A night for analysis (my brain is fried)

Over at BitterGrace Notes, the blog is subjected to Typealyzer (that's not a typo) and GenderAnalyzer. I haven't been up to writing, reading or doing much of anything today, so I, too, merely typed in my blog's url into these site's boxes and let their mysterious analyzers work their magic. This blog appears to be written by a woman (63% certainty) and by an "Entertainer", Myers-Briggs personality type ESFP:

The entertaining and friendly type. They are especially attuned to pleasure and beauty and like to fill their surroundings with soft fabrics, bright colors and sweet smells. They live in the present moment and don´t like to plan ahead - they are always in risk of exhausting themselves.

They enjoy work that makes them able to help other people in a concrete and visible way. They tend to avoid conflicts and rarely initiate confrontation - qualities that can make it hard for them in management positions.

Moi? The bad drawing of a woman leaning against a bar with a bubbly drink in her hand didn't do much to help me see how I just might have some of these characteristics.

Then, I strolled over to Monkey Mind, where, lo and behold, I thought he'd subjected his blog to the same analyzer. But no, he took the Enneagram Test.

Still, it was an odd coincidence. Of course, I had to take this test, too, but it's much more involved than simply typing in my url. I had to answer 108 questions.

The results?

Main Type	Overall Self

Take Free Enneagram Personality Test

A potential tyrant? I suppose it's possible. I have no idea what the second box means, and so, I took yet another test. Yes, this is exactly the kind of nonsense I engage in when my eyes hurt, my head aches, and I should be asleep. But no, I went ahead and took the Jung Preference Exploration text, which is even longer.

I tried to post the results of this test, but it's html causes my entire blog to rearrange itself. Not good. What were the results, now that I've wasted almost an hour trying to correct the coding problem (and failing)? I am a "persuader", who wishes she could be a persuader, and is attracted to peruaders. But wait - I had to take the same test on a different site, so I could find out what my four letter analysis was (because I'd forgotten it in the space of about two minutes), but it had slightly different questions and told me I am a "strategist" (INTJ). I looked up their definition of a persuader and those four letters didn't look familiar. I comtemplated taking the other test again, all 140-odd questions of it.Oh dear, it's now two in the morning! Have I lost my mind? This is the kind of web activity that can be a problem.

I think I should go to sleep now, don't you?

Image note: An "official" Rorschach test. What do you see? Leave your comments. If I get at least three responses, I'll tell you my mine (in all its ridiculous detail).

Addendum: And now I find out that TMC's done a quiz tonight, too. I'm afraid to look at any more blogs. This is the sort of synchronicity that makes me think astrology isn't a crock. I have enough trouble with reality as it is. I can't start thinking about the possibility of unproveable things. Next thing you know, I might start thinking I've been abducted by aliens, implanted with probes, and am sending signals back to the mothership for real analysis.

Addendum II: It's now 3:03am. I took the How British are You quiz (45%, just like Over-Thinker). After seeing the results of that illuminating quiz, I took the "What Tattoo Should You Get?" quiz, and the answer was "The all over your body kind!" I've already got that. I was rather expecting the answer to be "A tattoo? Not for you!."

Addendum III: Obviously, I'm aiming on feeling awful tomorrow. It's 3:19 and I keep taking these stupid quizzes. Who writes these things? Evidentally, I should live in Barcelona but my "inner European" is Dutch.

Addendum IV: I had to take that test again. I misread them the first (or was it second?) time round, and didn't see that my results created a "tie", where I could be either a ENTJ ("Field Marshall". The basic driving force and need is to lead. Tend to seek a position of responsibility and enjoys being an executive. 1.8% of total population) or a ENFJ ("Persuader". Outstanding leader of groups. Can be aggressive at helping others to be the best that they can be. 2.5% of total population). Sheesh, you'd think I'd be rich and successful, considering these results. Grrr.

PS.I don't blame you if you've forgotten about the ink blot test. Now, what do you see?

PPS. As I'm supposed to be a persuader, a tyrant or a field marshall, I suggest not only leaving a comment about the inkblot, but taking this test.Karmadillo did. `

File under "wow"

Buddhist monks from Thailand's Sisaket collected a million bottles to build the Wat Pa Maha Chedi Kaew temple. See more photos and read about it here.

Ten reasons why I'm probably a nerd

1. I watch the Big Bang Theory. I thought "Rock Paper Scissors Lizard Spock" was funny, even if I didn't get Sheldon's reasoning, but I'm not a theorectical physicist. Note: After I just watched the clip (with it's overly loud laugh track), I actually get it.

2. I went to one of the first Star Trek Conventions. I always thought I went to the first one, but after a quick google search, I apologize for my ignorance. That convention was at the Hilton Hotel in New York City, where a bunch of my friends and I rented a room. I don't remember us being die-hard Trekkies, but it was more of a science fiction convention, and besides, it was an opportunity to rent a hotel room in the city.

