This weekend, the city felt different — foreign, almost. Maybe it was because of the sunshine and warmth, or maybe it was just that I'd been cooped up all week and was grateful to get outside for a little while. Whatever the reason, walking around felt like being somewhere else. I watched strangers dance with each other by the BART station, bought a burrito, then picked up some books from the library.
I know this is a silly thing to notice and I'll seem vaguely anti-lady by bringing it up, but: The exterior of the library has a dozen or so authors' names carved into its stone. Dickens, Twain, so on and so forth. But what's odd is that at the bottom of one list, it says geo. eliot.
The library was built in 1915, the same year T.S. Eliot published Prufrock. I like to think that some stuffy librarian didn't like this shady T.S. Eliot character's nonsensical yip-yap, and before those names were carved, he or she rushed out to send the construction crew this message: "No, wait! Make sure it says GEORGE, so they know we aren't talking about that sexually frustrated poet!"
In this daydream-history, the uptight librarian felt the need to tell the world that at the Mission District library, one could expect Serious Literature such as Middlemarch rather than looney-tunes silliness about singing mermaids and peach-eating. There's probably a logical explanation behind the geo. eliot, but this speculation is infinitely more dramatic and funny, no?
I know this is a silly thing to notice and I'll seem vaguely anti-lady by bringing it up, but: The exterior of the library has a dozen or so authors' names carved into its stone. Dickens, Twain, so on and so forth. But what's odd is that at the bottom of one list, it says geo. eliot.
The library was built in 1915, the same year T.S. Eliot published Prufrock. I like to think that some stuffy librarian didn't like this shady T.S. Eliot character's nonsensical yip-yap, and before those names were carved, he or she rushed out to send the construction crew this message: "No, wait! Make sure it says GEORGE, so they know we aren't talking about that sexually frustrated poet!"
In this daydream-history, the uptight librarian felt the need to tell the world that at the Mission District library, one could expect Serious Literature such as Middlemarch rather than looney-tunes silliness about singing mermaids and peach-eating. There's probably a logical explanation behind the geo. eliot, but this speculation is infinitely more dramatic and funny, no?
Labels: books
Long-winded and half-assed quasi-review (now with more hyphens!)
0 Comments Saturday, February 13, 2010
The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo seemed promising on the surface. A journo and a punkish hacker girl teaming up to solve a decades-old murder: What's not to like? A lot, sadly. The book is fast-paced and the main plot is tight enough, but it's about 1/5 too long. I won't spoil the story for you yet, but there's a snoozy subplot that drags the denouement down past its natural endpoint. Just trust me. It's too boring to describe.
In fact, Larsson's prose is generally bogged down by tedious details; we read too little about important conversations, but get full paragraphs about minutiae like the many steps Blomkvist takes to make a sandwich. Then there's this type of enthralling stuff:
Gripping prose.
The book has been praised as a feminist novel. Funnily enough, I found the female characters generally one-dimensional. I appreciate Larsson's inclusion of female characters; there aren't many Nicola Griffiths out there, so too many whodunits are a sausage fest. But his attempt to focus on widespread abuse of women has all the subtlety of, well, tattooing pervert on a rapist's chest.
(OK, now I will get spoilery.)
The main character, Blomkvist, is a middle-aged reporter (and jailbird) who winds up schtupping three women. They meet him and, immediately transfixed by his so-so personality and average looks, need to get in bed with him right away! Oh, and they're totally cool with him sleeping with the other women — in fact, they're all for it! Please. Even if he were indeed a hot property (tm Chaz Walters), he doesn't treat his lovers well. He's a mostly absent, crappy father, too. In short, he is a putz.
Yet he's presented as a stand-up guy. Larsson is so busy creating cartoonishly misogynist pedophiles and sadistic rapists that he glosses over the milder but still sexist tendencies of his main character. No, Blomkvist isn't a lady hater, but he's presented as though he's a saint. He doesn't need to be one, and characters are stronger when they possess the mixed virtue that we all do, but I feel like we're encouraged to praise Blomkvist despite him being an assclown to the women in his life. (Way to not kill us, Blomkvist. Sigh... my hero!)
