Thursday, January 27, 2005

Judging books by their covers

Despite my noble research efforts, I've yet to discover the origin of the old adage "don't judge a book by its cover." Through my reading, I've encountered related expressions such as "don't judge a man by his appearance," "don't ever read anything that's 'for dummies'" and "thou shall not shop for books in the magazine aisle of your local supermarket," but I've yet to trace the roots of said cliche.

Through my own anthropological expertise, I have dated the expression to a long, long time ago when all book covers were either red, blue, green or black and simply lettered in gold or black. A distant time before desperate housewives and metaphysical crystals graced our paperbacks and before pretentious titles like "A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius" rose above a sub-par rendering of a kite floating aimlessly in the wind. Before marketing teams attempted to gain control over virtually every sector of our lives by froced me to click on ads for viagra by tricking me with a photo of Morrissey (yes, I am very much a part of that tortured, "X" generation).

So I guess my point is that while I do not defy the old adage in a figurative sense, I do, quite literally judge books by their covers (including their titles) the majority of the time. I don't buy books with bad fonts. I don't buy books with titles that need to be read twice. When I see certain authors (such as Grisham and those stupid nanny diaries women), I also choose not to go past the cover.

Recently, however, I was faced with a dilemma: somewhat hippy/drippy sounding title and outstanding cover art.*I bought If Nobody Speaks of Remarkable Things anyway, and it was a beautiful book with a truly original and brilliant narrative structure, and I'm glad I got past my original hesitation and judgment and read the damn thing.

I guess the old adage is true after all, and I am a complete and total snob.

*I know. Authors aren't always afforded the last say on the cover art. But then again, it is determined by marketing/genre: you don't see buxom lady pirates and captains in sweaty embraces on the cover of Murakami novels, do you?

La seccante vita

Niente di nuovo sotto il sole.

(There's nothing new under the sun).

Actually, there's no sun at all here. People look gray and tired moving under gray and tired skies. No one looks at each other on the train. Everyone seems like they're dying, moving through city blocks out of necessity, and I haven't seen a spark in a long time.

Che triste e oggi...

Wednesday, January 05, 2005

Making menses work

I was wondering (i.e. procrastinating at work), how much blood is actually lost during a menstrual cycle. I found, with the help of a nifty guide to menstruation put out by Advil, that most women lose four tablespoons of blood during menstruation.

There is no fucking way. I plan, tonight, to do a thorough study of this "estimate" in my home lab using olive oil, a pack of OB tampons, a pair of period underwear and my kitchen sink. I'll keep you posted, however, in the meantime, I've revised Advil's handy guide to make it more user friendly:

What is my period?

The medical term for it is menstruation, but common folk like to refer to it as "the curse" or "that fucking time of the month." For about one to three weeks per month, you can expect your hormone levels to inexplicably rise and fall like this year's hemlines while dealing with mind-blowing cramps, water retention and excessive bleeding from your crotch.

My period sometimes comes twice a month. Is this normal?

No. If this happens to you, might I suggest an immediate hysterectomy, as, if you're indeed bleeding twice a month, you have nothing much to live for.

When will I get my first period and what should I do to prepare for it?

You will more than likely get your first period while wearing white shorts or at the beginning of math class under the watch of a teacher who refuses to issue bathroom passes. To prepare for your first period, I suggest wearing diapers around the house for at least a month to simulate the feeling of a maxi pad. Allow the diapers to stick to parts of your clothing and twist around. I would also suggest that you cut your stomach open and light your ovaries on fire to prepare yourself for menstrual cramps, practice yelling at any male that comes into sight for a week, exorcise your brain and all rational emotion with a pencil and gain about ten pounds inexplicably then start crying in the mirror when your clothes feel tight.

Will it hurt?
Fuck motherfucking yeah.

Should I see a doctor when I get my first period?
Yes. One with the ability to prescribe psychiatric medicines, remove your ovaries or perform F to M surgery successfully.

Monday, January 03, 2005

Listen to This, Volume 1

Rufus Wainwright- Gay Messiah

He will then be reborn
From 1970's porn
Wearing tubesocks with style
And such an innocent smile

Better pray for your sins
Better pray for your sins
'Cause the gay messiah's coming

He will fall from the star
Studio 54
And appear on the sand
Of Fire Island's shore

Better pray for your sins
Better pray for your sins
'Cause the gay messiah's coming

No it will not be me
Rufus the Baptist I be
No I won't be the one
Baptized in cum

What will happen instead
Someone will demand my head
And then I will kneel down
And give it to them looking down

Better pray for your sins
Better pray for your sins
'Cause the gay messiah's coming

(from the album Want Two)

What I would have written since Oct. 19 if I hadn't been in an election-related coma

The Week of October 25:
Work sucks. So does Celine Dion, Jeffrey Tambor, David Eggars and my hometown newspaper.

Election Week:
Maker's Mark. Red state, blue state. Maker's Mark. Another red state called. And another one. Maker's Mark. Another Maker's Mark. Another Maker's please...

The Week of November 8:
It really did happen. Another Maker's please...

Thanksgiving week:
I was taking trains, planes and using a lot of public toilets, which led to the following list of weird things women do in restrooms:
1) The "don't look at me I didn't do it" restroom stall exit
These are the looks you get when you're entering a particularly disgusting toilet stall (usually after waiting in a long, long line) that attempt to indicate said exitee is not responsible for the urine on the seat, the used tampon applicator on the floor, the toilet paper roll sitting in a puddle of ? on the floor, or the excrement marks that would have required a double flush.
The "don't look at me I didn't do it" exit is generally marked by a shrug of the shoulders and a slight pursing of the lips. Can also utlilize the "some people just don't clean up after themselves" head shake while holding the door for you, which is also particularly effective in these situations.

2) The "let me talk to you while you take a big fat dump because I'm looking under the stall and recognize your shoes" conversation
There's a lady I work with whose bowels seem to be in synch with mine who likes to talk to me while she goes potty. Usually, I've barely sat down when she calls out my name from a neighboring stall.
"Is that you ____? I thought so, I always recognize you by your shoes. How you doing girl?"
"Fine, this one's moving a little slow today, but how are you? I can smell that you ate Vietnamese again last night you naughty, naughty cow!"
What the fuck?

3) People think that if they spray enough Strawberries n' Cream air freshener, no one will be able to detect the smell of the fresh turd that they just laid.

End of November- New Years Day
Gettin' drunk; chainsmoking; playing with my new IPOD; making out; taking online IQ tests to finally accurately gauge my genius;reading; procrastinating at work; silently cursing carolers and all people who use "festive" and "fun" to describe articles of clothing, particularly those of a sweater variety often worn by small dogs during the holidays; cussing; knocking out spoiled kids in corduroy on the subway and trying to figure out (with my siblings) elaborate plans on how to minimize the time spent with scary family members over plates of nutloaf and rancid white wine.