Another Post About Celebrities

June 22, 2017
ML: so
george clooney started a tequila company 4 years ago as a “side project”
with some other rich people
and diageo is apparently now buying it for 700 million fucking dollars
ID: yeah
i saw that
wtf
ML: w
t
f
ID: do you ever just think like
my life sucks
why am i not george clooney?
ML: only 4 or 5 times a day

PLEASE LET’S BE CLEAR

June 16, 2017

If I were more articulate, I’d find a way to describe my day yesterday other than “shittastic,” but because I dropped my phone down an elevator shaft, I don’t have access to my Thesaurus app, so I’m out of luck.  On my way home from an errand, I picked up the Evening Standard magazine, which I do on the regs even though I become full of rage when I see that once again, they are featuring the offspring of a celeb who is him/herself “on the brink of stardom.”  I honestly think the ES Mag goes this route 50 out of 52 issues a year, give or take.  These pieces all manage to peddle the same lies, and y’all know how I feel about a FORMULA.  So, while it shouldn’t bother me at all, below are a few statements you will inevitably see made in a profile about a celeb’s kid.  I call bullshit, and call on ES Mag to do same:

  1. The celeb’s kid is “not your average celebrity’s child” (Yes they are, because they are trying to become actors)
  2. Because they are totally “down to earth”
  3. Due to have “never really known” their parent(s) is (are) famous
  4. They never considered acting as a career (this one cracks me up)
  5. They’re totally not into the Hollywood scene (they say while sitting at the Chateau Marmont and musing on their first rehab stint, at sixteen)
  6. They don’t drink (DUI charges pending)
  7. They had to work as hard/harder than anyone else (HAHAHAH)

I Would Like This Turban Thing

June 13, 2017

That is all.  Thank you.

1000w

The Mindful Poet

June 12, 2017

 

Now I am opening my eyes. Now it is 8:36. Now I am dressing myself.   Now I am eating cereal. Now I am taking out my garbage. Now I am noticing that my garbage smells. Now I drop it in the bin on the corner. Now I am walking to work. Now I see the sky is ominous. Now I am waiting for the tube. Now I am contemplating throwing myself across the tracks. Now I am getting on the tube. Now I am pretending not to notice the woman sitting across from me, who is very pretty, or the man sitting next to her, who is in a handicapped seat but does not appear to be handicapped. Now I am not working hard at not judging him. Now I am arriving at work. Now I am imagining murdering my boss. Now I am entering data into the spreadsheet. Now I am wondering if life is meaningless. Now I am eating the sandwich I packed for lunch: cucumber, smoked salmon, and butter. Now I am thinking cheese would have been preferable. Now I am briefly napping in the toilet stall. Now I am returning to my desk. Now I am listening to two colleagues banter, and wondering why I am not in on the joke. Now I am thinking about checking my Facebook. Now I’m deciding not to. Now I’m sharpening my pencil, despite not needing it. Now I’m wondering what my life would have been like if I hadn’t quit playing the piano. Now I am imagining myself on stage at the Royal Albert Hall, and the audience applauding. Now I am deep in my reverie. Now my boss asks for “that report,” so I snap back to reality. Now I am watching the clock as the end of the day looms: 4:56, 4:57, 4:58, 4:59, 5:00. Now I am entering my local to have a pin before heading home. Now I am noticing my brain getting foggy. Now I am climbing the stairs to my flat. Now I am hearing the penultimate step on the staircase creak. Now I am hearing my neighbors make raucous love. Now I am undressing. Now I am nodding off.

Now I am sleeping. Now I am sleeping. Now I am sleeping.

FUCK YOU I’M MILLWALL

June 8, 2017

So, as most everyone knows by now, we had a wee bit of the TERROR here in London last weekend.  Not ideal.  But one of the things that always follows terrorist incidents are stories of human bravery.  Case in point: this absolute legend, who, unarmed, charged the terrorists yelling a battle cry of, “Fuck you, I’m Millwall!”

For the Americans amongst my readers, Millwall is a football/soccer club that is, how should I put this: thoroughly disliked.  Their fans are known to be uneducated thugs. In fact, a common cheer they use as a retort is, “No one likes us, we don’t care.”  So imagine how exciting it is for them––whether they’ll admit it or not––to all of a sudden find themselves VERY liked!

