The poetics of spam

I love found poetry.  Love it.  Found poetry reminds me of the time my friend Erin and I discovered John Wesley’s directions for singing in the back of a Methodist hymnal and she sat in the wooden pew furiously scribbling them all down on a spare church bulletin. Number two, for example, commands, “Sing [these tunes] exactly as they are printed here, without altering or mending them at all; and if you have learned to sing them otherwise, unlearn it as soon as you can.”  There are seven in total.  

I love how Wesley’s language is purposeful, direct and alarmingly un-ironic.  On the other hand, sometimes you find poetry in an unexpected metaphor, a euphemism that is hilariously endearing.  And that is what I bring you today.  Most of us probably don’t often think of e-mail spammers as endearing, but I present the following list with hopes you’ll reconsider.  

After four weeks out of town, I arrived home to over six hundred (!) messages in my g-mail spam folder.  Of course there was lots of “Hot sale: Generic Medecines and Vi@gr!@”, but some folks took the time to charm me with their subject lines.  Here is a brief review of the top titles:

 

• Your drillo needs support
• Your battleship won’t sink
• Vulcanizer for your hot-stick!
• Best doping for night monster
• Your shuttle needs better fuel
• Energy for your dude piston
• The best software for your joystick
• Charge your love generator

 

and, my personal favorite:

 

• The magic melody for your flute

 

I mean, if I were in the market for some generic Viagra, I’d hands-down buy it from that guy.  In my book, a well-written metaphor goes a long way.  And admit it, you’ve already started thinking of your own.*

 

*Tentacle, love gun, and tasty cake have already been taken.

the list.

Today this blog celebrates the humble tool of many a brilliant mind:  the list.

To demonstrate, here is list of lists I like to make:

• grocery lists
• packing lists
• to-do lists
• movies to watch lists
• books to read lists
• books to teach lists
• books not to teach lists
• people to e-mail lists
• reasons I love you lists
• things I’ve vacuumed lists

And a list of lists I’m currently in the midst of crossing off:

• things to purchase/get (lens cloth, etc.)
• things to do at school (e.g. fax visa to Frances)
• things to do at home (take crap to salvation army, for example)
• things to write (like write this blog post)
• money I owe and or owed to me ($50 to j)
• things to pack  (socks x2, panties x4)
• thoughts about packing (do we want to bring lamps?)

By calling the list a “humble tool of many a brilliant mind” and then demonstrating my very capable list-making ability, you may think I’m being a bit of a showboat.  You  may find yourself thinking, “that Mandy sure is impressed with herself.”  Well maybe you’re right.  Maybe I can put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard as the case may be) and make lists with the best of them.  I hesitate to toot my trombone too tenaciously, but come on, folks, we’ve all got our gifts.  (and perhaps it goes without saying that mine is not alliteration)

 

In my home there is an ongoing debate about the value of the lists–as in, does the act of making a list consume more time and/or energy than the actual completion of tasks on the list?–but this blog is interested celebration, not criticism, and as such we will not consider this debate further.  What we will instead consider* is the greatest joy of listmaking: the cross-off.  I can think of few acts more gratifying than putting pen to paper and, with vigor and delight, making a swift, straight line through the completed task.  I’ve even been known to write an item on my list after it’s completion just for the joy of then crossing it off.

 

So, friends, if you noticed all that “packing” nonsense on my list, it’s because I’m outta here in the morning.  I’m hitting the road (or the air, actually) for a long-awaited vacation.  I’ll go ahead and apologize for how, over the next four weeks, this now vibrant blog post will begin to dwindle, it’s sparkle a sequin short, it’s humor rather stale on second, then third, glance.  But it’s the best I can leave you with, ’cause it’s an hour and a half past my bed time and my pillow is calling.  I’ll miss you, though, and I promise, I’ll come back with something worth writing.

 

 

*We may also consider, at a later date, why a discussion of list making seems to enable one to use to “royal We” with abandon.

this may air

Throw open your doors. The air is here.

Just before dawn it came peeping in my window, sliding above the sheets along my bare upper arm.  It tugged at my shirt while I walked to the market for butter and avocados. It all but hid for my afternoon tennis game, leaving me damp around the temples and alone on the cracking blacktop courts.  Maybe it had a lunch date, or waited until I left to sneak through the screen and sample the scones I’d left warm and defenseless on the counter.  But it’s Saturday evening and the air is back, just in from the ocean and looking for a place to stay the night.