Sadly, this is my biggest memory of the convention: I was walking in the lobby of the hotel, smoking a cigarette (yes, you could smoke inside then). A man passed me, and as he did, he said, "Don't you know smoking is bad for your health?" I said, "Oh, f*ck off, old man." Then I realized he was Isaac Asimov. Isaac Asimov! He was one of my heroes! I may have been a nerd, but I was also a rebellious jerk teenager. I also had no idea how to employ snappy comeback lines. If I was going to be a jerk, I wish I had been more clever.

3. I wish there were more science fiction movies. Also, I wish there were more well-written science fiction books.

4. I read the New Yorker mainly for their science articles and wish there was a magazine devoted to science writing for the jargon-impaired.

5. I was fascinated with cryptology when I was a kid and actually fantacized about working for the CIA (or whoever hired cryptologists), but my family's politics made me think that I'd never pass the background check and that the CIA was probably evil. Early interest in codes is a dead giveaway for nerdism.

6. I love Scrabble. One of my favorite books is "Word Freak: Heartbreak, Triumph, Genius, and Obsession in the World of Competitive Scrabble Players."

7. I like British (aka cryptic) crossword puzzles. What I like even more is to make my own, and one of the "100 things I'd like to do before I die" is get a crossword puzzles published in the New York Times. Somehow, I think this is not going to happen, but one can always dream.

8. Buying the Oxford English Dictionary was one of the most happy moments in my life. I love reading it. Unfortunately, it's too heavy and using that magnifying glass drives me crazy. I wish I had it on DVD, but it's three hundred bucks, and besides, I hear people have complained it doesn't run well on their computers.

9. I am one of those annoying people who tell complete strangers, in the course of conversation, what the origins of an interesting word is or how some idiomatic expression came to be. I also inquire of others, "Did you know that __________?" about obscure factoids, when they probably neither know nor care.

10. I would be lost without the interlibrary loan service.

Bonus: I have a crush on Dr. Reid on Criminal Minds, but I suspect that even non-nerds do. He was a model once (which disappoints me greatly).

Photo note: And, I have a soft spot for "GI Joel" Sherman, a professional Scrabble player and prototypical New York-style nerd. While googling his name, I discovered there is a documentary about called "Scrabylon". Why didn't I know this? I'm going to see if it's on Netflix right now.

In which I own my crankiness and give you some background

Warning: This post may be offensive.

I'm getting so much vicarious pleasure out of reading various things about Kenny Shopsin and his restaurant. If you care to join me in this, read Calvin Trillin's article in the New Yorker. Then take a stroll over to Serious Eats and read one person's account of being thrown out of the restaurant and told to eat at McDonald's instead. You can also read a quasi-review of the book, "Eat Me", on the same site, where there's a photograph of the inscription, "F*ck You Ed - Ken". Of course, I've already recommended the movie, "I Like Killing Flies" in a recent post.

The book comes out on September 23rd. I wish I had a copy right now.

I feel completely frustrated that I'm not in New York City tonight (well, I am a bit tired). The best I can do is visit Shopsin's on the Web. Cool site, with homey links to some good drawings and other things, though I'm not so sure I feel good about the slick looking Essex Street Market, but I miss the bad old days of the Lower East Side (which is easy for me to do, given as I live in the boondocks). Kenny, if you happen to land on this site, here's a suggestion for your website: have your web designer program it to kick people off who navigate there from webpages you don't like (or randomize it). Then, for extra added realism, they can get some message about why they shouldn't be able to access the information.

I know one web designer who has worked it out so that people who are rude are shut down. I haven't tested it, so I don't know if they get a message telling them what's going on, and I won't, but I may ask if they do (stay tuned).

I thought to myself, "Why are you so fascinated with this?" Why do I want that book right now? Well, for one thing, it exonerates me in some way. I want to own my crankiness (even as I loathe the expression - yeah, yeah, I own my feelings, blah blah blah).

I've been pulling down cranky and offensive posts, trying to take the high road, as if I'm running for office or something. Who do I think I am, Obama? Even he's not taking such a high road!

Look, just because McCain has fallen off the straight talk express doesn't mean I have to become a jerk, but I am allowed to be the curmudgeon that I am once in a while. So what if I'm a Buddhist? Some of the biggest jerks around have been Buddhists! Trungpa Rimpoche? He was a drunk and a womanizer (and no, I don't approve, but he wrote some good books and started the Naropa Institute).

How 'bout Allen Ginsburg? He seemed like a happy, fat Jewish Buddhist fellow, but I know he wasn't always dancing and singing. My father thought he was an ass (though my father thinks that of everyone). Oh, Ginsburg thought my father was an ass, too, and, I discovered this bit of craziness when I was with him at an Apple Store, innocently googling his name in front of a huge monitor. Oy vay!
And no, I'm not giving away the story - if you're really curious, click the link!