As for the violence that permeates the book, I think Larsson was trying to call out misogyny in our culture. I always love men who actively and loudly speak out against violence, rape, and abuse. I don't like it when they speak for women, though. I appreciate his intent, but the world he presents is one in which women are constantly violated and victimized — and it's done with so little nuance that the end effect leans toward torture porn rather than societal commentary.
The book's big mystery revolves around a series of grisly murders of women. But it isn't enough that the women are tortured and killed; no, they're tortured and killed in gory, bloody, vivid detail. The brutal violence feels gratuitous, and more interestingly, the writing in these passages differs from much of the rest of the book.
When it comes to talking about rape and murder, the writing perks up with intensity. Some of this shift is reasonable. After all, discovering a torture chamber provides more action than making toast. But the graphic detail with which the crimes are described is unsettling. When he writes of dismemberment, decapitation, setting breasts on fire, parakeets shoved into vaginas, and other sadistic crimes, you sense... excitement. Enthusiasm. Larsson creates elaborately stomach-turning scenes that feel more than a little voyeuristic. It's as though he's saying, "Look how horrible these crimes are. Sick, just sick! I'm so disgusted that I'm going to look some more."
Beyond the brutal violence, the book fails to treat rape as a serious crime. It says rape is serious, but it's largely treated as an event to move the plot forward. You'd think that sexual abuse as a major plot point would warrant introspection, as in Bastard Out of Carolina. Instead, we see that raped women decide to ensnare their rapists and then torture them.
After Lisbeth's rape, she doesn't go to the police. This I find realistic. Of all my friends who have been assaulted in one way, none have gone to the police. We suspect that we'll be asked, directly or indirectly, what we did to deserve it. And even if the rapist is arrested, who wants to publicly talk about being raped in a courtroom? Shame is one of the first responses.
But refusing to go because rape centers are for victims, and Lisbeth doesn't consider herself a victim, feels false. Confronting a rapist feels even more unlikely to me. Again, most women I know are too traumatized to do that — and since we see vague allusions to Lisbeth's earlier abuse, I find it hard to believe that she'd create an elaborate plot to blackmail, ensnare, and torture her rapist.
Yes, she's a fictional iconoclast, so she can do what she wants. I just didn't think Larsson adequately examined the long-lingering, crippling aftermath of being raped multiple times by the same man. I also find it impossible to believe that while being repeatedly raped, "she did not cry. Apart from the tears of pure physical pain she shed not a single tear." What's the point of that? To prove how allegedly tough she is?
In the long run, Larsson's attitudes toward sexualized violence suggest a fundamental misunderstanding of the female experience. In his rush to tell everyone about how rough women can have it, perhaps he (and his story) could have benefited from a little less talking about women and a little more listening to us.
Things I do like: how Lisbeth saves Blomkvist, how her intelligence defines her character, and how she's a weirdo. (Of course, in the next book, she gets breast implants because her small chest, as described in the first book, is "pathetic.") I just wish Lisbeth — and the other women in the book — were written more as complex people and less as suffering symbols of a sexist society. You know, as actual characters. It's worth mentioning that the book's original Swedish title Men Who Hate Women. Tells you most of what you need to know right there.
(Here's the movie trailer subtitled in French, if you want to see it. Hollywood is working on a version, too.)
In fact, Larsson's prose is generally bogged down by tedious details; we read too little about important conversations, but get full paragraphs about minutiae like the many steps Blomkvist takes to make a sandwich. Then there's this type of enthralling stuff:
The rucksack contained her white Apple iBook 600 with a 25-gig hard drive and 420 megs of RAM, manufactured in January 2002 and equipped with a 14-inch screen.And later on the same page:
Unsurprisingly she set her sights on the best available alternative: the new Apple PowerBook G4/1.0 GHZ in an aluminum case with a PowerPC 7451 processor with an AltiVec Velocity Engine, 960 MB RAM and a 60 GB hard drive. It had BlueTooth (sic) and built-in CD and DVD burners. Best of all, it had the first 17-inch screen in the laptop world with NVIDIA graphics and a resolution of 1440x900 pixels, which shook the PC advocates and outranked everything on the market.
Gripping prose.
The book has been praised as a feminist novel. Funnily enough, I found the female characters generally one-dimensional. I appreciate Larsson's inclusion of female characters; there aren't many Nicola Griffiths out there, so too many whodunits are a sausage fest. But his attempt to focus on widespread abuse of women has all the subtlety of, well, tattooing pervert on a rapist's chest.
