Just read the OED yourself

I read Reading the O.E.D. — One Man, One Year, 21730 pages many months ago, and it has been stuck in my craw ever since. Hopefully a little blogging will get it out of my system, and serve as a Biohazard warning to doe-eyed readers.

As quickly as possible, my complaints:

* The author is immensely dull, as a person, as a lover of words and as a writer.
* The actual definitions from the OED are rarely used, possibly for copyright reasons — although there is a big ad for OED.com at the end of the book, suggesting that the Oxford University Press greenlit the project. Instead, Boring McDullpants usually gives his summary of the definition, followed by an unfunny observation.
* More frequently than you can imagine, he exults, “Can you believe that such a wonderful word exists? Simply that it exists is wonderful. Truly, wonderful. Gosh, that it… just… exists makes me so happy. Now, let me tell you a boring story about my life…”
* Each chapter covers a letter of the alphabet, beginning with a few pages of dreary moaning about his life — at least the guys from Word Freak were semi-social — followed by a selection of the words he found noteworthy.
* The “interesting” words he selects are all Capitalized, for some reason, even though few of them are capitalized in use; that a lifelong lover of dictionaries could allow or commit such a distracting and simple error says a lot about whether he’s done anything but flip pages all these years.
* Even though I hated 80% of the book, I’m grouchy that it’s so short. The man has the nerve to read every word in the English language that begins with X and choose only four words for discussion. Only three from all of the Ys (yepsen, yesterneve, yuky), six from the Qs, etc.

At this point it will help to give an example of a citation as it appears in Reading the O.E.D., including his Wildean thoughts on it:

Quaesitum (n.) The answer to a problem; the thing that is looked for.
It is a proven fact that if you use a big fancy word like quaesitum to describe your silly everyday problems it will be much more satisfying to solve them. At least that’s what I’ve heard.

He’s chosen a dull word. He’s given no etymology that might make the word come alive. He’s capitalized a word unnecessarily. His single creative contribution is a smudge of shopworn comedy which, trust me, is exactly on par with every other jokey fillip he attempts. Ugh.

Enough. I resolved months ago that I would try to salvage something from this experience by rescuing a few of the better words from his oafish paws.

accismus – an insincere refusal of a thing that is desired
advesperate – to approach evening
agathokakological – made up of both good and evil
agelastic – a person who never laughs
airling – a person who is both young and thoughtless
Balaamite – one who is religious for the sake of monetary gain
bedinner – to treat to dinner
bedswerver – an unfaithful spouse
bowelless – having no bowels; lacking in mercy or compassion
constult – to act stupidly together
curtain-lecture — “A reproof given by a wife to her husband in bed” according to Samuel Johnson’s dictionary
disasinate – to deprive of stupidity
boree – one who is bored
flingee – a person at whom something is flung
elozable – readily influenced by flattery
essoiner – a person who offers an essoin, or an excuse for the absence of another
fleeten – having the color of skim milk
frauendienst – an exaggerated sense of chivalry toward women
goat-drunk — made lascivious by alcohol
mawdlen-drunk — “when a fellowe will weepe for kindnes in the midst of his Ale, and kisse you, saying; By God Captaine I loue thee, goe thy waies thou dost not thinke so often of me as I do of thee, I would (if it pleased God) I could not loue thee so well as I doo, and then he puts his finger in his eie, and cries.”
grimthorpe – to restore or renovate an ancient building with excessive spending rather than with skill
gulchin – a little glutton
homodoxian – a person who has the same opinion as you
killcrop – a brat who never ceases to be hungry, and was popularly thought to be a fairy that was substituted for the real child
lipoxeny – the deserting of a host by the parasites that have been living on it
misdevout – devout in an inappropriate way
miskissing – kissing that is wrong
nastify – to render nasty; to spoil
natiform – buttock-shaped
opsigamy – marrying late in life
paracme – the point at which one’s prime is past
pessimum – the worst possible conditions
petrichor – the pleasant loamy smell of rain on the ground, especially after a long dry spell
postvide – to make plans for an event only after it has occurred
preantepenult – [ultimate, penultimate, antepenultimate and then this one]
psithurism – the whispering of leaves moved by the wind
quag – to shake (said of something soft or flabby)
rhypophagy – the eating of filth or disgusting matter
scrupulant – a person who is overly conscientious about confessing his or her sins
short-thinker — one whose thoughts do not carry him far into a subject
supersaliency – “the jumping of the male for the act of copulation”
toe-cover — a present that is both useless and inexpensive
tricoteuse – a woman who knits; specifically, a woman who during the French Revolution would attend the guillotinings and knit while the heads were rolling
umbriphilous – fond of the shade
unbepissed – not having been urinated on; unwet with urine
vulpeculated – robbed by a fox
yepsen – the amount that can be held in two hands cupped together; also, the two cupped hands themselves

Now, wasn’t that list kind of fun? I’m not enough of an egotist even on my stupid blog to think that I can add something funny or insightful to each of these, because they are beautiful and funny in their own right. But this drone got an advance from a publisher for his stunt — read the whole thing in a year, and then bitch about it. Yay book sales!