Well, I suppose I'm sick of pretending that I'm so nice. I am nice, a good deal of the time. But, I'm also totally opinionated, somewhat bitter in spite of having a crazily optimistic streak, angry, tired and cranky. And if I own it (grrr), it's a-okay. It's fine! I feel oh-so-much better, thank you very much.

Expending energy worrying about hurting others feelings or being misconstrued is a big waste of my time. I am bound to hurt other people's feelings and be misunderstood. That's the nature of being a human.

As a woman (and yes, I am a feminist, and not some newly minted Republican version), I was raised to be deferential, accomodating, smiling, a good hostess, a housecleaner, and a mender, and all this I was taught by someone who held consciousness raising meetings in the living room of my family's house once a week. What kind of crazy making message is that?

Here's some more insane messages I was taught, as a girl:

If a boy hits you, it means he likes you.
Love hurts. Get used to it.

If you're unattractive, develop an interesting personality (but don't let on if you're smarter than the man you're having dinner with).
Tell an interesting story while keeping your mouth shut.

Don't masturbate in public.
Oh, that one is a good piece of advice.

There's more where that came from, I assure you, but I just ran out of steam. It was the last one that did it. Yes, I did receive that piece of advice from my mother. Why, I can't tell you. She told me lots of very good things about sex, as a matter of fact, but I wasn't particularly interested in hearing them from her.

How in the world did I get from Kenny Shopsin to my mother's nuggets of advice? Well, perhaps it's just a neurotic New York Jew thing. Realizing that Gilbert Gottfried(see note at bottom of post) is my favorite comic has caused me to start owning my, ahem, "Jewish heritage" (a topic which deserves at least half a dozen self-deprecating and/or thoughtful posts, but not tonight). Speaking of which, I had forgotten to post this earlier:

The States of Personality

This is absolutely fascinating. Check out how your personality relates to the State in which you reside. I live in Maine and therefore, statistically, I should be neurotic, extraverted, not particularly conscientious, agreeable or open-minded.

I'm originally from New York, so I started out (statistically speaking) neurotic, only vaguely extraverted, conscientious and quite disagreeable, but very open-minded.

I'm thinking "New Yorkers are less extraverted than people in Maine?!" No way. I must look into this further.

What do you think, and are you State-normative? Find out here.

(I believe the correct spelling of "extravert" is "extrovert" but I'm only copying what's on the link above.)

Okay, this long and semi-coherent post is now drawing to a close. What picture will I use to sum it all up? I have no idea. Be back in a few minutes with my conclusion.

Image note: Why? Why not? I was bound to use it sometime. Find a reason. I have mine, and I'm not telling.

The Gilbert Gottfried video is old, and not the infamous Aristocrats one. If you don't know who Kurt Waldheim is, click here before watching the clip.

Blah blah blah blah blah

I am intellectually lazy. I don't try to find the exact right word. If I find that I can't reach a conclusion, I'll stop writing and say "oh, I think I'll end it here". Most days I think it's a-okay, that's me, take it or leave it, so what. I never said I was a Writer (with a capital W no less). No, I never did and I don't. My writing is me talking in my head, talking to you, my imaginary readers, and is just an exercise in self indulgence (which to be very good for my mental health).

Once in a while I dearly want to express an idea but i find it hard, and so, I have many drafts that are left in the dust, abandoned, never to be finished and never to be read. And I wonder if these poor abandoned potential posts might contain the best stuff.

See, I don't want to write the word stuff, but i can't think of anything else, and I can't be bothered to tax my brain enough to find another.

As usual, this is but a preface to what I want to write about. First I make excuses, hem and haw, explain, apologize, ruminate, or any other tactic to obfuscate the fact that I can't get straight to the point, state my position, back it up and then come to a conclusion. I was going to write, "see, I'd never be a good debater" (and I did, in fact, just write that). But no, I am a fairly good debater, but when people start raising their voices, I walk away, or if I am cornered I'll say "Oh, I really don't know much about this anyway. You're right." Blogging is a good remedy for that. If you disagree with me, I don't have to hear the tone of your voice and I can walk away from a topic at any point without some else saying, "Hey wait, I wasn't finished yet!".

Well. Let's get to the subject, now, shall we?

Earlier tonight I was thinking about the connection between creativity and depression or other "mental illnesses". I've been in a very good mood lately, and I find that when I am, I have less of a desire or need to write. I don't even know what to write about. I could write about politics, but I realize that even though I'm nearly obsessed with this particular political season, I have nothing really new to say, and as I've written before, there are hundreds of professional talking heads to write about this topic. I have some perfumes I'd like to write about, but my thoughts on them are not much more than reviews, so why bother? I've been knitting more than usual, but I have nothing to say about my knitting (well, that may not be true, so I'll hold off on that).

What remains is a question that has been asked over and over again: If people could rid themselves of mental anguish, would they be as creative? If no one had a lousy childhood or faced hardships, would the arts die out? Think about it: there's art as protest, art as catharsis, art as redemption, art as revenge. . .(ah, see how I trail off. . .)

