Nipsy Russell vs Gilbert Gottfried
Dan Rather vs Roy Blount, Jr.
You know how to pop the hood, don't you Steve....?
A report from the Society of Independent Newage Gals & Life Enhancers. That is a cheap acronym, but this is what happens when you pressure me to blog.
In fact, to show you how far behind I am, I am going to tell you about something that happened months ago. But I have been very busy. Helping you live the dream.
My buddy Jason contacts me -- we bachelor girls say "buddy," because while we can say "girlfriend" with impunity, "boyfriend" about another woman's husband is fightin' woids. He says "How would you like to stand in line at the bookstore for me to get Bill Russell's autograph?"
People I have stood in book signing lines for:
Jimmy Carter
Amy Tan
Barry Williams (you heard me)
People I have marched right up to because we are Hollins sisters:
Annie Dillard
Lee Smith
Jill McCorkle
Jeanne Larsen.. well, I actually do know her. I might have been standing in line for to ask for an extension.
Extenuating circumstances of this request:
Jason lives in New Hampshire; the bookstore is in the town next to where I work -- decidedly not in New Hampshire.
I honestly had no other plans.
Here is the thing about spinsters: we are either available or we are not. You think we are sitting home balling yarn or pressing flowers, and sometimes we are. But if we are, we are not really busy. If we are off to the theatre, driving to the airport, or helping Janice stencil the baby's room, we are busy, and we will tell you so. (And if we don't want to do your crazy errand, we will tell you we are stencilling the baby's room, so just keep that in mind.)
For me, I can sit around the bookstore reading The Economist as easily as I can sit in my house doing the same thing. So I said sure.
Jason's wife was mortified. But these are the things that only bachelors and the elderly can do -- the crazy screw-you-I-am-single self-serving tasks you would do if you could but you can't. Similarly, you are tolerating in-laws, which I just never...get.. to do.... (Church lady voice).
If you look hard enough in America's small towns, you will still find independent booksellers, and this is one area where they shine, because it is an "everybody wins" situation: draws traffic, raises sales, builds community. Wrecks traffic, clogs parking, loses sales. But I am getting ahead of myself.
The schedule had Russell arriving at 7pm. Patrons would be issued a line number when they bought their books, then group numbers would be called like airplane boarding. Until then, said the signs, "relax in our coffee shop."
So I went to the bookstore straight after work, bought the book, received number (brace) 548 and best wishes. Went to a fine dinner of Indian food, came back at 6:30 to get a good wingback chair. I really could have gone to a movie, but i already had prime parking, and if I moved my car I would never get back in, so I stayed where I was, and headed in.
There were a lot of rules. You know I love me some requirements.
Mr Russell is not signing anything but THIS book
Mr Russell is not posing for photos
Mr Russell can not chat
Do not taunt Mr Russell
In order to get through 700 signatures (or however many it was), we needed to observe these rules, or
NO BOOK FOR YOU.
No one was ruffled. It was a store full of people who just wanted to talk about old Celtics games and how Boston used to be, and how the game has changed because they are all hotshots now and no one plays team ball.
There were not enough wingbacks to go around, and too many old guys to give this middle-aged lady a seat. I had forgotten that most of the crowd would be old -- at least as old as Bill Russell. I had this same revelation standing graveside at Graceland. I pictured us 30 years from now going to hear Pat Benetar at Foxwoods. (or now, even) I wandered through the stacks listening to people's conversations, and made about 3 circuits before I was bored of that.
I knew that if this were Judy Blume, Jodie Foster, maybe even Tai and Randy, I would stay the night. Jason would stay the night. And tonight I am Jason's surrogate.
The groups being called by 100 began to slow to 50, then to 25, as people (with the collusion of Bill Russell) broke every rule. But what are you to do when an old red-faced Irish man clutches the big man's hand and gets teary-eyed talking about Johnny Most? Or the teenager, in his high school team jersey AND knee-brace tells him he was his inspiration.
So the night went on.
And now I am thinking, certainly this is more tiring to Bill Russell than it is to me. All I have to do is sit here.
The store officially closes to everyone but book holders. The coffee shop runs out of cookies, but keeps pumping coffee. Kids begin to fall asleep. Teens go out to the parking lot to throw a ball around. A rumor spreads that Russell is down to just scrawling "BR." At 10:30 I promise myself another 30 minutes, but we are only on #400 and I know it will not happen.
The cashier refunds my charge without protest and says (sincerely and very wearily) "I'm so sorry." And I assure her (not at all bitchy) that "it's really ok. I mean, I am coming out even."
I know Jason would have stayed. But only in a bachelor life he no longer inhabits. He might have been happy enough, as many of the men there were, to see the man up close and to talk about Larry Bird and replay every banner game as the hours unfolded slowly in front of them. Livin' the dream.
Living it for you. Just one more service we provide.
Dear Almira, It has been too long since I have written you. I was for a time out of good note paper, then there was a dearth of stamps to be had. But this morning I find I have all of the necessary supplies at the ready and can tell you of the scuffle going on in and around the country regarding the plan for telegraph poles.