I have known other airs. The crisp blast of a January wind, careening through the back alleys of the District of Columbia, a wind that powers through the seams of your jacket and the weave of your sweater.  The indolent drift of a North Florida afternoon, which, in September, turns a porch swing into a porch sludge.  And spring picnic air, settling across your shoulders like a silk scarf, already imperceptible by dessert.  But today’s May air is barely related–a third cousin once removed–to these other airs.  It flirts with the hairs at the napes of our necks, but does not demand our attention.  It lingers in the lilac bush on the corner, then suggests we pull on a sweater.

Today’s May air is a little bit coy, but she knows she can get away with it.  And it is a she, quite clearly, so let’s despense with the gender-neutral pronouns.  After all, we’re the ones on the patio, begging, even now at dusk–or especially now–please, if you want, please come in. She is hot and cold, and we can’t commit to socks or sandals, but she is intoxicating with her evening perfume, the way she breathes behind our ears.

Dude, that’s awesome.

We can reclaim land from the ocean and water from the sewers.  We can reclaim wood and make beautiful new countertops.  But what about language?  Can we reclaim words?  My theory on this is, pessimistically, no.

Maybe you want to, just for the sake of argument, disagree with me.  Okay, good.  I happen to have a word I’m offering up for reclamation: awesome.  Seriously.  Let’s put it to the work it was intended for.

Here’s a little etymological history for you:  It goes way back to the Greek syllable(*agh-) for “pain,” “fright” and/or “grief.” From that we get our word “awe.”  Currently “awe” suggests “dread mixed with veneration,” mainly because that’s how the Bible describes our mortal reactions to God.  Now there’s something important to note here, which is that “awe” does not just mean “amazement”; to be filled with awe is to be humbled by a healthy dose of fear.  Awe transcends the ego.  “Awesome” entered the written word world in 1598, and a great example of it in its original linguistic context is this quotation by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle:

There was something awesome in the thought of the solitary mortal standing by the open window and summoning in from the gloom outside the spirits of the nether world.

Awesome is clearly right at home among such concepts as gloom, summoning, and spirits of the nether world.  That’s where awesome belongs.  But I am as guilty as you of awesome-abuse.  It’s one of those convenient enthusiastic responses: “Dude, that’s awesome.”  A quick Google search suggests that the following things, in someone’s estimation, are in fact awesome:

• socialism
• topless robots
• time travel
• teaching English in Japan
• Tony Danza
• abstinence
• Jessica Alba’s pregnancy
• freelancing
• being black

With exception of perhaps time travel*, and oh, okay, Tony Danza**, can we fairly ascribe a sense of “dread and veneration” to any of the things on the list?  Maybe we should blame Jeff Spicoli, but chances are most of the things you or I attribute awesome-ness to are in fact just kind of cool, like my vegetable peeler in the shape of a tropical bird, or the fact that I can easily renew my Vancouver Public Library books online.

George Orwell says, “The great enemy of clear language is insincerity,” and I must agree.  “Awesome” used to describe God, but now, according to Merriam Webster, it’s a synonym for “terrific.”  Terrific?  Come on, can you think of a lame-er positive adjective?  Awesome deserves better than that.

Let’s do it together.  Next time you traverse the Sahara, or encounter an anaconda, or find yourself on a rock climb that challenges all previously-held assumptions about your mental and physical capability, you’re going to need a word for it.  So then, and only then, say it like you mean it: Dude, it was awesome.

*Have you not been watching Lost?

** That one’s for you, Kerry.

Just another product promotion

When we were nine or ten, my friend Ashley and I would spend sleepovers staying up late enough to watch infomercials.  There was something about that do-it-all kitchen chopper, or sweep-it-all rubber broom, or liquify-it-all juicer that called to us, a certain magic in the grand scope of applications for a single tool.  I suppose most of us find gratification in the perfect execution tasks, and this is what the infomercial offered in seemingly endless variations.  After her parents had gone to bed, we basked in the sea of consumer desire and the glow of the television screen.  Of course we were too young to buy anything, but the siren call of “if you phone in the next ten minutes we’ll double your order” helped us imagine the bounty of appliances we’d someday plug into our own kitchen outlets.