How important is art about beauty? The notion, of art expressing beauty, is practically archaic. Can you imagine a Whitney biennial full of "romantic" art that is not tongue-in-cheek? Or rock and roll that is truly about lasting, enduring and possibly universal love (without any shmaltz?) Or poetry and novels where people are not struggling in some way?

I can't.

I wonder sometimes if my inordinate appreciation for the tiny things in life is intense mostly due to its contrast to the times in which I find the world bleak, miserable and unbearable. If I didn't find such joy in the plants, the birds, the way the light comes in the windows at a certain angle just so, the smell of a new miniscule vial of perfume, I would be near suicidal. I must, absolutely must, stop and notice. I can not afford to not slow down and appreciate this stuff (there's that word again). When I do, I fall apart. Completely. The world becomes bleaker and bleaker until all I see is a kind of horror and futility. The days drag on with purposelessness. People seem distant, as if I'm separated from them by a thick dirty window. I only see what's bad (and there's plenty of it) until I find myself hiding under the covers, wishing for obliteration.

My moods are like weather. If I stay alert, take it slow, watch and notice, I may not see the storm coming, or if I do, I may not be able to keep it at bay (for who can control the weather?) but I can sit back and watch it pass, wreak its havoc and then clean up afterwards.

In truth, I love the weather after a good storm. And as with the real weather, the weather of my moods, the days that have gone black, are always followed by an intense parting of the clouds, with bright light illuminating something new, always something new. New ideas are hatched, the dead and fallen wood of the received ideas I carry around with me gets thrown away (though there's always more where that came from) and I arise, feeling radiant, refreshed, cleaner and more alive.

I remember when Kramer's "Listening to Prozac" came out, back in 1993. In it, Kramer worried about the lessening of creativity when some of his patients took this new SSRI. And some of his patients, indeed, felt like their creative selves had somehow been diminished. Others felt freed, at long last!, from their demons and depressions and could work well and happily in the world. It was a hodgepodge, an interesting hodgepodge.

I do not remember his conclusions (though I remembered that I asked my doctor for Prozac, so they must not have been too forceful against the drug). Perhaps I should re-visit the book, which has been revised and has a new preface entitled "The Landmark Book About Antidepressants and the Remaking of the Self".

The re-making of the Self? That's a pretty scary thought.

I like my self. I don't want to re-make it! I even like the things that are "wrong with me" (well, on good days, at least). Really really normal people are boring.

A friend of mine and I watched some clips of Russell Brand, an English comedian/actor/TV show host/media whore (oh, sorry about that) last night. The guy is a lunatic! I'm jealous of him! He blathers on and on about nothing and everything. If he censors himself, it doesn't show. He'll tell another man he wants to have sex with him (even though he's straight), 'cause he's cute. He says heroin is lovely (though he doesn't do it anymore) and, besides, who describes heroin as lovely? Well, only an English person; "Oh, dahling, I'd like a dime bag of heroin and a crumpet. Pass me a lump of sugar, there's a dear. Thank you oh so very much."

Who wants to watch normal people talking to each other, anyway? How boring would that be? Y'know, I realized Adam Sandler was not a funny guy when I saw Russell Brand interview him. He's just a shade more smart seeming than the character he's played over and over again and epitomized in "Billy Madison". Oh dear. He's so american.

We are so ambivalent in this country. Be weird, but just enough to entertain us. That's a very fine line. Dean blew his chances at the presidential nomination because he screamed way too out-of-control. Leaving his Scientology aside (which is a bit hard to do) what's his name (what IS his name??!!) ruined his career by jumping up and down on an interview sofa. Britney shaved her head. I could go on and on.

The only thing that ever saves people who go over this edge is coming back redeemed. They have to publicly denounce or renounce their behavior (usually chalking it up to some addiction or another), basically confess their sins in public, and then show how normal they really are, or are working towards (one day at a time, in most cases).

But no, in other places in the world, being eccentric or even flat out crazy is perfectly fine as long as you don't hurt yourself or others. In fact, you may be a shaman or, at the very least, someone others would like to have lunch with.

Okay: here is where I stop arbitrarily. Do you know how long I could go on like this? This isn't one of my finer writing moments, but I'm going to leave it, just the way it is, overlong, absurdly rambling and without an obvious thesis and conclusion. Make of it what you will(and if you've reached the end here, I congratulate you on your stamina).

And even more purple

No comment.

See the word purple in the list of past posts.

Addendum: As I sat outside for a few moments, watching the woodpeckers at the suet feeders, I was thinking about this video. The song is entitled "Start wearing purple" yet I saw no purple in the entire clip. It was then that the phrase "purple prose" came into my mind. Follow the link and I believe you'll discover why the word purple (and not just the color) has come to carry so much baggage.