(OK, now I will get spoilery.)
The main character, Blomkvist, is a middle-aged reporter (and jailbird) who winds up schtupping three women. They meet him and, immediately transfixed by his so-so personality and average looks, need to get in bed with him right away! Oh, and they're totally cool with him sleeping with the other women — in fact, they're all for it! Please. Even if he were indeed a hot property (tm Chaz Walters), he doesn't treat his lovers well. He's a mostly absent, crappy father, too. In short, he is a putz.
Yet he's presented as a stand-up guy. Larsson is so busy creating cartoonishly misogynist pedophiles and sadistic rapists that he glosses over the milder but still sexist tendencies of his main character. No, Blomkvist isn't a lady hater, but he's presented as though he's a saint. He doesn't need to be one, and characters are stronger when they possess the mixed virtue that we all do, but I feel like we're encouraged to praise Blomkvist despite him being an assclown to the women in his life. (Way to not kill us, Blomkvist. Sigh... my hero!)
As for the violence that permeates the book, I think Larsson was trying to call out misogyny in our culture. I always love men who actively and loudly speak out against violence, rape, and abuse. I don't like it when they speak for women, though. I appreciate his intent, but the world he presents is one in which women are constantly violated and victimized — and it's done with so little nuance that the end effect leans toward torture porn rather than societal commentary.
The book's big mystery revolves around a series of grisly murders of women. But it isn't enough that the women are tortured and killed; no, they're tortured and killed in gory, bloody, vivid detail. The brutal violence feels gratuitous, and more interestingly, the writing in these passages differs from much of the rest of the book.
When it comes to talking about rape and murder, the writing perks up with intensity. Some of this shift is reasonable. After all, discovering a torture chamber provides more action than making toast. But the graphic detail with which the crimes are described is unsettling. When he writes of dismemberment, decapitation, setting breasts on fire, parakeets shoved into vaginas, and other sadistic crimes, you sense... excitement. Enthusiasm. Larsson creates elaborately stomach-turning scenes that feel more than a little voyeuristic. It's as though he's saying, "Look how horrible these crimes are. Sick, just sick! I'm so disgusted that I'm going to look some more."
Beyond the brutal violence, the book fails to treat rape as a serious crime. It says rape is serious, but it's largely treated as an event to move the plot forward. You'd think that sexual abuse as a major plot point would warrant introspection, as in Bastard Out of Carolina. Instead, we see that raped women decide to ensnare their rapists and then torture them.
After Lisbeth's rape, she doesn't go to the police. This I find realistic. Of all my friends who have been assaulted in one way, none have gone to the police. We suspect that we'll be asked, directly or indirectly, what we did to deserve it. And even if the rapist is arrested, who wants to publicly talk about being raped in a courtroom? Shame is one of the first responses.
But refusing to go because rape centers are for victims, and Lisbeth doesn't consider herself a victim, feels false. Confronting a rapist feels even more unlikely to me. Again, most women I know are too traumatized to do that — and since we see vague allusions to Lisbeth's earlier abuse, I find it hard to believe that she'd create an elaborate plot to blackmail, ensnare, and torture her rapist.
Yes, she's a fictional iconoclast, so she can do what she wants. I just didn't think Larsson adequately examined the long-lingering, crippling aftermath of being raped multiple times by the same man. I also find it impossible to believe that while being repeatedly raped, "she did not cry. Apart from the tears of pure physical pain she shed not a single tear." What's the point of that? To prove how allegedly tough she is?
In the long run, Larsson's attitudes toward sexualized violence suggest a fundamental misunderstanding of the female experience. In his rush to tell everyone about how rough women can have it, perhaps he (and his story) could have benefited from a little less talking about women and a little more listening to us.
Things I do like: how Lisbeth saves Blomkvist, how her intelligence defines her character, and how she's a weirdo. (Of course, in the next book, she gets breast implants because her small chest, as described in the first book, is "pathetic.") I just wish Lisbeth — and the other women in the book — were written more as complex people and less as suffering symbols of a sexist society. You know, as actual characters. It's worth mentioning that the book's original Swedish title Men Who Hate Women. Tells you most of what you need to know right there.
(Here's the movie trailer subtitled in French, if you want to see it. Hollywood is working on a version, too.)
