Sontag & Orbach

In addition to the mostly nameless 100,000+ dead in the tsunami, I've read a lot about Susan Sontag's recent death. Now, I understand that she was an important cultural figure, but I have to wonder how relevant she really was. I've heard whispers about her politics, which put her in the same cam as that other Susan (Sarandon). I understand that she was a writer - but I've never read anything she's written. In fact, the only point of reference I have re: her writing is from Bull Durham - the part when Crash makes his big, passionate speech to Annie and he says, "I believe that the novels of Susan Sontag are overrated pieces of crap" or something to that effect.

So, while her death is sad, I'm not particularly affected by it.

Jerry Orbach is another story. I found out he died while out to lunch with my mom and sister yesterday. We were at my parents' favorite Thai restaurant, watching tsunami victims on TV (the owners of the restaurant are Thai, but they're from Blacksburg VA and don't have any relatives anywhere near the coast of Thailand). All of a sudden, the anchorman said that Orbach died and I gasped. I knew he was sick...but thought he wasn't that sick, since he had a new show coming out.

My attachment to Orbach doesn't just stem from my Law & Order obsession. It began, as I'm sure similar feelings did for many girls my age, when I saw Dirty Dancing in the theater at 12. What a good movie- and what an impressionable age for me. At the time, I missed some of the nuances of the plot (my mom had to explain to me that abortion wasn't legal in 1963 - that adds something to the scene with Penny and Baby's dad). Regardless, that movie was an instant classic for an entire generation of pre- and young teens. And Jerry Orbach was just the epitome of a dad.

Plus, Orbach bears a striking resemblance to my grandfather - my dad's dad. And his character on Law & Order, Lennie Briscoe, is a little like my grandfather, too - gruff and manly - he just seems tall. My grandfather died seven years ago and since then, my memories of him have increasingly blended in with visuals of Briscoe.

Watching my three episodes of L&O last night was definitely a little sad...but it's nice to know that Orbach's characters will live on, in my house at least.

"This Is My Art"

Last week, Galley Slave Jonathan V. Last linked to this Jeff Rosen NYT piece on blogs. It's a good article, starting with the Wonkette/Washingtonienne scandal that got me regularly reading political blogs in the first place (and yes, I know that's shallow, but who doesn't love a good sex scandal? I mean, really.)

Much of the article recounted stories that I'd heard somewhere else on the blogosphere, at some point during the past eight or so months. I realized, though, that I know very, very little about the true early days of blogs. Oh, I read Lileks two years ago, but at the time I didn't think of it as a "blog" (I didn't think of anything as a "blog" at the time - I'd never heard the word). But I'd never heard of Justin Hall who, according to Rosen, was one of the earliest "bloggers."

What struck me about Hall isn't that he was putting his daily life on the Internet long before it was mildly hip, if not commonplace among certain societal sects. And I certainly wasn't struck by his capacity to post even the most embarassing and intimate details of his life (including a list of sexual encounters and their outcomes). What I did find interesting, though, was that he thinks of himself as an artiste.

Rosen writes, of Hall:

When one former girlfriend, with whom he lived for four years, asked him to remove her from the site, he replied: ''This is my art. I'll remove specific things that bother you, but I can't go through the entire Web site and remove every mention of your name.''

My reaction to this statement was to think, "Well, I guess that's one way to define art. But certainly not the way I'd define it." My own blog is not art - though I can't define art succinctly, I believe it involves a sort of creative output that doesn't necessarily jive with an extremely detailed accounting of daily events. I've kept a diary since I was a little girl; it's creative and interesting, but it's not art. The Diary of Ann Frank is a fantastic, moving book, but it's not art. It's something else, something closer to science in the way that history or anthropology is scientific.

In a way, I guess you could make the case that blogging is performance art both at its most personal and most removed. On one hand, bloggers (especially the online diarists) reveal such intimate personal and emotional details that it goes far beyond traditional performance art happenings. At the same time, the anonymity and physical separation afforded by the Internet allows bloggers a shield from the public that traditional performance artists didn't have (and didn't want). Receiving a scathing email is much different from dealing face-to-face with a hostile onlooker.