In which I pick up the gauntlet

Two posts back, I asked my readers (all half dozen of you, I presume) to pick a topic for me to write about. Being me, I proceeded to post something that didn't address any of the suggested topics and instead wrote about the color purple once again.

But now I return to accept the challenge of somehow writing about Obama, Bvlgari Black, L'artisan's Dzing! and birdwatching all in the same post. Can I do it? I think so, but I can't promise that any of these topics will coalesce into one theme. Oh, I suppose I could make that happen, but not without a comedic stretch that I'm just not capable of tonight (or tomorrow either, I'm sure).

I do wonder if any of the candidates wear fragrance. I am sure that McCain's wife does. I must admit that I think she looks fantastic. She reminds me a bit of the character "Seven of Nine" from Star Trek Voyager. Seven of Nine, played by Jeri Ryan, was a Borg separated from the collective. She was drop-dead gorgeous and as cold as steel.

There is a bizarre connection between Jeri Ryan and Barack Obama. Jack Ryan was a Republican State Senator in Illinois. When Barack Obama ran against him in 2004, Ryan pulled out of the race due to the rumors (that turned out to be true) that one of the reasons for his divorce from his wife Jeri is that he asked her to go to sex clubs with him.

How did I find this out? Well, one can google it easily, but why would one, at random? I did, because I was making a joke about Obama sometimes reminding me of the character Tuvok from the same Star Trek series.

Sheesh, talk about six degrees of separation. In this case, it even weaves in and out of fantasy-land.*

So, how do I segue into talking about Bvlgari Black? That's simple. Jeri Ryan is a fetish object. Oh, yes, she's a real living woman, but take a look at her (especially as Seven of Nine). Bvlgari Black? It's an in-joke for rubber fetishists, smelling as it does of rubber and baby powder.

I find the scent of Black to be utterly intoxicating. Its "rubbery" smell is not overpowering in the least and fades somewhat quickly, leaving one to smell rather like a freshly changed, bathed and powdered baby. With all the giggling behind the in-joke of this fragrance being the stuff of fetishists, it's rather ironic that its ultimate feeling is one of such innocence.

Not so with Dzing! which is "supposed" to smell fun in some way. It is decidedly not fun, though its analysis may be. I have worn it a number of times now and still can't decide how I feel about it. I wouldn't want to wear it out of my house, that's for sure. But it is most interesting, to say the least.

There's something truly repulsive about it, but both myself and others have noted that one doesn't want to wash it off even while one is wrinkling their nose in disgust. It's so elusive - what are those smells? Turin says it's lignin, which should smell like paper, but I've never smelled paper like this.

No, my first reaction, my partner's first reaction and a friend's first reaction were all "Rubber? Plastic?" Dick said "burnt break pads", I think. Lisa said "hot asphalt" and I agreed whole-heartedly.

So, in the war for the rubber scents, I pick Black, hands down.

Now, as for the birds, they may get fairly short shrift. I can tell you this: birding while wearing perfume is not a good idea. I tried it yesterday (unintentionally) and got eaten alive by black flies and mosquitoes, even while wearing Ben's bug dope.

I do wonder if wearing fragrance might mask my human scent enough to aid in being closer to birds, but somehow I think their sense of smell may be better than that. Otherwise, how could the Orioles suddenly show up when I put out the first oranges of the spring?

If you know the answer to this one, please leave me a message.

Okay, I'm tired and I've done it. Wrote about Obama, Bvlgari Black, L'artisan's Dzing! and birdwatching all in one post. Successfully? Nah. But it's time for the sandman to take me away. . .

*This is not fantasy-land for many. There are some who speculate Obama is an alien being. No kidding. I won't do the work for you: google it yourself and find out!

Photo note: That's Seven of Nine when she was rescued from the Borg collective and afterwards, when the Doctor had removed as much of her implants as possible (yes, I'm a bit of a Trekkie). The second picture is of Cindy McCain, presumably fully human but obviously hiding something beneath those shades. Does she have an implant above on eyebrow?

Do I get extra points for including another subject (the Ryan thing) or do I lose points for being so all over the map?

In which I find myself inarticulate

Since the 18th of May I have written five posts that may stay in my drafts folder forever. There's too much on my mind. I feel inarticulate, at a loss for the right words.

Just now I deleted two sentences. Nothing seems right.

Here's a list of subjects that I've been writing about:
Obama
Clinton
birdwatching
Hermes' 24 Faubourg
Bvlgari Black vs. L'artisan's Dzing!
cynicism vs. optimism
scary clowns
my grandmother's earrings
the beauty standard
symmetry vs. non-symmetry
my first real kiss

So, help me out. What would you like to read about? Suggestions are not limited to the above!

Photo note: This photo of the Hussey's General Store sign has absolutely nothing to do with this post, but since this post was about nothing, I thought "time for the sign!!!" This sign sums up the Maine the tourists do not see.

I have finally found a hero of sorts

I have loved the Rolling Stones, especially Keith Richards.