Labels: books
Some time ago, Mr. Bitner sent out a call for entries for a book he was editing. Bitner is one of the more inspiring characters I know, simply because he's always working on smart new projects. (Plus, we have this thing where we start each e-mail or phone call by saying each other's last name, which I enjoy.) Anyway, the book, Cassette From My Ex, will be out next week. My friends Vincent and Jen each have a piece in the book, as do I. It's a collection of stories of mix tapes from erstwhile loves, and if you are into music and/or tales of lost love, it should hold some appeal.
Either I am not funny, or few people get my jokes. I think the truth lies somewhere in between. The other day, I was telling Jeremy about my friend's disarmingly beautiful stepdaughter, and he said, "Like a female Tadzio, right?" and I was all "Haw haw haw, HAW HAW HAW" too loud, because I genuinely appreciate a book joke. Especially if I get it.
A few weeks ago, while waiting for a notoriously slow elevator, some people were making small talk about its excruciatingly slow rise to our floor. "You just wait and wait forever for this thing," one person said. "I know, it's like we're waiting indefinitely," another added. "We should call it Godot," I said. Silence.
Sometimes I feel bad for enjoying a good literary chuckle. I feel like I shouldn't get such a kick out of somewhat obscure references, and that there's an inherent snobbery in doing so. But then I backpedal and think, "Well, it's not my fault that people aren't reading books as much! They're missing out on all sorts of wonderful things!" (See how I conveniently bolster support for personal snobbery while pretending to care about society at large?)
A few weeks ago, while waiting for a notoriously slow elevator, some people were making small talk about its excruciatingly slow rise to our floor. "You just wait and wait forever for this thing," one person said. "I know, it's like we're waiting indefinitely," another added. "We should call it Godot," I said. Silence.
Sometimes I feel bad for enjoying a good literary chuckle. I feel like I shouldn't get such a kick out of somewhat obscure references, and that there's an inherent snobbery in doing so. But then I backpedal and think, "Well, it's not my fault that people aren't reading books as much! They're missing out on all sorts of wonderful things!" (See how I conveniently bolster support for personal snobbery while pretending to care about society at large?)
Labels: books
When people ask what's new, I usually say that I'm working a lot (true) and busying myself with other activities. But I don't have anything monumental to describe. No trips, no life-changing events to reveal. I'm at the age when many of my peers are planning weddings or having children, and within that context it feels inappropriate to say, "Well, Mikan has a scab on his nose right now and I'm terribly worried that he will have a scar and therefore be a less adorable kitty..."
Lately I've just wanted to read a lot. I have loved to read since I was a toddler, and as an adult I find that my interest in books only increases over time. I love the feeling of identifying with a writer, of reading a truth you already knew somewhere in your soul but didn't know how to describe. I love diving into a noir novel or learning about the history of cocaine or imagining what Baudelaire's Paris was like. Maybe it's not healthy to spend so much time escaping into words, but it makes me happy, so I do it anyway. Someday I will be a white-haired woman with creaky joints and muddy eyes, and with my books I will think that not very much has changed over time.
Lately I've just wanted to read a lot. I have loved to read since I was a toddler, and as an adult I find that my interest in books only increases over time. I love the feeling of identifying with a writer, of reading a truth you already knew somewhere in your soul but didn't know how to describe. I love diving into a noir novel or learning about the history of cocaine or imagining what Baudelaire's Paris was like. Maybe it's not healthy to spend so much time escaping into words, but it makes me happy, so I do it anyway. Someday I will be a white-haired woman with creaky joints and muddy eyes, and with my books I will think that not very much has changed over time.
Obviously, I landed in London in one piece. The flight was all right, but I was seated next to a family of four: Yuppie Breastfeeding Mom, Seemingly Resentful Dad, their kicking toddler Chloe, and the baby, David -- who I referred to mentally as Fang when I thought of his tiny sprouts of teeth. The toddler was a brat, the baby was happy (honestly, he seemed a bit drunk), and mom and dad slept through both children bleating throughout the sleepytime of the flight. Oblivious to the glowering stares from other passengers, the parents snoozed: Mom in her seat, Dad stretched out on the cabin floor. I fear he may have tried to play footsie. When the happy family woke up, Mom decided to clip Chloe's toenails. Horrifying.