At any rate, I've always been on the fence about the true artistic value of much performance art. I studied art history, I support the NEA, and I believe that art has an important place in our society and in our schools. But something about performance art (or at least some performance artists) always struck me as a cop-out. Just because you're willing to do something ridiculous (and often dirty) in public doesn't mean that you're necessarily more creative or gifted than those around you (and worthy of a grant). It just means you lack shame.

I can't shake that feeling when I think of bloggers as artists. Just because you don't mind publishing your sexual history for thousands of strangers to peruse doesn't mean you deserve the title of artist. Create something really new, and then we'll talk.

Order AND Chaos?

The fact that these two posts on The Corner are right next to one another shakes me up a little. On one hand, the apparent fairness of the Ukranian election (this time) is a fantastic testament to the power of people who believe in freedom and the ability to peacefully bring about change.

On the other, the earthquake and tsunami that hit India and it's surroundings yesterday is the strongest sort of reminder that man cannot control all, with firepower or with peaceful demonstration. By all accounts, better communication and planning could have saved thousands of lives this tragedy took - but by many of the same accounts, the event was so rare that planning for it seemed unecessary.

Individually, I can understand the significance of each of these events - at least to some degree. Together, though, it's more difficult, especially since they occurred the day after Christmas.

Right now, the most apparent common thread between them is in a piece of my reaction to each event individually: they reinforce my thankfulness to be American. The strength of our material and ideological resources couldn't be more apparent to me than today.

Holiday Traditions

My family has a handful of holiday traditions, including the reading of the Night Before Christmas (purchased the year I was born) and eating sugar plums (the cookies, not the Nutcracker participants) on Christmas morning. The most active of these rituals, though, involves a kids v. parents Trivial Pursuit game. We play every Thanksgiving and every Christmas.

This year, the kids suffered a crushing (and I mean crushing) defeat on Thanksgiving. We were so off our A-game that I'm not sure how to describe it. So we had a score to settle. (I should also mention that going into the Thanksgiving game, our record was somewhere around 2-25 - my parents aren't into letting the kids win for the sake of self-esteem, obviously).

The momentum shifted on Christmas Eve, though. We had all the energy of a Bring It On-caliber cheerleading squad going into the finals. We were pumped.

My dad started the game saying, "It doesn't matter if we win or lose - either way, we win. If we win the game, we win. If you win the game, we win because we have smart kids." That attitude lasted for about 30 minutes, until he realized that he might not win. At that point, he stopped smirking and started getting extremely picky about the exact wording of our answers.

And yet, we triumphed. All four of us (Cooper was there) just had what it took.

So, until next November, all hail the new Waskom house Trivial Pursuit champions.

Sweet, Sweet Paris

This sums up exactly how I feel about Paris Hilton. And I didn't even know about the bad tipping thing. Bad tippers make me furious - especially zillionheiress bad tippers.

Reading about Writing

I really enjoy reading what writers have to say about their writing processes. Not all other writers - walking through Barnes & Noble, I always think that there are too many books written about "how to write" and that the authors of these books are probably failed novelists, scrambling to publish anything they can. On occasion, though, I come across writing about writing that's both educational and entertaining.

I just read an interesting description of Steven Den Beste's process. He outlines it just like he's an engineer - which he is. The only thing that struck me as a little egotistical (which writing about writing often is, somewhat necessarily) is his assumption that his process is drastically different from the processes of other writers. I doubt he meant to imply that the way he does things is better, but it reads a little like he thinks of himself as gifted in a way.

My favorite essay about writing is by William Faulkner and is actually a speech - the one he gave when accepting his 1949 Nobel Prize. It's very short, and I think in part because of it's brevity, intensely inspiring. The first time I read it, in my tenth grade English class, it made such a dramatic impact on me that I remembered the content, in detail, for the next fourteen years. Earlier this year, I looked it up online and found a copy.

When I reread the speech, I realized that I'd remembered it nearly exactly as it was given. Faulkner's words were powerful and clear enough to stick with me. Great writing about writing - that must come from a great writer.

Another Day Older

I'm almost 10 hours into my 29th birthday and so far, my body hasn't crumbled under the weight of my ancient bones. When Cooper left for work this morning, he said, "Happy Birthday. Are you going to cry all day?"