As I’ve gotten older, my attitude toward consumption has changed.  I’ve developed a critical eye for advertisements and am less inclined to believe that anything can really do it all.  For this reason, it is the policy of this blog not to endorse commercial products. (Actually, this blog had no policies until I just typed that–but it feels pleasantly official to have one.) However, every now and then a product comes along that makes you wonder how you lived your daily life up to this point without it.  Surely you’d agree that in such cases, policies should be flexible.  So I come to you today with a special post dedicated to: The J-Strap.

Perhaps you’ve heard of The Y-Strap (if not I highly recommend the first ten seconds of this video).  Inspired by the Y-Strap, Justin—the J-Strap head designer, company president and product user—created an adjustable camera wrist strap from traditional climbing webbing.  I was lucky enough to get a peek into the J-Strap construction process at the design studio:

 

Maybe you’re thinking that the J-Strap HQ looks an awful lot like my living room. Well, okay, you’re right.  This product is maufactured in my very own home by my favorite photographer. But just in case you think I may not be entirely objective in my endorsement, I submit to you the e-mail I received on Tuesday, the day after my J-Strap fitting: 

Dear Valued Member,    

We are writing to remind you that to best enjoy your new J-Strap ©, you should have your camera and J-Strap © with you everywhere you go! This might sound like a big bother at first, but you’ll soon get used to lugging around that dSLR that has a renewed sense of heft — all thanks to the J-Strap ©! Shooting with the J-Strap © renews the initial satisfaction you got when first using your camera. Try it out today!

We hope you love your J-Strap © as much as we do. Each one is crafted on an individual basis, with complimentary fitting to you, the end user. To show us your appreciation, please feel free to make a tax-deductible donation in the form of cash, in-kind contributions, or biscuits to the innovative J-Strap © creator, Justin “J-Strap ©” Barnes. 

Thanks again for your enthusiastic support of our evolving product. 

Happy shooting!

- The J-Strap © Fanclub admins

When this arrived in my inbox, I tried so hard to stifle my giggles that  both my officemate and the student he was meeting with looked up to see if I was going to choke on my apple.  What’s not to love about such personalized service?  What’s not to love about a guy who substitutes his product title for his middle name?  And the earnest overuse of exclamation marks!  So, if you buy only one camera product this year, make it the J-Strap–and if you order in the next ten minutes, I’ll ask the J-Strap creator if he’ll consider doubling your order.*  Hurry while supplies last!

*if you receive two J-Straps, you may have to pay for both of them.

a new low

Yesterday was a bad day.  As far as bad days go, I thought, “this is a doozie.”  Someone said to me, “we’ve hit a new low.”  And I thought it was true.

But then I drank beer with some good friends.  Drank beer and ate chocolate.  And I felt like the new low was not really so low.  Because I have good friends and beer and chocolate.

As I was riding my bike home sometime after midnight, I rode past a figure lying face down on the sidewalk, a man in a blue parka.  I stopped a few feet away and called out, “Are you okay?”  He tried to move but couldn’t.  “You don’t need to call anyone,” he said, his voice muffled against the pavement.  As he lifted his face to me, I saw a pool of blood collecting in the brim of his straw Panama hat, where he’d been resting his head.  His glasses were cracked and bloody.  “You don’t need to call 911,” he said, “but if you could just watch me.  For a minute.  I am very drunk and I’ve fallen and I am close to my house.  If you could just watch me stand up.”  I waited as he rolled over and then over again on the sidewalk, seemingly unable to even move into a sitting position.

“I don’t think you can stand up,” I said.  “I think I should call someone.”

“Let me explain,” he said.  “I appreciate your concern.  You are very nice to watch me.  I understand that you are worried, but I was at a party for some… very good people. Who died.  Let me explain.  I am not having a good day.  But I can make it to my house, if I can just roll over here.”

And I waited.  Finally, some people came along, stumbling home from the bars on 4th Avenue–a man and a woman.  “Are you all okay?” they asked.

“He’s hurt,” I said, grateful for some company.  The woman said, “Grandpa, are you drunk?  Homeless?  Are you okay, old man?” (though he was not that old).  She said, “Let’s get you home, gramps,” and she and her friend went to him and grabbed his arms.  “Don’t do it like that,” she snapped her friend, assuring the man was uprighted with the utmost gentleness.

