Is it just me or is it weird that the psychologist who conceived of the Stanford Prison Experiment has this as a Gmail picture?
Awkward Avatars
March 11, 2016Calling All Jewish Jewelry Designers
March 9, 2016I’ve long been enamored of this story of Hasidic rabbi from Poland:
It was said of Reb Simcha Bunem that he carried two slips of paper, one in each pocket. On one he wrote: Bishvili nivra ha-olam—“for my sake the world was created.” On the other he wrote: V’anokhi afar v’efer”—“I am but dust and ashes.” He would take out each slip of paper as necessary, as a reminder to himself.
So enamored, in fact, that I’ve always hoped some spiritual jewelry designer would read my mind and make a necklace homage to this saying. Ideally, the necklace would be a simple gold, circle pendant, each side engraved with one of the sayings.
And yes, I do realize I can probably just have one made, and maybe I’ll do that, but I just thought I’d give some young upstart the chance to roll with a pretty great idea. #mitzvah!
Another Game
March 8, 2016Spotting pre-fame celebrities as extras. Here’s Viggo Mortensen as an Amish guy in Witness.
Not Kidding, Or: Sybil! The Musical
March 6, 2016Very frequently I say deadly serious things that people assume are jokes. Like, “Hey, save me some of that Percocet you’ll be prescribed post-back surgery!” Or, “I actually believe that photographs steal a bit of the subject’s soul.” Or, “Remember when I exhibited at Art Basel in Miami?” People laugh and say, “ID, you’re so funny,” and I’m left scratching my head, wondering how I could communicate to others better when I really mean something and when I’m just joshing around. Case in point: when I beseech people to find me a musical theater composer to help me write the libretto for a project I’m working on called Sybil! The Musical, and they laugh and then never find me any damn composer.
For those of you not into psych misery lit, Sybil is a classic––nay, THE classic––of the genre. Written by Flora Rheta Schreiber, with the help (or perhaps collusion) of psychiatrist Cornelia Wilber, Sybil tells the story of Shirley Mason––not named in the book––a young woman inhabited by sixteen distinct personalities. Her condition––Multiple Personality Disorder––was, the good doctor discovered, the result of unbelievable childhood trauma. When it was published in the 1970s, the public went wild for the story, and for the diagnosis (prior to Sybil, fewer than two hundred cases had been documented; after its release, individual clinicians claimed to be seeing thousands of cases a year.) There was a TV movie starring Sally Field, multiple appearances on talk shows for Schreiber and Wilbur, and talks of board games, dolls, and t-shirts.
One small glitch, though: Sybil wasn’t true. There was a woman named Shirley Mason, and she did enter therapy, but as Debbie Nathan tells it in Sybil Exposed, her fascinating 2011 expose of the whole clusterfuck, Shirley was heavily influenced by her therapist––and the drugs Wilbur frequently administered to her hapless patient––to basically behave like someone with MPD. And then doctor hooked up with writer and figured they could all get rich off the very salacious story of sex abuse, inner children, and ultimately, redemption.
One of the offshoots of Sybil they considered was a musical. Here’s Nathan:
“By 1986 [Flora Rheta Schreiber] realized that The Shoemaker [the book she wrote after Sybil] had put her $100,000 in debt. Sybil had sold millions of copies in America by then and been published in nineteen foreign editions, yet Flora was utterly broke. Desperate to make money, she tried to sell The Shoemaker to Hollywood or television. There were no takers. She pitched spinoffs of the TV version of Sybil: a soap opera; a Broadway musical she proposed should be choreographed by Twyla Tharp, with songs including ‘The Peggy Part of Me,’ ‘Nobody Likes Girls,’ and ‘I Want to Be the Man I Marry.’ These efforts also bombed.”
When I first read about the musical, I thought it was the funniest fucking thing I had ever heard. Obviously I’m not talking about Shirley Mason’s predicament, or the wave of irresponsible psychiatry her ersatz biography spawned, but just the concept of the musical. I have––no exaggeration–-thought about Sybil! The Musical every day for the last two years. And finally, I’ve decided to make a go of it. But I have no idea how to write a musical. For a short while in 2014, I worked for a very famous actor (his NDA spidey sense is probably kicking in right now) who was writing a musical, but I actually think I was better prepared to work within this genre before I had that experience. All I know is that I’ve decided on a meta-plot––the play will be about a troupe of actors working to put on a production of Sybil, in other words––and that the grand finale will be a modern dance-esque sequence in which all Sybil’s personalities merge together, culminating in a spirited version of “One” from A Chorus Line (provided I can secure the rights.)
So! Now that you know I am NOT KIDDING, will you help me find my composer? I think this will take Edinburgh Fringe by storm.
What IS Internet Logic?
February 25, 2016So the other evening I was Google Imaging Kiryas Joel––I honestly forget why––and I came upon the below result and thought, Nu-uhhhh.
Breathtaking
February 23, 2016I recently wrote to a well-known Catholic woman, a convert, to see if she would allow herself to be interviewed by me. She said no, which is sad, but her explanation is so beautiful that I’m almost glad I was on the receiving end of this rejection…
thank you for your invitation. I did consider it carefully but alas must say ‘no’. to the suggestion. I do not feel physically or mentally strong enough to look at my life and conversion again. The end stage of life is one where we do ‘look back’ and reflect on lots of things, but the time has come for me to stop self gaze of any kind and to gaze on the goodness of death and its transition that is a kind of ‘new birth’ akin to conversion, but maybe of a different kind. I have to let go of the past now and take that swim away from the shore to the unknown and am happy to do that.