I was a maniacal lover of Iggy and the Stooges.

I was fascinated by Andy Warhol.

I have read every book ever written by Iris Murdoch.

Yet, I never thought of any of these people as "heros". What is it about Luca Turin that touches me so?

I am at present reading his archived blog, which you can find here, all 548 pages of it. It is wondrously well written, as Turin's writing is and, sadly, the new English version of "Perfumes The Guide" just doesn't show it. I wonder why not. Turin's articles for the German newspaper, NZZ, are small gems (and you can find them at the same link provided previously).

I am wishing this blog archive was in book form, which shows me that I am still an essentially 20th century creature who loves the feel of a book in her hand. For this reason, I look forward to sampling L'artisan's Dzing!, which Turin says smells of paper. I adore the smell of books, old and new, and even enjoy the smell of a book infused with the smell of cigarette smoke. Sometimes I encounter this with a book from the library. My father's library has a particular scent, which I just now realize smells of his old habit of smoking a pipe. The only name that comes to mind is Borkum Riff (which is probably spelled wrong).

We stop smelling the scent of our own homes and last week when I came home from being gone for nine days, I was pleased to discover that my house smelled good. I confess to a new use of electrical plug-in scents from Bath and Body Works. I pretty much uniformly dislike all of their cloyingly sweet products, but the Fig and Brown Sugar Wallflowers are quite subtle, working a little magic in the background, quite discreetly. I would never have guessed it possible.

As always, I have to take many detours before getting to my point. I will not try to stop this habit, for that is who I am and how I write and I have no claims to being a "writer". Luca Turin: my first hero.

Why? First, because he writes so beautifully of such small things that it is almost heartbreaking. Second, because he is a maniac, impassioned and seemingly possessed with the lust to learn and figure out everything. He is both a specialist and a generalist; he goes against the grain of scientists who know nothing outside of their field. Third, he is both a scientist and an artist. And fourth, I must say again, he writes so beautifully and is so exacting at the same time that it takes my breath away.

For the first time, I have found a stranger whom I would sincerely love to share a meal and an evening with.

And fifth, I love him for saying this (from "The Emperor of Scent"):

"You'd think the ninety-nine percent would tolerate the one percent of us who are different, the weirdos, the fanatics, you'd think they wouldn't resent us so goddamn much. I'm prepared to live with those bastards! I don't want everyone to be like me! But they want everyone to be like them! "

This makes me think about the flap over "bittergate" and Obama perhaps being an elitist. The jokes about him inquiring as to the price of arugula. The current issue of Newsweek has a picture of both arugula and beer with the words "Obama's Bubba Gap" in between them.

Who am I? I love both arugula and beer. And by the way, it's very cheap and easy to grow arugula. I would imagine in Italy it is a poor man's greens. But somehow, here in America, it is something of a niche salad product, vastly overpriced for its ease of growth. The stuff is delicious (though my partner says it smells of cat piss).

I do not understand this country. Why should we want our leaders to be "just like us"? Shouldn't they be smarter than us? I'd like the president of the United States to be as smart and as educated as a person can be. But generally, those are not the types who are interested in politics. They are in universities. Obama came from this background, mixed it up with his previous background, sprinkled in some South Side Chicago and came up with a rare creature indeed. He is an original. This, I fear, is why people do not feel comfortable with him. He is not easily pegged.

Nor am I. Nor is Mr. Turin. Perhaps, depending on how things go, I may add Obama to my new list of heros. It feels great having someone, for once, to look to and say to myself, "There's how to live."

Photo notes: Luca Turin, Keith Richards, Iggy Pop and Iris Murdoch. At least Turin doesn't look ravaged (yet). And Irish Murdoch has passed away.
I originally had a cute little painting of beets and arugula at the top of this post, but realized I found the painting too trite for my taste and had to remove it.

Richard Lewis, Yiddish, American Slang, Salvador Dali, Bread: a trainwreck of thoughts

I was perusing a small book store last week when I picked up Richard Lewis' "The Other Great Depression". I remember liking Richard Lewis and was intrigued. I figured the book was about depression. Pretty good assumption, given the title. And it was a good assumption based on my memory of Lewis' stand-up comedy. I had always assumed the guy was depressed.

Lewis' entire schtick was kvetching. I use two Yiddish words here, because Lewis was portraying the quintessential "neurotic Jew" to the hilt. He made Woody Allen seem normal in comparison. I hesitate to compare the two, however. Woody Allen was a ground breaking comedian who has also made some films that were pure genius. I wonder why I'm using the past tense. . .

Lewis, though funny, basically did something that any "neurotic Jew" with a big ego could have done: made a career out of self-denigrating himself publicly. Yeah, I thought he was funny, but often felt "Why can't I get paid for this?!" I mean, I have plenty of neuroses and I'd love to get rich pacing back and forth on stage whilst complaining or being interviewed on talk shows and talk non-stop about myself and my worries. How did he manage to pull off this schtick? I'm sorry, but it seems like an easy gig to me.