The final thing I’ll mention is the author’s relentless negativity. He gripes about anything and everything: scientists, statesmen, lovers, men, women, children, crowds, travelogue authors and himself with a bullheaded pessimism you’d expect from someone slouching in a bar, not someone paid to read and write about one of our finest cultural achievements. (Note: For about a year, I used wordpress categories to track how many of my blog posts were “plaudits” and how many were “scorn”. Turns out I love 8 things for every 3 I hate.)

The front cover has a snippet from a review by Nicholson Baker of the NYTBR: “Shea has walked in the wildwood of our gnarled, ancient speech and returned singing incomprehensible sounds in a language that turns out to be our own.” Now that’s a book I’d like to read.

The Tale of Tor and the Briny Demon

Once upon a time, Tor the fisherman and his wife Twillabee lived happily at the edge of the forest. He would fill his little boat with fish day after day, and he was so skillful that one day he was seized by the Briny Demon, who said to him, “What gives you the right to take so many of my fish? From now on you will work for me to repay all that you have stolen!” With that, he dragged poor Tor down under the water.

Twillabee was worried when he didn’t come home that night, and was increasingly worried as the days went by. One day, one of Tor’s fellow fishermen was out catching fish, and looked down through the clear water. To his great surprise, he saw Tor scrambling around at the bottom of the sea, moving heavy clamshells hither and yon. Nearby lurked the terrible Briny Demon, watching all the while.

When Twillabee heard that her beloved Tor had been captured, she flew deep into the forest; miles and miles she ran to the tallest stand of cedar where the Forest Wraiths made their home. “Won’t you help us?” she cried, “For the Briny Demon has stolen my husband, and forces him to work night and day in a place contrary to his nature.” The Forest Wraiths, who had frequent cause to distrust their watery counterpart, rustled and creaked among themselves while Twillabee sat nervously nibbling a sweet thistle at their feet.

“It is not right that Tor be taken from his rightful sphere,” they finally said, as a heavy waxen seed rolled down from one of their trunks to rest at her feet. “Drop this seed in the ocean where he is working, and the tree that grows will allow him to climb to freedom.” As soon as it was light, Twillabee rowed out to place where Tor had been seen in captivity. She dropped the seed, and watched it sink until it reached the bottom. Immediately it sprang apart, piercing roots down amongst the rocks and shooting a mighty tree toward the surface of the water. Twillabee scurried to move the boat as the tremendous tree came bursting and splashing through.

Down below, Tor began to climb the tree towards safety, ignoring the futile thrashing of the Briny Demon, whose magic was powerless near the tree. But at the surface, Tor found that his lungs had lost their love of air, and he gasped in it as though he were drowning. Reluctantly, he slunk back into the water, clinging to the tree for safety, and Twillabee rowed away vowing to find help in making him whole again.

She climbed Mount Tillianpalam, where it was said that the Zephyr Spirits began their rushing races down its slopes. She climbed and climbed, till at last she dropped exhausted where the clouds first touched land at its peak. Soon the winds spoke to her, saying, “What brings a creature of the lowlands to these high places?” When they heard of the treachery of the Briny Demon, they were enraged. “It is not right that Tor should be made to fear the air he was made to breathe!” they whistled, and kissed Twillabee on the mouth with a sweetened puff of mountain air. “Take this kiss to him, so he may live again among his kind.”

She hurried out in her boat again, and indeed her kiss healed his lungs — he climbed into the boat and rowed them home. As Tor and Twillabee built the fire that night they were surprised by a visit from Incendius, whose hot whispers filled their little home. “We spirits have all been troubled by this Briny Demon, who has so selfishly interfered with the spheres of men and gods. Tomorrow you must set things right!” At this, a crackling ember, different from the others, rolled out of the fire to lay at Tor’s feet.

The next morning, Tor went out to fish as usual, and soon the Briny Demon boiled up in a rage, reaching into the boat so as to capture him again. Tor swiftly opened a little leather pouch, and flung the hot cinder at his foe, who was burned horribly as it passed through his slippery body. The Briny Demon fell wounded back into the sea, and the fisherman watched in horror as the fish bit off parts of the weakened demon as the body fell.

Tor returned to his fishing, and he and Twillabee lived happily ever after.

(Rough draft of my first fairy tale. I like some parts of it a lot, other parts are annoying. Lemme know what you think!)

Still unemployed, one week later

I sneaked out of the rat race as it was entering extra innings, and have not yet looked back.

Nor have I called my parents. They find these things out through the grapevine. Someday perhaps I’ll grow up, a pair, more self-assured, etc.  Until then, too bad. Most people my age are neck-deep in the blast furnace of their own child-rearing, and seem to my jaded eyes to be gamely suiting up for 12-18 years of drudgery and bullshit. I applaud their devotion to the genetic imperative, but this Selfish Gene has turned out to be supremely selfish indeed.