In the kind of absurd civic engineering idea that only builders of bridges where there are ferries and canals where there are footbridges can concoct, the telegraph office proposes to erect a chain of wire-poles from here to Boston, in order to facilitate Mr Lowell's business correspondence. A rendering of the entire network was unveiled last night at the lyceum to equal parts applause and outrage.
Can you imagine it: a train of wooden poles, fashioned from trees which have been cut down from one place, their ends lopped off, carted to another place and replanted in holes left by the original trees that had oncebeen there. They are 20 or 30 feet tall, and as many feet apart, planted like pickets with no fence. From one end of town to another, down the post road and on until the State House -- a vertical stand of railroad ties -- all to carry wire to the exchange.
The local Transcendentalists walked out barking scripture or poetry, no one was sure which. Mr Martin drilled his walking stick into the floor with each step, attempting to drown out the Telegraph men and Mr Lowell's toady. Some of the society ladies leaned forward expectantly, certain there must be more to the plan than 30 miles of bare totems. The blue-stocking girls leaned mannishly on the backs of chairs, having already refused seats to some elderly gentlemen from the seminary. They found camaraderie between themselves in a muttering group, which formed a salon of its own in the back of the room.
The chairman from the Telegraph office waved his hands like a conjurer, setting the charcoal renderings side-by-side across the edge of the stage. He touched sections of the drawings as he presented them -- one single finger lightly skimming the drawings as if they were made of water.
I did not know what to think, and I am aghast at the outpouring of support our local barons of industry gave for this blight on our pastoral landscape. How could such an endeavor possibly come to fruition? Certainly, in the harsh light of even a Massachusetts winter's day, one can see that the gash is not worth the gain.
"What of my livery business?" called Samuel Lorimar, from the piano bench he had set to the side after coming in late. "What about my courier boys?"
And it was a fair question, for wiry mill boys who can't endure the heavy loads count on Mr Lorimar to employ them for deliveries to Boston. A top-hatted man with a monocle, unknown to any in my hearing, threw back his head and said Mr Lorimar was "thinking small." "Hire them as telegraph boys," he said, letting the monocle drop. "Twice the jobs in half the time. Save you a fortune you can reinvest in pole expansion."
Mr Lorimar slapped his cap against his hand and missed the nearest spittoon.
"That goes right past my drive," the Widow Carr exclaimed. "I will see that ridiculous array from my morning room. I won't permit it."
The chairman smiled gently and said she wouldn't have to. It wasn't necessary. Widow Carr seemed relieved by the answer, not understanding what he'd said, but one of the Holyoke girls understood well enough and laughed out loud.
I have never been one to stand in the way of progress. After all, I owe my livelihood to the wheels of industry and the ingenuity of innovation. But we have come to ruin if these telegraph poles are the footprints innovation leaves behind. I hope I should not have to see it in my lifetime.
Your loving friend, and social reformer,
Carrie
I have about 20 mins before my next move in today's itinerary and I thought I would take a stab at writing a stream of consciousness entry, in an attempt at breaking the block that has been lingering for a while. By now you know the lists are just a way of appeasing you so my URL doesn't fall out of your browser history. I know you won't come back if it does.
Because I understand it has to be convenient for you.
Blogging is the same way. And blogger's block isn't really writer's block. It is a form of it, of course -- when you have nothing to say or no need to say it.
This is not my situation. You send me ideas all the time . (And sometimes they are even intentional. rim shot) I have no shortage of topics in draft, but it isn't just about the ideas or the typing. Sometimes the modem doesn't hold a signal. The computer takes too long to boot up and I wander away. I schedule my time too tightly, and blogging is not an A or B priority. (mostly because I can do it in my head to solve what I need out of it, and I am a little selfish that way)
I think of that line in Friends with Money when Frances McDormand says she stopped washing her hair because "my arms get tired."
As it is now, I had to write out (the horror) what I was thinking while waiting for the H-P "health check" to tell me to buy a new battery (which I don't believe and I am not gonna) so I didn't lose the train of thought (and all its parentheticals) while the desktop widget queried for the weather.
Sunny.
For inspiration, I have caught up on my own blogroll, not that I want to write about what you are writing about. I think I want to write about what you are NOT writing about. Now I have spent about an hour reading that and the moment may have passed.
My creativity window is notoriously small these days. Sitting in the breeze of your creativity window and making witty commentary is so much easier.
I am so sorry I made you click here to read this. I will try to do better.
We have a saying in my family -- when someone asks you what's new, what's going on, you say "nothing to write home about." And often people will comment, "you write home often?" and of course the joke's on them. As you know... yes we do.
But I often think, when approaching the blank blogger screen "nothin much to blog about." I'll treat you to a real old-fashioned weblog entry from the life.
Pour yourself one.