That doesn't make me sound pathetic and whiny at all, huh? Actually, I feel great today. Maybe 29 won't be such a rough year after all. I always loved my birthdays - until I turned 25. But it's possible - possible - that my yearly anxiety is behind me, at least for a few more years (until I hit 35).

For right now, anyway, I'm pretty happy about my birthday. It's beautiful outside (sunny but cold), I'm getting my hair cut, having lunch with a friend in Annapolis, and going out to dinner tonight (and tomorrow night). I guess that's the spoonful of sugar...

Happy Winter Solstice!

And yes, I mean that literally. Not that I'm coming down on the neo-pagan or Wicca side of this whole "Merry Christmas/Happy Holidays" debate (though I have been reading up on it this morning).

No, for me, the Winter Solstice takes on a whole different meaning. You see, today is the day before my birthday. And since I was about 8, I've been obsessed with the fact that my birthday falls so close to the shortest day of the year (and sometimes the Solstice actually falls on my birthday).

When I was little, my whining was out of sheer disappointment ("My birthday is such a short day!"). Now that I'm getting older, it seems cruel that the day before my birthday should be so short. This year, today, I am relishing the last moments of being 28. And I'm just not sure I'm ready for 29.

Not that 29 should sound so bad. It's not 30 - but that might be part of the problem. Twenty-nine is a reminder that I'm getting older (and, naturally, haven't accomplished everything I set out to do) without any of the parties and assorted hoopla that comes with turning 30. It's just a quiet reminder that I'm approaching the intangible deadline that is 30.

On the other hand, maybe 30 can't get here fast enough. Last summer, my friend Steve turned 30. He's a screenplay writer, and we spend a lot of time talking about the misery and joy of writing. Just after his birthday, I asked him how he felt about turning 30. He told me it was a relief - because he no longer had the potential to be a child prodigy. All of that pressure to do great things at a young age just evaporated in one day - leaving behind only the sense that imagining himself as the young Beethoven of the screenplay, he was more egotistical and self-absorbed than ambitious.

That makes absolute perfect sense to me. But I don't think I'll be able to shake my self-absorbed egotism until I turn 30 myself. I'm afraid I'm in for a long year of barely controlled inward whining...

A Child's Library

In my last post, I mentioned that I have a lot of kids books in my collection. I might have exaggerated a little - I'm not sure that what I have constitutes "a lot" but it is carefully chosen. I give books as baby shower gifts fairly often - I think it's a great thing to start a baby's library. My grandmother started reading to me pretty much as soon as I was born and I'm convinced that's what encouraged my love of books - so I think it's great to encourage it in others.

As far as I'm concerned, the best books for little girls (the ones I still have with me) are: the Madeline collection, the Eloise collection, the Olivia collection and A Very Young Dancer by Jill Krementz.

There's definitely a theme.

All three of the collections are available just about everywhere. They're also heavily merchandised (which I appreciate - I have an Eloise pencil holder and an Olivia calendar on my desk and a Madeline doll in my guest room). But A Very Young Dancer is out of print (and pricey if you buy it used off Amazon). I can't really understand why.

It's the true story of a little girl named Stephanie who, in 1974, was chosen to be Mary in the American School of Ballet's Nutcracker. The author, Jill Krementz, was (is?) a photojournalist. She tells the story in first person, accompanied by great black and white shots of the little girl as she goes through tryouts, rehearsals and, finally, the shows.

I got the book for Christmas when I was five years old. At the time, it perfectly described my dream. Stephanie was a star - and she was only seven years old. She didn't even have to wait to grow up to be the best at something. The story and pictures are full of wonder and excitement and everything Christmas is to little girls.

I still read it every year at Christmastime, usually sitting next to my tree.

If I could write a book with half the staying power as A Very Young Dancer, or any of my favorites, I would be very, very happy indeed. Just about as happy as a seven-year-old playing Mary.

New Angle on the Book Thing

I've really let my writing go over the past few weeks. I've barely been blogging - and I've done even less "real" writing (the kind that could potentially make me some money one day). All week, I've used my sore throat as an excuse to do nothing (except watch Law & Order, of course). So last night, as I fell asleep with no throat pain to distract me, I thought for a while about what to write next.

And, shockingly enough, I had an idea that still seems viable in the light of day: I'm going to write a children's book.

