 'not reading articles on-line." Because I never invest the same kind of time when I am reading electronically. For me, at least, reading on-line is more about skimming than anything. On-line reading is about headlines. The content is often bullet points about things that exist in real life. So the idea is to grab the big points and then get distracted and go off to check your Facebook page. (In fact, whoever you are, now reading this…you probably haven't read  more than half of what I've written. And come on, dude…. its only a few sentences long.) (But hang on. This is almost the very end. Less than ten sentences left!)

I guess what I am trying to say is that seems to me,  the kindle is  made to order for page-turners.  Its perfect for the kind of best seller that you want to have a look at but really don't think is important enough to own. Or one you are ashamed of yourself for buying in the first place.

On the other hand, challenging, carefully written books are meant to be absorbed in a more physical way.  Having an actual book with  hundreds of printed pages between two covers sitting on your lap is by definition a more demanding encounter. A 3 D book doesn't let you off the hook so easy. It asks you to  persist when you get restless. It asks you to go back and re read that part two pages ago that apparently you didn't get the first time. It reminds you that you spent money on this damn thing and owe it a  little  respect.

And know what else?  Its easier to get a crush on a real book.  If you're enjoying yourself, a 3D book gives you a lot more to bond with. As far as I can tell, it is no fun at all to hug a kindle.

Therefore I think, in the future, I will always be making a choice between 'Book or Kindle?" And I will be using the  kindle  for the kind of books I don't really want to keep. Because in a way, having them on kindle is  not like having them at all. They take up no space in your life. So its a little like all the stuff that you read on-line yesterday. Where is it now? And what was all that stuff anyway? (Also, no pictures on a kindle. Tho no doubt that is the kind of thing that will be corrected in the next generation of e readers.)

And having said all that,  as far as I can tell, the category has yet to be invented that adequately fits the purchase of something written by Snooki.