“Let me explain,” he said.  “I am very drunk.  And I’ve fallen.  It’s my fault.”

“I’m going to get you to your house, and take a look at this cut you’ve got,” she said.  I waited until it was clear they’d take care of him, then I pedaled up the hill.

Typically, I’m not one for unsubtle symbolism, but I’m not sure I’ve had a more conveniently symbolic moment than biking home on the “new low” day to find a man who is literally face down in the gutter on Easter Sunday.  The gutter—our symbol of emotional lowness—on Easter—our cultural celebration of resurrection.  As symbolic moments go, this one is so unsubtle that I almost talked myself out of writing about it.  The obvious lesson from this story is that I cannot possibly be at a low of any sorts when my basic needs are so plentifully met: I have not only bread and water but also beer and chocolate.  I live in a city of kind strangers, but I am also surrounded by generous friends.  I am not in the gutter, but instead I am riding by, sober enough to see myself into my cozy bed.  If we are here to talk about small things, my low is very small.

I think sometimes, as perhaps most people do, about the limits of my kindness.  I do not want to ignore someone in the gutter, but I do not want to pick him up and walk him home.  I have been taught to fear blood, and drunken strangers, and men on the streets when I am alone late at night.  Perhaps this symbol is better understood in the less obvious way: a sign of my limits, of what I am not willing to give to someone else.  This symbol is less convenient and lends itself less willingly to life lessons.  From it I can understand that, most of the time, we have no perspective on our own lives.  Surely this man, passed out on the street corner, had no more perspective than I did.  But today we are both reminded of something complex about ourselves, something we probably don’t prefer to consider.  We all want our lives to be easier.

Out of Office Reply

If I had an out of office reply, it would say this: “Mandy cannot grade papers today because it is sunny, her bike needs riding, and doughnuts are back in season.”

 

Instead, however, I am obliged to put up an out of blog reply.  See those papers up there?  Not the ones with the sticky notes on them, to the left…further left…just out of the sun…ah yes, there.  Those big stacks.  Yep, those are student research papers.  

Mandy cannot blog today because she’s got seventy student research papers to read–oh and forty British lit papers, sixty one-page Google Groups posts, and an incomplete final exam to prepare.

 

But I’m not one to turn down a seasonal treat…

Lion or Lamb?

When I was seventeen, my friend Lisa and I spent hours discussing twenty-seven.  We loved imagining the lives we would have in ten years’ time.  When we were twenty-seven, we thought, we’d have some things figured out, we’d be the best version of ourselves.  

I suspected that at twenty-seven I’d be living in Charleston, South Carolina, working as a curator at an art museum, married to my intellectual family-man husband (who I’d married at twenty-five), and pregnant with our first child–a girl.  We’d go to parties–gallery openings–and drink champagne with our young artsy friends.  We’d live in the city but by the beach, in the carriage house behind an old sprawling southern mansion.  We’d sit on the porch and drink mint juleps (not that I knew what a mint julep was).

Today is my last official day of my twenty-seventh year, and I think the close of such a momentous year deserves a moment of reflection.  Twenty-seven was the year of powder skiing, and noticing creases that don’t quite go away when I stop smiling, and setting up a home in what my sister calls “the love nest.” It’s not quite what I envisioned for myself.  At seventeen, having lived my whole life in one small town in southwestern Virginia, I could hardly imagine a life outside the American South, much less outside the country.  And perhaps you noticed that alcohol as status symbol plays a major role in my fantasies, though who drinks a mint julep I don’t know (my one attempt at making some went terribly awry when, in the absence of simple syrup, we tried to sweeten it with maple syrup–it goes without saying this did not take place in the South).  Now I’m a beer girl, something my seventeen year old self might find a little disenchanting.  And I’m no where near ready to start a family, though to keep things in perspective, you should know that in southwestern Virginia twenty-seven is pretty late in the procreation game.  At seventeen I’d never tasted tofu or seen Thai food, but, to perpetuate certain Appalachian stereotypes, I had been driving a tractor for at least six years.