Anyway, London is much nicer in September than it is in London [Note: I meant March, but was obviously brain-tired]. Took the tube in and made it to the hotel, where I took a little naparoo. I woke up, unpacked, and then freaked the F out as I heard a key going into my door. It must be the housekeeping service," I thought. But it wasn't. It was a little Englishman stopped only by the chained door (see, Mom, I am traveling safely). "I'm sorry, but this is my room," he said. "Let me put on a shirt," I replied. I looked out at the little old man dwarfed by his rolling suitcase and decided I could easily take him in a fight if necessary, so I opened the door a bit. Before I had a chance to ask him what was going on, he started waving a confirmation slip of paper around. "Room 774!" he barked. "I booked this room in JANUARY!"
Jet-lagged and still groggy from my nap, I took a moment to realize that homeboy meant that he had booked this exact room. He began telling me about his late wife (uh oh) and how today was their anniversary (you know where this is going) and how they'd stayed here forty-eight years ago for their honeymoon and I simply was not part of this plan. "So you see," he was saying, "I have booked this room and there's been a mistake and this just will not do."
At first I felt horror: Is this what they do to the Priceline guests? Make them share rooms? Certainly that couldn't be the case, I thought. I felt sorry for this man, who was becoming more desperate as the story rolled on. I think he thought I was going to fight him for the room, which was not my intention. Finally I interrupted him and said, "I'm sure we can call the operator and straighten this out. I wouldn't want you to miss staying in this room." Well, that changed everything! Suddenly, we were compatriots, allies, a coalition of the willing hotel guests! After a few phone calls, the old man was assigned room 774. Yours truly was apologetically assigned room 212, which turns out to be a suite. With a robe on the bed and two tellies and a separate bath and shower and a nice little room that overlooks noisy Oxford Street. Yay!
Anyway, London is much nicer in September than it is in London [Note: I meant March, but was obviously brain-tired]. Took the tube in and made it to the hotel, where I took a little naparoo. I woke up, unpacked, and then freaked the F out as I heard a key going into my door. It must be the housekeeping service," I thought. But it wasn't. It was a little Englishman stopped only by the chained door (see, Mom, I am traveling safely). "I'm sorry, but this is my room," he said. "Let me put on a shirt," I replied. I looked out at the little old man dwarfed by his rolling suitcase and decided I could easily take him in a fight if necessary, so I opened the door a bit. Before I had a chance to ask him what was going on, he started waving a confirmation slip of paper around. "Room 774!" he barked. "I booked this room in JANUARY!"
Jet-lagged and still groggy from my nap, I took a moment to realize that homeboy meant that he had booked this exact room. He began telling me about his late wife (uh oh) and how today was their anniversary (you know where this is going) and how they'd stayed here forty-eight years ago for their honeymoon and I simply was not part of this plan. "So you see," he was saying, "I have booked this room and there's been a mistake and this just will not do."
At first I felt horror: Is this what they do to the Priceline guests? Make them share rooms? Certainly that couldn't be the case, I thought. I felt sorry for this man, who was becoming more desperate as the story rolled on. I think he thought I was going to fight him for the room, which was not my intention. Finally I interrupted him and said, "I'm sure we can call the operator and straighten this out. I wouldn't want you to miss staying in this room." Well, that changed everything! Suddenly, we were compatriots, allies, a coalition of the willing hotel guests! After a few phone calls, the old man was assigned room 774. Yours truly was apologetically assigned room 212, which turns out to be a suite. With a robe on the bed and two tellies and a separate bath and shower and a nice little room that overlooks noisy Oxford Street. Yay!
Love you. I am obviously a bit chatty and batty, so don't be surprised if you hear from me again. Off to track down something to eat.
I'm reading The Heart is a Lonely Hunter, and I was curious to see what people thought of it on the Amazon customer review scene. A few reviewers said they found it too sad, ultimately depressing, that sort of thing. The literature snob in me was defensive at first, but then I decided to slip off my high horse and think about their comments. Of course, some were born of a shallow understanding of the book's themes, but other reviewers picked up on the loneliness and isolation and love in the book, and they just didn't like what it had to say. A real downer. And it's funny, because those are the reasons I like the book so much. I find truth in it. Label me a grumpy gus if you want, but the world can be a very lonely, alienating place. I don't think there's anything wrong or depressive in saying that. What saves the situation from falling into despair is the hope of the heart, the quiet search for connection. And that's what I love about the book, and why it feels so real and relevant to me.