A year ago I might have said yes, but not now. bits of me are already dying and I am happy with this gradual letting go. Of bots that no longer work. Best wishes for your own work and life.
Submitted to the Committee
February 21, 2016DC and ID attended the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show at Madison Square Garden for the second year in a row this year, and propose to add the following new rules to the drinking game:
When the handler’s outfit resembles upholstery
A truly dangerous decree. Think long and hard before voting this in.
A collective “awww” from the audience
This one might be only applicable for those watching the show in person. This year, a number of breeds got this sign of approval, including the Wirehaired Dachsund and newbie the Lagotto Romagnolo.
When the handler keeps treats in his/her mouth
This was discussed as a possible rule back when first formulating the game, but somehow didn’t make it on the list.
When the handler runs with a brush
Many long-haired breeds need the occasional touch-up.
If you are a member of the Society for the Advancement of Drinking Games, please fill out your ballot with your choice of proposed new rules and submit to Siobhan at itinerantdaughterandson@gmail.com. Next year, DC and ID, instead of attending both nights at MSG, will host a public viewing party on the first night of competition for members of the SADG and their guests. Location TBD.
How many more acronyms can I fit into this post?
The Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show Drinking Game
February 15, 2016Starting tonight, New York’s Madison Square Garden will host everyone’s favorite annual competitive event: the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show. Launched in 1877 by a group of “sporting gentleman,” the show is a two-night long competition in which canine entrants are judged on everything from the luster of their coats to the floppiness of their ears. Even if you happen to be more of a cat lady (like me), watching perfectly-coiffed pooches strut down the turf in hopes of being dubbed best in show is the best antidote to mid-winter blues. In honor of the WKC’s 140th birthday, we’ve written a drinking game to help you celebrate. Unless otherwise noted, take one drink for each. Those of you watching from home can enjoy a single malt and the witty banter of the USA Network-appointed panelists; those of us attending the event will get lukewarm Bud Light in jumbo cups, and the heady satisfaction that comes with a Maslow-ian peak experience.
The sequin rule: If you’ve watched the show a few times, you’ll have noticed that dog handlers, for whatever reason, are really into their sequins. Sometimes they sport a splash across their shoulders, whereas other times they’ll model an entire outfit after Michael Jackson’s famous shiny glove. Take a drink if there are any sequins at all, two for an entirely sequined outfit, and three if the handler wearing an entirely sequined outfit is male.
Shine bright like a diamond.
Owner/dog doppelgangers: The “canine mini-me” effect is real, although not universally applicable. Take two drinks if the handler, owner, and dog all look alike.
When the dog is from New York City: Everyone loves a hometown dog.
If you would have sex with the handler: Self-explanatory. If you actually have had sex with a particular handler, finish your drink.
The breed is new to Westminster: In 2015, two new breeds were admitted to Westminster: the wirehaired vizsla, a hunting dog from Hungary, and the coton du tulear, the national dog of Madagascar. This year, somewhere between five and ten new breeds will be introduced. We won’t tell you the exact number, so as to keep you on your toes. Fun fact: one of the new breeds is primarily known for hunting truffles.
When the dog has a human name: Most of the dogs at Westminster have elaborate, nonsensical names like “Roundtown Mercedes of Maryscot,” best in show 2009, or “Whisperwind on a Carousel,” the winning poodle from 1991. And then there’s Garth, a six-year-old bloodhound from New Hampshire, competing at Westminster for the fifth and final time this year. If the dog is entered under a banal human name like Jim or Stephanie, take a drink.
Handler tattoos: This is like spotting the chupacabra. Take two drinks for a full sleeve.
They do exist!
Direct fingering of the anus: As aforementioned, the dogs are judged based on different aspects of their physicality: width of shoulders, shape of head, pertness of tail, and certain rectal features, or so it would seem from watching some judges.
When the announcer says something vaguely sexual or racist: For the twenty-sixth year in a row, the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show will be narrated by David Frei, a former public relations guy with a voice like toasted and buttered heaven. We’d never suggest the lovely Frei would say anything actually offensive; this is more of a “that’s what she said” interpretive situation.
Breeder/Owner/Handler: More often than not, a show dog is shepherded through life by three important people: its breeder, owner and handler. But some uber-passionate people take it upon themselves to do it all. Breeder-owner-handlers are rare, and have only been part of a winning human-dog duo eight times in the show’s history. If a breeder-owner-handler takes the cup this year, finish your drink.
When you can’t see the dog’s eyes: Certain breeds, like all varieties of poodles, are made to wear elaborate fur-styles, whilst others, like the shaggy, huggable English sheepdogs, go au naturel, sometimes to the point where you have to wonder how it is they know where they’re going when they’re not being led on a leash by a bedazzled dog choreographer.
The winning dog is deemed an “underdog” by the announcers: When this is said, it is almost always unironically.
Nothing
February 8, 2016A deadline I can’t meet, a best friend who is far away, a pantry full of pretzels and nothing else, a head full of fluff––I can’t even finish this damn post. I want to be this baby!
Guys, I Give Up
February 3, 2016Re-reading Lolita, and having a much different experience of it than I did upon my first time, at seventeen. What hasn’t changed is how fucking amazing some of the language is. Look at this fucking sentence:
“I believe the poor fierce-eyed child had figured out that with a mere fifty dollars in her purse she might somehow reach Broadway or Hollywood––or the foul kitchen of a diner (Help Wanted) in a dismal ex-prairie state, with the wind blowing, and the stars blinking, and the cars, and the bars, and the barmen, and everything soiled, torn, dead.”
Seriously, I give up.
