Today on my way to work, the NPR announcer was doing a round-up of sponsors and mentioned an agency specializing in giant panda conservation. Living in California, with the state's prior energy crisis all too fresh in my mind, I kept wondering when she was going to say that you should keep your giant pandas off during the day, set your giant pandas at 68 degrees and not operate your giant pandas between the hours of 4 and 9 p.m.
Then the pandas reminded me of Lynne Truss's Eats, Shoots & Leaves: The Zero Tolerance Approach to Punctuation, that book I (sort of) blogged about earlier, and about Louis Menand's review in The New Yorker that kicks off by picking apart the grammatical and factual errors in Truss's book but gradually develops into one of the most eloquent compositions I have ever read about the art of writing. I mean, this paragraph alone is worth a thousand Eats, Shoots & Leaves:
One of the most mysterious of writing's immaterial properties is what people call "voice." Editors sometimes refer to it, in a phrase that underscores the paradox at the heart of the idea, as "the voice on the page." Prose can show many virtues, including originality, without having a voice. It may avoid cliché, radiate conviction, be grammatically so clean that your grandmother could eat off it. But none of this has anything to do with this elusive entity the "voice." There are probably all kinds of literary sins that prevent a piece of writing from having a voice, but there seems to be no guaranteed technique for creating one. Grammatical correctness doesn't insure it. Calculated incorrectness doesn't, either. Ingenuity, wit, sarcasm, euphony, frequent outbreaks of the first-person singular—any of these can enliven prose without giving it a voice. You can set the stage as elaborately as you like, but either the phantom appears or it doesn't.
I never intended to buy Eats, Shoots & Leaves, because any book with the words "zero tolerance" in the title is probably best avoided, but now I'm resolved to buy lots of Menand's books. For that, I think Lynne Truss has done me a favor.
I saw these in Barnes & Noble today, but I only went in there to use the facilities. I hate that place. I used to work there many long years ago, and they didn't give me health insurance even when I worked 40 hours a week behind the stupid cash register. But I digress...
These SAT vocabulary novels fascinate me. All the vocabulary words are bolded throughout, and they have a small selection of books in the romance (for your teen queens), crime thriller (for your budding psychologists), dark fairy tale (for your goth kids) and coming-of-age (for your slightly more bookish teen queens) genres. But let the publishers explain it themselves: "SparkNotes' SAT Vocabulary novels are compelling, full-length novels with edgy and mature themes that will appeal to teens. Each book showcases more than 1,000 vocabulary words frequently included on the SAT. Brief definitions appear on the same page so that readers can quickly access and digest the meanings as they read along."
Neat! "Edgy" and "mature" themes! Vampires! Surfers! Freshman criminology majors going undercover to bust drug rings! (What the crap? What college lets that happen?)
Bitter sarcasm aside (but only for a few moments or the very fabric of my existence may start to unravel), I honestly think this is a brilliant idea. For kids who are only marginally inclined to read, it may put these words in a more meaningful context beyond a list they must memorize and promptly forget once they put down their No. 2 pencils.
Of course, the likelihood that these books suck is high. It's the limitation of the word list. I mean, would a British vampire "sampling the nightlife in Manhattan" really use the same 1,000 vocabulary words as a junior in high school with a crush on her tutor? Why would she need a tutor if that were the case? And then there's this (from "Busted")
Even though he was rough around the edges, I thought he was totally hot. His green eyes were intense, and I've always liked the bad-boy type. Or, more accurately, the guys that looked like bad boys but underneath were simply misunderstood tortured-artist types just waiting for someone who really gets them. You know, like James Dean or Pacey Witter or Angel.
I think someone's missing a lucrative opportunity with SAT-vocab porn magazines, SAT-vocab "Grand Theft Auto," SAT-vocab "Survivor" and SAT-vocab hip-hop.
Think outside the box, people.
Guess I'm not done for the day. When it rains, it pours and all that...