Labels: books
Despite the snow, today is a happy day. I went to sleep early last night and woke up feeling ready to take the day head-on. I've remained perky and content throughout the whole day.
One of the books I'm reading is Midnight Sun, by fellow University of Michigan alum Elwood Reid. He studied under my favorite professor, and so I feel some sort of kinship with the writer (after all, we look up to the same professor). I've read Reid's short stories before, and so I opened this new book with great anticipation. So far, it's an exciting literary thriller (there's no better way to say it) set in Alaska. It has a few elements of Heart of Darkness as well as a touch of the Hemingway adventurer. Good stuff; I can't wait to finish it.
Owls McGee and I have apartment fever, and we have it bad. We have gone so far as to create a separate web site about it. We leave each other notes like "I hope you are prepared for me to get all feng shui obsessed" and "Nobody wants to walk into her bedroom and feel like Timothy Leary, y'know?"
At work today I came up with a very clever idea, and I was strangely confident in describing it to my supervisor. "Best idea ever," I exclaimed. "Bigger than the New Deal!"
- - -
Update on Whoa: I have decided that he must be gay. This is the most likely scenario. Let us gather the evidence:
1. He is good-looking to the point that his job is being a model. I shit you not. Models work in the fashion "industry," which is filled with gay men and snarky fashion editors. As he is not a snarky fashion editor, the evidence points to him being a Friend of Dorothy.
2. He was wearing a very stylish outfit. Heterosexual men are able to piece together fashionable outfits, but proportionally less so than their gay brethren. The scale is just tilted in the favor of gayness. Granted, Whoa's outfit did not involve glitter or anything (it was a thrift score store) but he sweats stylishness all the same.
3. My memory is fuzzy on the whole "friend mentioning Whoa to me" bit. Did she say she wanted to fix us up? Or did she say she thinks we'd hit it off? Those could be two very different things.
3a. (But if Whoa is indeed gay, why wouldn't Friend say, "Uh, you know, Whoa is gay" when I mentioned my cheese-induced minicrush? Why would she offer to give him my number and do "recon work"?)
4. He was really friendly. He made and kept eye contact. He asked questions about my life. He loves the Cheese Castle. He said he hoped to see me again soon. This is all too charming to be true.
5. He did not ask for my phone number. For some reason he misunderstood me when I talked about an upcoming birthday party, and he said, "Well, I will definitely be there! When is it, next weekend?" You see, when I explained that it's not until May, that would have been a good time for him to ask for the digits, as it were. But he didn't, and lamely I blurted, "Well, huh-huh, you know how to get in touch, huh-huh." Smooth criminal, that's me.
These are all compelling reasons to believe that Whoa is not a fan of the ladies. At least they are in my head. I know there is a plausible and more convincing rebuttal to most of those points, but it just seems easier to believe that he is gay. If I do that, then everything is neat and tidy.
However, today I make this pact with myself: if he is gay, I will try to make friends with him. If indeed he is not gay, then I will confidently proceed with getting to know him in a potentially datey way. I can't not do it, especially when he seems to be a complete weirdo who doesn't use his looks to get ahead.
(Also, dear reader, I hope you know that I tend to amplify my neuroses in type. It's bound to be slightly more engaging to read that way, or at least that is the goal.)
One of the books I'm reading is Midnight Sun, by fellow University of Michigan alum Elwood Reid. He studied under my favorite professor, and so I feel some sort of kinship with the writer (after all, we look up to the same professor). I've read Reid's short stories before, and so I opened this new book with great anticipation. So far, it's an exciting literary thriller (there's no better way to say it) set in Alaska. It has a few elements of Heart of Darkness as well as a touch of the Hemingway adventurer. Good stuff; I can't wait to finish it.
Owls McGee and I have apartment fever, and we have it bad. We have gone so far as to create a separate web site about it. We leave each other notes like "I hope you are prepared for me to get all feng shui obsessed" and "Nobody wants to walk into her bedroom and feel like Timothy Leary, y'know?"
At work today I came up with a very clever idea, and I was strangely confident in describing it to my supervisor. "Best idea ever," I exclaimed. "Bigger than the New Deal!"