It makes so much sense, I'm not sure why I never thought of it before. My book collection includes a ton of kids books, all of which I read pretty regularly. Plus, in eighth grade, I wrote a children's book and my Home Ec teacher told me it was great and that I'd probably be published one day. OK, that's not the greatest source of encouragement ever, but it did stick with me.

Writing for kids solves a lot of the problems that I have with writing. There's much less need to show instead of tell. I won't have to feel insecure about the scope of my vocabulary. Shorter books are perfect for my attention span - and for my desperate need to reach goals regularly (I learned in business school that I am an "ambition-driven" person, so I need to constantly achieve and re-set goals in order to stay motivated...and yes, I am serious.)

I have a plan for a character, I developed a plot while laying in bed this morning, and I've already decided who to call about illustration. Next stop: Barnes & Noble's kid section.

Healthy Again

As it turns out, the doctor was right - I'm very thankful I had strep throat. Because after a mere two doses of ammoxicillan, I woke up yesterday morning with absolutely no sore throat. I'm no longer contagious and I feel fantastic. I don't even have any residual weakness, like I would if it had been a regular cold. In fact, I think I feel even better than usual, since I rested so much this week.

I'd recommend strep throat to anyone now!

Merry Christmas to Me

I just got back from the doctor, where I learned that I have strep throat. My initial reaction was to groan, but the doctor reminded me that it's not so bad, as there's an easy cure for it. So now I'm on antibiotics and hopefully relief will follow. I've had just about enough of the pleasant burning sensation in my throat.

On a more positive note, I had a surprisingly good experience at the doctor's. I went to a local walk-in clinic, the Patient First Clinic associated with Johns Hopkins. I expected the worst: packed waiting room full of mucus-laden coughing people, surly nurses and abrupt doctors. The reality totally exceeded my expectations (granted, not very hard to do). The clinic was somewhat busy, but it was very clean and homey, the staff was professional and friendly and efficient and the doctor had great bedside manner (not something I associate with Hopkins AT ALL).

I actually walked out feeling like I was about to get better. What more could I ask for?

Sick

So I'm sick again. I was healthy for about a week, then developed a nasty sore throat on Sunday evening, which has evolved into an overall illness. It's progressing exactly the same way as my last sickness - which doesn't seem fair.

This time, Cooper's sick along with me. Both of us feel like we're swallowing over razor blades. Not a happy time in this house - at all.

Plus, all of the gifts we've ordered online have started to arrive, so our house is a mess of boxes and shipping receipts. On top of that, our bedspread has split in a few places, so our room is covered in little down fluffs that refuse to be trapped by broom, swiffer or vacuum.

I've pretty much given up. And that's OK.

Exposed

As of yesterday, my blog is officially open to the public. It always was, I guess, but now that I've actually told a few people about it, it's open to the public that I know. Which really is much more "public."

After I unveiled my soapbox yesterday, I was instantly self-conscious about what I'd written over the past few weeks. Thinking back, my posts have been all over the place, both in terms of content and style. I guess I'm still figuring out my "voice" and what I really like to talk about.

Most of the blogs I read are at least quasi-political, so it's easy for my to link to them and go that route. Except that most of the bloggers I read know a whole lot more about politics than I even care to, so I don't have a whole lot to add in that realm. My brother, in fact, mentioned that some of my posts were a little Instapundit-in-a-skirt (with a much, MUCH smaller audience). And I'm certainly not going to out-insta Instapundit. (There's your first shoutout, Tom. Happy now?)

But since I've been reading so much about politics, I haven't been thinking as much about pop culture and marketing - both of which are really more my thing.

I guess the push-pull of different blogs and other "offline" influences (to get techie about it) will continue, until one day I'll realize that I've found some kind of balance. We'll see how it goes.

Whew!

I've had a busy day - phone calls, writing, timelines, plus a lot of errands. I've barely had time to actually think (unless the thinking involves a timeline, of course).

I just got back from running errands. First I went to the cobbler, to pick up a pair of shoes I had fixed. Then to Belvedere Square, our local market, where I got dinner from the Italian deli, the produce stand and the breadmaker.