Eric and I got into a long discussion about strip clubs this evening as we drove past a "gentlemen's club" on the way to dinner. Eric pointed out that many of these clubs make sure their bouncers are attired in suits and ties and sunglasses, but that most of the clientele do not seem very gentlemanly at all. Case in point, he noted, the three guys dressed in shorts, tank tops and baseball caps who were leaving this particular club.
What struck me was not so much their dress, which I could not see because I was driving, but rather the fact that they were leaving the strip club in broad daylight well before what I would consider prime strip time. I wondered aloud if these places are cheaper during the day, and Eric, who has had slightly more experience with strip clubs than I, confirmed that they are.
Naturally, that led me to posit that the really quality strippers probably don't go on until after dark. You don't want to put your headliners on first, right? Is it humiliating to be a day-stripper? Does one aspire to be a night-stripper? Does one, in fact, aspire to be a stripper at all? Is the field of exotic dance a high-turnover one? And, while we're at it, what's so "exotic" about it? Aren't even the best acts really just clever variations on the strut/swing on the pole/take off layers of skimpy clothing until clad in only a G-string and Lucite heels? Isn't that more formulaic than exotic?
These and countless other questions led to my fascination with HBO's G-String Divas when I still had cable. Why is this not out on DVD yet? I'm not saying I'd run out and buy the box set, but I'd Netflix the heck out of that show.
I've decided to stop apologizing (to whom?) when I let the blog slip for a week or more. Starting right now. Here we go. Get ready.
I will warn more sensitive readers to proceed through this entry with caution, because it contains, like, swearing and shit.
Eric and I have lived in our duplex apartment building for two and a half years now. We've lived in the two-bedroom half for one. In the house next door lives a friend of a friend, who I sort of know. I sometimes attend her parties (when invited, which is rare). I drag someone with me and we stand around her cute little house with her battalion of Eames chairs and dining room skylight and built-in bookshelves and small back patio and we watch the LA elite slip through the front door. There is a lot of stiletto posing, short skirt flipping and long hair tossing. I do not belong. But there is also free food and booze, right next door, and I lack both shame and self-control.
I do not think my neighbor has even heard of shame or self-control. Why do I think this? Because when she hangs out or talks on the telephone or invites people over to dine on her newly renovated back patio, I can hear every single word she says.
I never complain, even (and often) when it's 1 a.m. and she's talking so loudly that neighborhood dogs begin barking. Not even when it's 1 a.m. and she's talking so loudly that I have had to retire to the couch because I have a job interview the next day and I can't sleep through the din (um, for example). I never complain because I don't want to be the uncool complaining neighbor, and also because the stuff she says is so hilarious, I don't want to lose my listening privileges.
I have hesitated to write about this in the unlikely event that she might stumble across this blog, but I can't hold it in any longer. Not after Tuesday night. Plus, anything that follows was spoken loudly enough that everyone in the three- or four-house radius surrounding her patio heard it, too. I'm merely documenting it for posterity.
Episode 1: The Surprise
Neighbor: "So, I was like, in the bedroom, and he comes in and I'm like 'what's that?' and he's like 'that's my cock ring' and I'm like 'ooooookay.' Yeah, so I didn't go out with him again."
Episode 2: The Failed Conversion
Neighbor: "So, why would it feel different if a woman gave you a blow job?"
[slightly softer, unintelligible exchange between British Male Friend and Neighbor]
British Male Friend: "No! I mean, aren't you seeing someone?!"
Episode 3: The Wicked Charge
Neighbor: "Oh my god! He seriously fucked the nanny? He FUCKED the NANNY? Seriously. He fucked the Nanny?"
British Male Friend: (jokingly) "I said he shagged the nanny."
Neighbor: (not jokingly) "He SHAGGED the NANNY? Seriously?"
From now on, following any night of noise-induced insomnia, I will tell everyone who enquires about my exhausted state and the dark circles under my eyes that I was "shagging the nanny."
You can find more of the interesting word usements I structure on Apple.com.
Read my article, Better Writing Through Design, on No. 242 of A List Apart.