My husband and I have, like many others out there, found the story and the tagline pretty amazing.  So the other night, we were joking about making t-shirts with “Fuck You, I’m Millwall” on them, because of course when something is funny, the first thing you should do is make a t-shirt of it.  I was one click away from ordering 400 customized t-shirts (to the tune of nearly 1,000 GBP) when my wet blanket husband decides actually, it would be weird, and maybe we’d have to check with Millwall (even though I wasn’t planning on using the logo) and instead we could think about just having them say FYIM even though exactly two people in the universe (him and me) would know what the fuck that meant.

So fine, even though we were going to donate the proceeds to the victims’ families and other charitable causes, and even though I’m sure Millwall officials would be thrilled to partner with us on this initiative, the project will go on the shelf for now.  But let the record show that this shirt would have been bomb.

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Front

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Back

Comforting Rejections

June 4, 2017

In the not-so-distant past, I had a short, experimental-type thing rejected from a small literary magazine.  I must have succeeded in making something truly disappear from my Gmail–no small feat––because I can’t find the rejection note, but I’ll approximate here:

“Dear Itinerant Daughter,

Thank you for sending us A Short, Experimental-Type Thing.  While we are going to pass on this, please be assured that every submission we receive is read and evaluated carefully by our esteemed staff.”

Which got me thinking… why would it be comforting to me to know that you guys really thought hard about it but nonetheless decided my piece was crap?  In actuality, the rejection note I would be happy to receive would go more like this:

“Dear Itinerant Daughter,

Thank you for sending us a piece we can’t be bothered to remember the name of.  We’re passing, but only because we have so few staff members––all undeniably lazy and lacking in erudition––that we in fact haven’t gotten around to reading anything anyone’s sent us in… gosh, going on two years now.  Mostly we just assign numbers to submissions and then pick digits at random out of a hat and run the corresponding essays.  Unfortunately, your number didn’t come up this time.”

That’s more like it.

One of my favorite signs in London

May 26, 2017

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Monastic Sign Language

May 17, 2017

In a biography of Thomas Merton, a mention of “Cistercian Sign Language,” one of a few monastic sign languages developed in order to help monks communicate with one another.  A bit on Catholicism and sign language, from Jonathan Burgess:

Monastic sign language, much like the sign language with which most of us are familiar, is based on symbolic gestures involving the hands and face to communicate basic concepts. A Catholic who regularly attends Mass already knows at least one. Tapping one’s chest with a closed fist means, “Forgive me” or “Pardon me.” Pressing one’s thumb under the chin can mean “Alright. That’s it.” or “Enough.” Pressing one’s index fingers together to create the shape of a triangle means “Finish[ed].” Spreading the fingers of one’s hand and sweeping them across one’s cheek means “Pretty” or “Beautiful.” To sign “God,” touch the thumbs of both hands to the opposite palm while touching both index fingers to point upward in a triangle to indicate the Blessed Trinity. “Soul” is indicated by making a semi C-shape with the index finger pointing upward, touching the hand to one’s forehead, and then extending the hand upward. If a friend or interlocutor asks how one’s day is going, a brief touch of the cheek is “good” and a rub of the nose is “bad.” Touch one hand to the chin, and extend the hand forward keeping the fingers extended and joined with the back still facing the other person to say “thank you.” He or she returns the gesture to say “you’re welcome.”

Does this stuff really all come up in mass?  Or only the first one?  Anyway, I would fucking love to learn Cistercian (a specific order) sign language.  I’d put it in my bio and show off my skills at parties.  I’d sign my accomplishment from the Seven Storey mountain!

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Life Lessons

May 14, 2017

Things children in Samoa must learn before the age of five:

To sit or crawl within the house

Never to stand upright unless absolutely necessary

Never to address an adult in a standing position

To stay out of the sun

Not to tangle the strands of the weaver

Not to scatter the cut up coconut which is spread out to dry

To keep their scant loin cloths at least nominally fastened to their person

To treat fire and knives with proper caution

Not to touch the kava bowl, or the kava cup

If their father is a chief, not to crawl on his bed-place when he is [near]by

~Margaret Mead, Coming of Age in Samoa

Jacques Lacan Being a Dick

May 3, 2017

Interviewer: In your philosophy…

Lacan: I am not a philosopher, not in the least.

An ontological, metaphysical notion of the real…

It is not at all ontological.

You borrow a Kantian notion of the real.

It is not even remotely Kantian.  I make that quite clear.

***

“The Triumph of Religion” comes from a press conference held in Rome on October 29, 1974, at the French Cultural Center.  Lacan was interviewed by Italian journalists.