The butcher, the baker and the candlestick maker. Going to the market seems so old-fashioned and small town, and I love it. Going to the cobbler even more so (who even has a cobbler these days? And mine is so cute - he's just like a Russian Santa Claus). At the market, which is always bustling, everyone's always smiling, the food smells great, and it all looks so pretty.

Just like out of a movie. The good kind- the kind you'd like to live in.

A "Crisis" of Epic Proportions

Account people are notoriously the most annoying people in advertising. Their primary job is to keep the clients happy, a task that usually involves making the rest of the agency mad.

One of my least favorite things about account people (and I used to be one) is their overuse and misuse of the word "crisis." Everything's a crisis: client doesn't like the color of the border on the ad? Crisis. Client doesn't get an email reply within 30 seconds of sending an email to the art director? Crisis. Client only wanted green M&Ms in the focus group facility and instead was served red and green? Call the papers - the sky really is falling this time.

The worst part about it is that a lot of account people really do respond to these "emergencies" like true crises - they drop everything and run around like chickens with their heads cut off until someone figures out how to use the conference calling feature on the phone or whatever other non-issue the catastrophe du jour happens to be.

These are often the same people who believe that I, and the other 60 million people who voted for Bush, am overreacting to the terrorist threat that exists today. What, exactly, is their rational, you ask? How is it that they are able to prioritize so clearly?

After careful analysis, the only answer that I see is that they are horrifically, unbelievably, selfish and self-centered. And until they, personally, are attacked by a terrorist EVERY DAY, they're very sorry, but the international crisis will just have to wait. Because they have very important clients to deal with.

"What's Past is Prologue"

In recognition of the anniversary of the attack on Pearl Harbor, Power Line publishes the text of FDR's speech to Congress just after the attacks. The Big Trunk ends his post with a quote from Shakespeare: "what's past is prologue." Something everyone should make a conscious effort to remember.

Reading the speech, particularly the part in which Roosevelt lists all of the places Japan had just attacked, my initial reaction is to wonder how any sane person (or group of people, leading a country or organization) can believe that world domination is a reasonable goal. Upon having that thought, I remembered that even today, we're living in a world in which a group of people connected by a particular bastardization of an otherwise good religion share that goal.

I don't know enough about what its like to grow up in an Islamofascist community or family to truly understand how anyone could imagine that one group, one belief could rule the world (though I do believe that freedom could be a universally shared belief, it is an inherently diverse concept, unlike fundamentalist Islam).

The entire concept of world domination to me seems old fashioned in the oldest sort of way - something out of literature and movies made in the 40s, but not something that could plausibly exist in today's age of information. As a college student, studying international relations just after the fall of Communism, I almost took for granted the eventual certainty of an economically interdependent, multi-lateral global society. That was only ten years ago.

How quickly things change, though. I still believe in economic interdependence as the most viable path to "world peace" (whatever that means-I used to think I knew). The path to economic interdependence, unfortunately, seems a lot rockier to me today than it did in 1993.

Family Values

I'd like to read this article again in ten years, and in twenty. I wonder how the kids of today's broken homes will raise their children, and what their kids' angst will be based on.

Because there will always be angst. And the author is correct that divorce is a particularly compelling motivator for teen turmoil, but it's not the only motivator. The disconnect between parents and kids is as old as time itself.

I wonder, too, if today's children of divorce will be more sensitive to their own children's needs. What happens when today's children are stuck in their own unhappy marriages? Will they do more to work out their marriages than their parents did, trying to preserve the nuclear unit at any cost? Will they choose to live without love and with constant arguments, just to avoid divorce? Will they take their kids' feelings into account? Will their kids appreciate their efforts?

And where, in a discussion of this generation, are the too-pampered, never-blamed, "my kid doesn't lose" kids? The bratty children who don't listen to teachers and who only play on soccer teams that don't keep score? Are they the opposite of the abandoned youth, or are they one and the same - do kids without boundaries feel abandoned, too?

Looking Good in Orange

I'm sure the people of the Ukraine appreciate GW's tie choice in this pic from Sunday.

Dinner and a Movie

Last Thursday, Cooper and I went out on a little date, to the movies and dinner.

A Red Robin just opened up around the corner from us - just your standard burger-type place - and we thought we'd try it. But first, we went to see National Treasure. It was a toss-up between NT and The Incredibles. We chose poorly.