I have a couple of outstanding life management issues of late. If you are a careful reader, you have found them:
1) I really need a new car
2) I don't talk to my neighbors
3) I need a good handyman, Eldin style
4) I have mice
5) I think Hollywood has gone Apocalypto, with a capital A -- every movie is about the eve of destruction, and what if these really are the end times (lower case)
6) I still work too damn much, only now without feeling, so now I hate myself on top of it.
But the light in my week is Recording for the Blind. Tonight I was treated to Legal Rights of People with Mental Disabilities. Besides being able to say "deinstitutionalization" and "mentally deficient," I began to wonder if I count as mentally disabled. These authors say only if your condition interferes with normal life operations and/or is dangerous. I am simply a middle-aged American who returns to the house 3 times from the driveway to be sure the oven isn't on, and who really won't run my drier if I am not home.
My goddaughter wouldn't get into the pool because she thought the flowers would come off of her bathing suit. I say, until proven otherwise, why shouldn't she think so?
Driving home, my oil light came on (that is, I was driving. Oil light was not) which it does now about 1000 miles too soon, but at 136K and 10 years, it is entitled. I just throw a quart in and call it a day. I stopped on the way home to do that very thing, in the parking lot of the Shaw's (next door to the gym I have neglected for over a week) feeling so independent and cocky because I just take care of these things, you see, when they need taking care of (please look away from the broken garage door, fireplace, and the mouse trap). Hear me roar.
8:30pm and I drive up, hop out to lift the garage door and wait...is that the car...door... oh.... crap.
Good thing it has a full tank of case and a new quart of oil. Which it is burning through.
Ass.
I got as far as the AAA phone menu-- because you know I throw staff at problems like these -- when I decided this particular mysterious way was more palatable than 4 horsemen and a whirlwind of fire, and I just went next door.
Husband next door threw himself into the puzzle as only other people's husbands will. Your husband, I am sad to say, will read you a full chapter of What You Should Have Done, but to me he will bring a coat hanger, screwdriver, and wood shims (of course he does). We will pick and pry and make what sounds awkwardly like sex noise as we guide each other to the elusive door button. Oh yes, manual doors and windows. I told you I needed a new car.
The wife suggests the cops will do this and pours us wine. After 20 minutes, I feel like he has made a fair effort but it just isn't going to happen (pause... giggle) and I call AAA. Waiting in their family room, wine in hand, charm fully on, we get to know each other while my car idles in the adjacent driveway. They apologize for the loud graduation party this weekend; I say I have been out of town, in Texas where I used to live. I decide to be normal and not international woman of mystery because they are being nice and it is 9pm in the suburbs, and he used his best husbandry on me.
We talk about the mice (they don't have them. Wife suggests I am not home enough and should have loud boys like they do). We tell our best cocktail party stories and I say what I really need is a handyman. Neighbor Wife knows one she loves. She is a realtor, she recommends him, he'll do anything. No job too small. I give her my email.
AAA comes and the other neighbors are milling in my driveway, worried I have been raptured (now, seriously, everyone knows my SHOES would be there) and chatting up the driver who is trying to locate the phone number I left him. Other neighbor confesses she has climbed up our deck to break in before. Husband and I get to tell our story to a whole new audience while AAA guy opens the door by ROLLING DOWN THE WINDOW with a bent coat hanger.
damn. that's hot.
I have thought of all the places I will hide my extra car key in the garage, all the places I will hide my extra house key in the car. But I am also giving the neighbors my email, and calling the handyman, and thanking my car for being so old you can break into it. And thanking the Lord for making me careless, even if just for a moment.
Have you noticed what's happened to your hummus container?
On the left, Tribe of Two Sheiks classic hummus, featuring the 2 camels logo:On the right, Tribe 
hummus.
Your camels have been replaced by pictures of the delicious ingredients inside. The middle-eastern calligraphy is essentially the same.
You probably didn't think the Tribe was really made in Cairo or Casablanca, but you probably thought New York City or somewhere equally as world-stage. Tribe makes its home in the South Shore environs of Taunton, MA, not far from where the Patriot play. (I gave up remembering what the stadium is called anymore. Canaveral, I think)
So here's how this happened:
The Tribe began manufacturing in 1994 as part of the Rite Foods brand of food...stuffs. The official story about changing the packaging is "Many consumers had trouble identifying the hummus flavor inside the old packaging. We took a significant step to correct that creating illustrations on the labels of the vegetables/herbs in the hummus."
This angle is not mentioned in the official story.
The Osem group is actually part of Nestle, so this is not a takeover story (except maybe how Nestle owns everything).
Meanwhile, chief competitor Sabra pushes its "Go Mediterranean" slogan, though they are also owned by Pepsi-Co. Speaking of owning everything. (Mountain Dew "Voltage"? "Charged with raspberry citrus flavor and ginseng" Stop the madness, Pepsi. And don't make a hummus soda, no matter what the Cel-Ray people tell you.)
For one last "equal time" mention, the Cedar's factory tour. Ward Hill, MA, owned by ... itself, from what I can tell. Community-active and academically-endorsed. I may have just changed my hummus brand.
62
but you do have to spell them correctly.
http://www.oneplusyou.com/bb/view2/countries