Still, I don’t think I’d look like a stranger to my seventeen year old self.  I was ready to get out of my home town and I think she’d be pleased to know how far I’ve taken it.  And even though I’m not a curator, a writer-slash-professor is a pretty great runner-up.  My rock climbing and sushi eating habits, however, would’ve seemed awfully bold to her.  

Mainly, though, I think she’d be a little worried to hear how un-adult twenty-seven can feel at times.  As Lisa wrote in an e-mail last year, “I thought I would be more tied down or closer to having it figured out or a least closer to looking like an adult.”  Seventeen year old Mandy would be unimpressed by my craigslist futon (we all know twenty-seven year olds invest in proper sofas) and  the fact that I still wear my scruffy yellow Chucks.  But despite the charms of the fantasy, I don’t think I’d fit into the life she imagined for me.  This life is richer than her fantasy, full of experiences (salmon sashimi, for example) that are beyond the borders of her map.  Justin says I see too many limits, that I make arbitrary rules about what I can’t do (like ride my bike in the rain or climb 5.11 or ski in -15C), but I prefer to think of it as easing into a world that was once beyond my conception. I eat more chocolate chip cookies and make more mistakes than I did at seventeen.  I’m no longer afraid of A minuses, but that’s an easy thing to say when you’re the one with the pen in your hand.  In one way, though, twenty-seven has been what I expected: I feel at home in the life I’ve made for myself. Fantasizing about that feeling, about a life I fit into, was what made the whole exercise so appealing in the first place.  I don’t know what I imagined I’d become after twenty-seven, but, starting tomorrow, I’m looking forward to finding out.

(twenty-seven year old’s shoes)

 

(in the city but by the beach–on a different coast)

The people’s limousine: Roll on!

When I was two years old my favorite song was “Roll On” by the popular ’80s country band Alabama.  A ballad about a mom, her children, and their 18-wheeler-drivin’ father who calls them every night to tell them he loves them, “Roll On” explored the classic country music themes of family, prayer, and truck driving.  Mostly, I think, I liked the truck driving part.  The chorus goes like this: 

Roll oh highway, roll on along/ roll on Daddy ’til you get back home/ roll on family, roll on crew/ roll on Mama like I asked you to do/ and roll on eighteen wheeler, roll on. Roll On!

The end of the chorus is punctuated with a cheerful, guttural yell–Roll Awn!–which, apparently, I was fond of doing from the back of the car, strapped into my car seat, whenever this album was playing on the eight track stereo.

There’s a mythic appeal to the eighteen-wheeler, something to do with its many axles and giant stature and its ability to lug itself back and forth across our great nation with perseverance.  Who didn’t mime a whistle pull while riding down the highway as a kid, squeeling with glee when a truck driver honked his horn in reply?

But I’m actually not here to talk about trucks, rather I’d like to take a few minutes to champion my now-favorite mode of rolling on: the people’s limousine, the proletariat chariot, the grounded gondola, the city bus.  I like my car and I love my bike, but the bus is the under-sung hero of the daily commute.  

I love tuning my iPod to the most recent episode of This American Life, stashing my camera in my pocket, raising the hood to my rain jacket, and striding down the street toward the bus stop.

The bus gets a bad rap, though I’ll admit there are reasons for this: you stand hip to cheek (the lower one) among people with varying levels of personal hygiene; grandma, a dad with a stroller, and a girl on crutches all pile on, shuffling you into the back aisle, where you grasp the dangling plastic loops, riding the waves of the route; or sometimes a bus will be so full it passes you by, a near inevitability when you’re running late to work.

But busses are so integral to urban life they’ve become a part of popular culture.  The bus has spawned movies like Speed, a whole host of songs, including “The Wheels on the Bus (go round and round)” and “Ain’t no Fuss, Just Take the Bus,” and an excellent essay by Adam Gopnik.  And that’s just for starters.

I’ll admit, I don’t love tour busses or school busses–the city bus is the one for me. City busses wheeze down our streets with a hum, crackle and whirr, like platelets charging through the veins of the city.  Though they may not operate quite like clockwork, busses get me where I need to go.  And while I’m getting there I can read an article in the new Believer, or giggle at David Sedaris on TAL, or stare curiously at the crowd around me, checking out the tattoo on one guy’s neck and the hickey on another’s, noting who overslept and who hasn’t slept, and who probably shouldn’t have worn her bright pink boots with her bright read coat (well that one is me). No indulgence is quite as pleasant as bus voyeurism.  