- - -
Update on Whoa: I have decided that he must be gay. This is the most likely scenario. Let us gather the evidence:
1. He is good-looking to the point that his job is being a model. I shit you not. Models work in the fashion "industry," which is filled with gay men and snarky fashion editors. As he is not a snarky fashion editor, the evidence points to him being a Friend of Dorothy.
2. He was wearing a very stylish outfit. Heterosexual men are able to piece together fashionable outfits, but proportionally less so than their gay brethren. The scale is just tilted in the favor of gayness. Granted, Whoa's outfit did not involve glitter or anything (it was a thrift score store) but he sweats stylishness all the same.
3. My memory is fuzzy on the whole "friend mentioning Whoa to me" bit. Did she say she wanted to fix us up? Or did she say she thinks we'd hit it off? Those could be two very different things.
3a. (But if Whoa is indeed gay, why wouldn't Friend say, "Uh, you know, Whoa is gay" when I mentioned my cheese-induced minicrush? Why would she offer to give him my number and do "recon work"?)
4. He was really friendly. He made and kept eye contact. He asked questions about my life. He loves the Cheese Castle. He said he hoped to see me again soon. This is all too charming to be true.
5. He did not ask for my phone number. For some reason he misunderstood me when I talked about an upcoming birthday party, and he said, "Well, I will definitely be there! When is it, next weekend?" You see, when I explained that it's not until May, that would have been a good time for him to ask for the digits, as it were. But he didn't, and lamely I blurted, "Well, huh-huh, you know how to get in touch, huh-huh." Smooth criminal, that's me.
These are all compelling reasons to believe that Whoa is not a fan of the ladies. At least they are in my head. I know there is a plausible and more convincing rebuttal to most of those points, but it just seems easier to believe that he is gay. If I do that, then everything is neat and tidy.
However, today I make this pact with myself: if he is gay, I will try to make friends with him. If indeed he is not gay, then I will confidently proceed with getting to know him in a potentially datey way. I can't not do it, especially when he seems to be a complete weirdo who doesn't use his looks to get ahead.
(Also, dear reader, I hope you know that I tend to amplify my neuroses in type. It's bound to be slightly more engaging to read that way, or at least that is the goal.)
Labels: books
Woo! It seems that one can become tipsy by osmosis. I had three watery Cokes last night, yet by the end of the night, I had already demonstrated my forceful Buffy kick. That's kind of a tipsy thing to do, but again, sleepiness is my booze. Miss K and I did indeed avoid any Faulknerian/Andersonian mishaps, though I did teeter perilously at the edge of social idiocy with this admission: "I like books." Gaaaaah. Anyway, last night was one of those nights that made me feel that Chicago is home. I felt uncommonly comfortable the entire night. When midnight came, I left and headed down a barren street toward North Avenue. I was in such a chipper mood that I broke out in a run, grinning into the bitter air, rushing the skyline and the crisp night ahead.
There's a fluffy orange cat who I see almost every morning on the way to work. The poor kitty sits at a ground-level window, forlornly watching the world go by. This cat could benefit from Kitty Daycare. Doggy Daycare exists; why shouldn't Kitty Daycare? Yes, cats are generally more independent than dogs are, but surely they would like to go to daycare and romp around, too. Why hasn't anybody taken this idea to its fullest possible extent?
A woman on the bus this morning talked to herself while staring out the window. Nothing unusual, except this woman quacked like Donald Duck after every caustic comment: "Dumbass thought he walk from 5900 west to 2400 west. GWAAAH RAWGH GWAH GWAH GWAH." Oh, the bus.
There's a fluffy orange cat who I see almost every morning on the way to work. The poor kitty sits at a ground-level window, forlornly watching the world go by. This cat could benefit from Kitty Daycare. Doggy Daycare exists; why shouldn't Kitty Daycare? Yes, cats are generally more independent than dogs are, but surely they would like to go to daycare and romp around, too. Why hasn't anybody taken this idea to its fullest possible extent?
A woman on the bus this morning talked to herself while staring out the window. Nothing unusual, except this woman quacked like Donald Duck after every caustic comment: "Dumbass thought he walk from 5900 west to 2400 west. GWAAAH RAWGH GWAH GWAH GWAH." Oh, the bus.
Labels: books