Not that National Treasure was a bad movie, exactly. It was pretty entertaining (despite, or perhaps because of, liberally borrowing from the DaVinci Code). But unbeknownst to us, the movie is not adult fare.

It's marketed like an adult's movie. But all of the previews (except for the one for Ocean's Twelve) were for kids' movies. We thought, well, it's just that it's a Disney movie. We were wrong.

National Treasure would be my favorite movie in the world, if only I were in fifth grade. It's entertaining and has a solid and entertaining plot. The actors don't get in the way of the story. But it certainly isn't sophisticated.

So what does that say about the marketing? All the cross-promotions with Visa, McDonald's and every other big brand out there (Warner Bros. practically has the Treasury on their payroll, what with the dollar bill's involvement in their ads)...these are all aimed at an adult audience. Has movie production gotten to the muddy and expensive point where it's necessary to market to the entire population just to ensure a profit?

I don't know what I'd have done differently with the NT marketing campaign, and I don't doubt that the movie will do pretty well. But I, for one, walked away feeling a little taken. Like I'd been fooled.

And on top of that, Red Robin was less than fantastic. It wasn't terrible, but it wasn't any better than Bateman's, our local burger place. And I'll patronize a locally owned restaurant or shop over a chain any day. Plus, it was more expensive than Bateman's.

Needless to say, our big date was a little disappointing. At least the company was good.

The Romance of Heckling

Reading about things like this gives me the chills - in a good way. And between the Ukraine and this in Iran, I'm spending a lot of time with goose bumps these days.

I have an incredibly romantic idea of what it must be like to be a part of a mass of humanity, valiantly marching for justice. The reality is probably a lot colder and dirtier than my imagination, and I doubt that all of the romance involved makes up for the hell of living in an unjust society.

But when I watch, for example, the crowd scene in Moscow at the end of the movie The Saint, part of me wishes I was in the middle of that crowd, watching a cruel Mafia-type leader fall from grace.

But then I always remember photos like these, from Tiananmen Square, and all that romantic mystique somehow washes away.

I Can't Explain

Ann Althouse mentions my favorite Who song by name.

It wasn't the first song by the group I loved (that was "I Can See for Miles") but it became my favorite. It never seemed to entirely fit with the Who's work as a whole, as it's so poppy, but it's just so catchy.

I Do Love My Wine

Since it's become easy to order everything online, I've been wishing I could order wine. I even get a few catalogs that ship wine. Alas, they don't ship wine anywhere on the East Coast. But that ban might soon come to an end, as the Supreme Court will decide on the consitutionality of the ban this year.

I'm thrilled, of course, that my life might get just that much easier.

The French Paradox

France is just full of mysteries, huh?

For me, the biggest question isn't how French people can smoke and drink themselves into oblivion every night until they're 80, it's how a country so beautiful and full of amazing resources (the food, the wine, etc) can produce individuals who are so ugly and a government that supports them.

The shooting of civilians in the Cote d'Ivoire is just the most recent institutional example of poor French behavior. On a more personal level, I spent four days in Paris with a business school class in early 2001. While there, I ate amazing food and was in complete awe of the city around me - it really is that beautiful. But the people...another story entirely.

The only French person I spoke with who was even a little bit nice was a cab driver who drove me (and three friends) to Sacre Coeur to watch the sun rise one morning (definitely something I would recommend if you can manage the hour).

Every other French person I met, though, was nasty. And I speak passable French - I certainly wasn't trying to talk to people in English!

It's just so beautiful and the French have so much about their country to appreciate - why don't they?

(my friends and I on the steps of Sacre Coeur just after sunrise - from our seats, we watched the sun rise over Paris)

Saying Goodbye to KenJen

I'd be lying if I said my heart didn't break a little last night when Ken Jennings finally gave up his reign as Jeopardy champion. I'd feel differently if he wasn't so likable, but it's hard not to cheer for someone like him (obviously, the KenJen backlash never hit me).

I hope Dana Stevens is right, and that one day we'll see Ken at the helm of the show, maybe even doing a little Alex impersonation. He is a funny one, after all.

Back to the Future of Media

Seems that everyone's pretty into hypothesizing what's next for digital media these days...