Time out for Yiddish lesson:

From "Bubby's Yiddish/Yinglish Glossary": Yes, I could have used a "real" dictionary, but they didn't feel right (whatever that means). I wish Leo Rosten's "The Joys of Yiddish"" was online, for it not only has definitions of words, but the oft used jokes that go along with them.

Shtick: piece, thing, bit, part. Also, an act or routine (as in comedy or vaudeville.)

Kvetch: complain. One can kvetch (complain) or be a kvetch (a complainer).

Kvitcher: whine, whimper. "Quit kvitchering. You'll live! It's only a paper cut!" (A kvitcherer is one who kvitchers)

And the joke from Rosten's book:
A young woman was driving her grandfather through the desert, and he kept complaining, "Oy, am I thirsty! Oy, am I thirsty!" And he kept going on like this, and on and on and on and on and finally the young woman pulled off at a gas station and got him some water and Gatorade and anything else she could think of to quench his thirst. He drank some of it, and they got on the road again, and then he started kvetching again: "Oy, was I thirsty. Oy, was I thirsty..."

And now, back to Richard Lewis' book. I generally do not like autobiographies, biographies or, especially, confessionals (especially from famous performers). I don't want to know the "artist behind the art". It's usually a disappointment for me, or has been enough in the past (the distant past), to have kept me from even a fairly normal dose of curiosity about artists I've liked. I don't want to know how a composer treated his family, for example, for it may color my opinion of their music. Having learned more about Woody Allen's life has seriously damaged my appreciation of his work. I couldn't avoid knowing the dirt on him for it was public knowledge and I would have had to make a conscious effort not to pay attention to any news media to not find out that he was having an affair with what I consider to be essentially his step daughter. This doesn't make me like his films less, but I certainly have lost my respect for him. I suppose it may (and perhaps must) effect my sense of his "getting it right" in terms of portraying human behavior. However, I will say that even before all his personal drama erupted into the media spotlight, I had always found his conclusion about human behavior rather suspect. Interesting, but suspect. I suspected that he was, in essence, a morally bankrupt human being, and I now feel more sure of that prior assessment. Yes, that's a harsh statement, and you may vehemently disagree with me. But the final word on this is it doesn't make me appreciate "Crimes and Misdemeanors" or "Annie Hall" any less.

Here's the first part of my train wreck of thought. It's even worse than I thought. I started out, last night, to write something about a word I encountered in Richard Lewis' book. I haven't even gotten close to that subject yet (for I haven't even told you the word). I wound up writing about Woody Allen's scandals, autobiography, why I'm not interested and giving you some definitions of Yiddish words.

So, back to Richard Lewis (which I had said I'd do two paragraphs ago, didn't I?) The book is about his recovery from alcoholism. If it's about depression, I haven't read anything so far that really touches upon the subject, unless we make an assumption that anyone who drinks to excess is depressed (which I don't). Am I that interested in this subject? Not really. What I'm interested in, mostly, about his book, is his seemingly candid discussion of the desire for recognition at all costs. And today, I'm troubled, for I poked around on the web looking for something (what, I don't even remember now) and discovered that there's some controversy over whether Lewis is, in fact, an alcoholic or if he's exaggerating.

I normally wouldn't care a whit. If someone feels they have a substance abuse problem, that's their call. If they think their use is hampering their lives in any way, I go with the user's opinion. Who else can judge?

But when it comes to a celebrity, my alert system goes off. Are they trying to shore up their career? It seems many of these tell-all books come out when an artist is losing their celebrity (think of all the has-been musicians who've put out "read how much heroin I did and get a vicarious thrill out of how promiscuous I was" books).

Interlude: Confessional book subtitles
Slash: "Slash: It was excessive but that didn't mean it didn't happen"
Nikki SIxx: "The Heroin Diaries: A Year in the Life of a Shattered Rock Star"

Only two books? There must be hundreds! But I'll leave that to another time. . .

And why has William Burrough's "Junky" now become "Junky: the Definitive book of Junk"?

Richard Lewis' book really does take the cake with its subtitle: "How I'm overcoming, on a daily basis, at least a million addictions and dysfunctions and finding a a spiritual (sometimes) life" The paperback even has a sub-subtitle! "With a new preface from the author on his current state of mind." Oy gevalt. (I'm tired - google that if you don't know what it means.)

Now, my third try to get back to Lewis' book. I'm reading along. Sort of enjoying it. I think "it's light reading", which is funny, because one reviewer said ". . .painful, shocking, a soul stripped bare. . ." What am I to make of this huge gap in perception? Nothing.

I want to get to my point. You will not believe how small it is. It's as small as a pencil tip.

Wait for it. Hold on. I'm getting there. In a moment. . .

