unless we kill the lie as a nation
IRIS IRIS MURDOCH MURDOCH
Iris Murdoch is dead and not around to be offended, so maybe it’s okay for me to say: I don’t care if it did win the Booker Prize, The Sea, The Sea is possibly the worst title for a novel I have ever heard. I know it’s a quote from Xenophon, and I have nothing against Xenophon (except for being more important than readable). But why The Sea, The Sea (oh, there it is) instead of The Sea! The Sea! (yay, there it is!) Or for that matter, why use someone’s unpunctuated cry of surprise, alarm, or jubilation as a literary title at all? There are no novels (yet) called What Happened Here or Goddammit, Dog or There’s Cake in the Break Room.
However, there is an Iris Murdoch novel called A Severed Head, which is an excellent title and a pretty good book.
WINNER, CHICKEN DINNER
My favorite Trader Joe’s employee bested me in banter recently. I had run over there during the workday to get two things I needed, which happened to be their excellent organic mayonnaise and the king of cereals, Barbara’s Bakery Peanut Butter Puffins.
Me: I don’t plan to eat these together.
Trader Joe’s Dude: I don’t know. Could be good.
Me: You’re a sick man.
TJD: You don’t know the half of it.
Me: Okay, I don’t need to hear about all your gross fetishes now.
TJD: Adult diapers aren’t gross.
Me: I SAID OKAY. YOU WIN.
PLANNING FOR THE END OF THE WORLD
Nora’s Xmas list includes a sleeping bag, a Swiss Army knife, Nerf guns, and one of those fire-making steel flint things. I am considering the first three items but not the last, because we don’t need any more accidental conflagrations around here. She also wants some normal stuff like video games and “cool skateboard clothes,” but the survival gear was at the top of the list. I should get her some MREs, she would probably love them.
HAPPY SMOKESGIVING
Thanksgiving at my house was awesome, except for the part where Martha Stewart was a lying skank. That thing about soaking the cheesecloth in butter and wine and draping it over the turkey breast results in nothing but a shrieking fire alarm, frightened cats, and an oven full of smoke. Luckily this all happened before any guests arrived, so LT just pulled the whole cheesecloth mess off with barbecue tongs and threw it in the sink. Quit trolling, Martha. People (me) actually believed that cheesecloth nonsense. I’ma gonna get you back, lady.
I am quite glad Thanksgiving is over, because the planny planny-ness of it was driving me insane. I enjoy making lists and spreadsheets and plans of attack, but I can get a little obsessed with efficiency. When things get really bad I realize that I am not only multitasking, but mentally rerouting my actual steps to maximize my efforts (I will take the laundry downstairs and bring X and Y on the way, that will save me a trip, blah blah blah). There is no prize for doing everything correctly, you know? At the end, we’re all just dead, no matter how sensibly and rationally we complete our activities of daily living.
(Oh, do you come to this website for the cheering thoughts? Sorry.)
Time for some chaos, then, to counteract the compulsive Doing Things Right. Chaos and darkness! I don’t know exactly what that means at my age, though. Twenty years ago I would have been atop a fire escape in the freezing rain, holes in my tights and cigarette burns on my sweater sleeves, declaiming some Rimbaud to an uncaring sky. Now I will probably drink an extra (three) glasses of wine, leave the laundry in the dryer all night, skip my second dose of fish oil. Also, come to think of it, maybe the holidays are not the very best time to embrace the crazy, and I should hang on to the fascist spirit of capitalism and orderliness a bit longer. Moloch whose factories dream and croak in the fog! Wrap my gifts and add a festive ribbon! Moloch whose fingers are ten armies! Decorate the house, bake the cookies! Robot apartments!
—mimi smartypants bit detectives in the neck.