And let’s not forget the guy at the wheel.  He is my chauffeur, my designated driver, my Captain Ahab, my Charon.  Okay, so maybe not the last two–but a good bus driver is like a good friend. He picks me up and gives me a smile. He doesn’t judge my mismatched outerwear.

 

So, let’s go for a ride, me and you.  Greater Vancouver may not be your most exciting destination, but it’ll be fun.  I promise.  I’ve saved us a seat.

 

 

ps-  If you’re looking for the lyrics to “Ain’t no Fuss, Just Take the Bus,” don’t bother.  I was dismayed by the absence of great bus songs, so I made one up.  I hope you’ll forgive me because if I were to write a song about the bus (that is, if I had any musical capacity what so ever), that’s what my song would be called.  And it’d be (obviously) a great song.

We ate the evidence

It all started in London. In London, there were no biscuits.  I’d eaten biscuits all my life and always enjoyed them, but I had never before constructed elaborate daydream scenarios about cornering one in a dark alley and mercilessly chomping my teeth through its soft, fluffy heart. And Londoners always talked about biscuits—they ate them with tea and after dinner, they sold them at every corner store.  But their so-called biscuits were sweetish wafer-like cookies (this was incidentally, before I came to love the digestive, to keep a roll of chocolate McVities in my sock drawer) which would’ve gone pathetically limp under a heap of sausage gravy.

(Tangentially, [I’m careening more closely toward excessive DFW-style parenthetical notes—have you noticed?] this reminds me of a café, near my dorm, that served “American Style” chocolate chip cookies.  Only, instead of being mixed into the batter, the chocolate chips were placed on top, all their tips pointing neatly skyward.  It always made me laugh, but at least with the cookie they’d given it a shot.  The poor biscuit never had a chance.)

The problem for the American style biscuit, the fluffy round of light, buttery, floury, warm breakfast goodness, is that the British English language has no capacity for it.  It isn’t a traditional biscuit (as in tea cookie) and, while it is scone-like–it is more intentionally shaped, less crisp at the edges–it isn’t a scone.  Or a roll.  Or a bun.  It’s a biscuit, a Southern biscuit.  And when I was suddenly forced to live without it, I began to understand that my food pyramid was missing its point.  In a flash of genius, it occurred to me that a local Kentucky Fried Chicken was the obvious solution.  Their biscuits weren’t amazing, but they specialized in fried chicken—they couldn’t not serve biscuits.  Oh how naïve I was.  When I told my mom my biscuit sob story, she didn’t believe me.  ”Don’t they serve breakfast at McDonald’s, Mandy?”  Yes, of course they do.  ”So get a biscuit there.”  They don’t have them.  ”I mean at breakfast.”  Mom, they don’t have them.  ”But…how do they serve breakfast?”

Canada, with its Commonwealth allegiance, is no friendlier to the biscuit.  So, like any resourceful young lady, I’ve pulled myself up by my Appalachian bootstraps embarked on a journey toward the day when I pull the perfect Southern biscuit from my oven.

Biscuits are the slippery fish of the quick breads and, as my mother warned me, making a good biscuit (go ahead and forget about a great biscuit) isn\’t as easy as following the directions.  It wasn’t that the biscuits weren’t edible (they were) or that they weren’t buttery and flaky and white, but that they needed a little lightness, a little lift.

And what I’ve learned is that the qualifier “Southern” is an important one.  Southern-style biscuits are made in the South because that’s where the best biscuit wheat grows.  White Lily flour just isn’t sold at the Vancouver Safeway.

A perfect biscuit is a paradox: a white summer cloud and a warm winter blanket.  At once dense and feather-light, it is equally at home in sweet (note apple butter jar) and savory (note gravy) settings.  It’s friendly with the egg and the chicken.

Even though I haven’t reached biscuit nirvana, at least I’ve narrowed it down.  At this point, it’s either the lack of sifting, the amount of baking powder, the kind of milk, the protein content of the flour, the temperature of the butter, or the recipe itself.

If you were a biscuit doctor, I’d offer mine up for prescription.  But, unfortunately, we ate the evidence.  Start keeping an eye out, though, for your invitation.  Because when I get this right, you’d better bring your bib.