First, on page 61. . .I started to become uneasy. . .he wrote about waiting backstage with Shelly Berman; ". . .rapping with Shelly Berman. . .it was a gas."

I just re-read four pages three times (oy vay) trying to find this tiny little thing, only to discover that it is also on page 61, right before what is written above.

Speaking about Lenny Bruce's mother, who was terminally ill (with what, he doesn't say), he wrote, "comics did benefits to help raise bread for her mounting medical expenses."

That was it. What I was looking for is: "help raise bread".

Maybe it was the whole paragraph. . .it bothered me so much I thought "I can't continue reading this." He says he's raising bread for a sick woman while digging rapping with another comic and it was a gas.

I just had had it at that point. Take off your shades, Richard Lewis! They are messing with your perception of things and how you express yourself. How come noone has called him the "yiddish pseudo hipster comedian"? Perhaps they're afraid of being labeled an anti-semite, but that's not worrying me 'cause I'm of semitic heritage myself (and why exactly does this let me off the hook?)

I am going to continue reading the book. It's become more interesting, in a way, as I see how full of shit he is starting to seem while trying to be "brutally honest". And why am I being so judgmental, anyway? Perhaps it's this: I am experiencing exactly what I usually try to avoid: knowing the personal life and inner thoughts of an artist whom I like.

I never really thought the guy was all that funny. The truth is, I related to him. Like I said, I coveted his "job". I still do on some days. I'm quite good at self-deprecating humor and I love to tell stories. My family is a bunch of nutcases and I grew up in a crazy household. I do see a therapist and there are many times he bursts out loud laughing when I tell him something that happened in my life, or the latest thing my father has said to me (especially then). I am not meaning to elicit a response of that nature!

Before I go off on for five more paragraphs about this, I want to say what happened last night (when I originally started this post). I went to find out when the word bread, rap and gas became part of the American slang lexicon. I got stuck at the word bread. There wasn't much. Or perhaps I was too tired to find it (likely), for I am too tired to hunt it down right now (and it's the early afternoon, not midnight after a long day!)

I put that task aside for a bit and decided to find a nice painting of bread to head up the post. Surprise of surprises: my first few hits were all painted by Salvador Dali! Who knew he was a still life painter? Not I!

I assume these were all early works, but they were not. It seems Dali had all sorts of ideas about bread. Unfortunately, because of the bread/painting search, I came up against a pet peeve (which is an expression I need to research) that is as great as my dislike of certain slang use, namely, Salvador Dali. Note: While spell checking, I discovered that this last sentence made no sense, yet I am leaving it in for it is really quite funny. Accidentally, I equate Dali with slang use. No, this not a "Freudian slip". Sometimes an error is just an error and a cigar is in fact a train. And now I am entering surreal territory where I do not like to go. It is only this: I am so tired that I am typing with one eye closed and I just nodded off mid sentence.

I have always thought Dali was a phoney, a hoax, a media whore (and I give him credit for that before there was all that much media), a megalomaniac, self-consciously (not authentically) eccentric, filled with outrageously stupid ideas about human consciousness. . . .the list goes on. I really "hate" this guy! However, I have always found this painting, the Crucifiction, to be quite powerful (wow-check out that last typo - I know it's the crucifixtion!), but it has to be seen in person (Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York) to get the full impact:

But I love both religious art and music (as long as they are not current).

I had more thoughts about Dali, especially on his "paranoiac-critical method" of painting. However, this is the end of today's blog entry. I've had enough. In fact, I feel like taking a nap. Dali's ideas are probably completely irrelevant in the face of all post-modern theory, but I see there's an article entitled "A Semiological Exploration of Dali's Paranoiac-Critical Method" which I may read, and you are certainly invited to get there before I, if you are interested.

Last word: I wrote this post when I was dead tired. I just spent over an hour fixing all the typos. Now I'm wondering if the sentence I say made no sense does make sense. It's in red. You tell me.

Starting a new blog

I've had many blogs. I still have a few up. "The Craft Yogini" was supposed to be devoted to my crafts obsessions, somehow linked to my yoga practice. Another (now down) was about Zen Buddhist texts. "Medical Assistance Anyone?" was a way for me to memorize new terminology and blow off some steam while studying. There have been others.

Sounds like I'm writing about past lovers, no? There have been others. . .

I also regularly post comments on other sites; sites about music, politics, perfume, knitting, religion, psychiatry, medicine . . .do I need to go on? You get the picture.

Today as I put up another virtual sticky note on my computer desktop about the new perfume I'm wearing, I realized that I'd just have to start a new blog. Why not share my thoughts about EVERYTHING?

So, prepare to be bored or interested, depending on the topic.

And the disclaimer is: I am an inveterate dilettante and make no apologies for it. I hate this age of specialization. I may not know everything there is to know about what I'm writing about, but I've got my opinion. As do you. I welcome comments of sorts: second opinions, disagreements, encouragement, third and fourth opinions and suggestions. Welcome!