At this point I have always thrown in the caveat that “with Imperial blessing and the kiss of Fortune” I would gladly spawn with the right person… I think those days are waning, have waned, will wane, might have already waned, party-on-Wayned. She of the golden loins could always be right around the corner, but realistically I’d guess she’s walking away from the corner.

In brighter news, I watched three films yesterday, fresh fruits from my fallow field.

Bright Star — Well, I won’t be confusing Keats and Yeats anymore. (Oh shit, I just thought of something. What if Yeats also died of tuberculosis at 25 after failing to consummate his love affair with an apple-cheeked lass who loved sewing? Wikipedia comes to my aid. Whew.) It took this movie about 15 minutes to get me choked up, and kept banging that gong for the next hour and a half. By the time I got out I was wrung out, exhausted, weakly raging against this cruel world that stamps so beigely* upon the fragile tundra of Young Love. This movie would have ended more happily had the MacArthur Foundation dropped a cheque in the post for our J. Keats. Sometime shortly before he got sick, that is.

In all seriousness, I can’t recommend this movie to anyone. It’s beautifully photographed, the acting is superb, the dialog largely witty, the pacing deft and those of any gender or proclivity would find succor in daydreaming of at least one half of this smokin’-hot-fuckable couple. But honestly. Who goes to see movies like this? If you wanted to go, you’d go. What review would sway you? “Ah, a costume drama about a 19th century poet?” What need do we have of more films like this? Even really good ones? None. More films about the Lost Boys of Sudan, please. Thank you.

Gilda — I watched this mostly to get caught up on Rita Hayworth, in particular because of this quote from my twitter buddy ReelKnitting: Regarding her failed relationships, Rita Hayworth said, “Men go to bed with Gilda and wake up with me.” Intriguing, yes? But it turns out that Gilda isn’t the best reason to watch Gilda, not really even in the top five. Reasons to See Gilda, #1: The writing. The screenplay by Jo Eisinger is sharp, philosophical, funny and confusing as hell. #2: Glenn Ford, who I’d never heard of, but is handsome, funny and intriguing throughout. (Also, he went from supporting Adlai Stevenson in the ’50s to being pro-Reagan in the ’80s! Must have been an interesting couple-a decades around the Ford family dinner table.) #3: The suits, which are wide, dark and gorgeous. #4/5: A tie for George Macready (playing the villain, and who I remember from Paths of Glory… now there’s a movie I need to watch again) and Steven Geray (a Hungarian actor that plays a wise and perceptive bathroom attendant).

Glenn Ford

Oh, all right. I’ll admit that Rita Hayworth is more interesting than the suits, so I guess that makes her the #3 reason to see Gilda. Still, those suits are eye-popping. The end of the film is rather unsatisfying, and left me wishing that it’d been made before the Hays Code started making a hash of things.

Grand Hotel — I picked this one because I wanted to know something about Greta Garbo, but ended up being more interested in Joan Crawford and the Barrymore brothers. Evidently this film was the first time a studio said, “Hey, what would happen if we threw all of our stars into one film?”, and I can report that it’s a lot of fun. I won’t try to review the movie, but I do want to say that it was a thrill to finally see Wallace Beery; one of my favorite movie moments is Tony Shalhoub sputtering to John Turturro in Barton Fink: “Wallace Beery! Wrestling picture! Whaddaya, need a roadmap?!”

You can relive that and other delicious Shalhoub lines in this YouTube collection that some madman uploaded:

More later. I fully intend to review the execrable Reading the O.E.D. at some point, but don’t hold your breath.

*Is “beigely” a word? I believe it should be.

PS: Can you believe that “execrable” is spelled that way? I’m having a hard time with it. Also, I’d just like to point out that the sweet, kindly Lionel Barrymore of Grand Hotel would, merely 14 years later, be playing the mean ol’ son-of-a-bitch Mr. Potter in It’s a Wonderful Life. Crazy!

Karaoke report

Junko came to visit from Japan, so we went out with some of her friends to eat, drink and eventually do karaoke. I can sort of see the appeal, at least in theory. In practice, it’s far too undignified for Uncle Vinny. Somewhere in the last few years I realized that I have a perverse attachment to my dignity… I never had much, seem to lose more and more daily, and am more than frantic trying to clutch the remaining whisperlets to my bosom. So the karaoke experience, the loud trashiness, the cultural bottom-feeding, is quite a few too many tokes over the line — once per decade will probably be my limit.

Anyway, I did have fun singing my little tunes, none of which really fit the party mood people seem to get jazzed about:

The Smiths — “William, It was Really Nothing” I was torn between this and “Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now”,  but I thought “William” would be a little funner.

Radiohead — “Optimistic” This made me love the song just a little more, and admire Thom Yorke’s dervish of a voice way more. Singing is hard. Singing a Radiohead song is wicked hard.

Elvis — “Blue Moon” Elvis’ sang this as part of the Sun sessions… it’s haunting and delicate. In karaokeland, the backing music is blaring and hooty. Sigh.

I also soloed The Eagles — “One of These Nights”, but that was just cuz somebody meant to queue up “Hotel California” and nobody wanted to sing “One of These Nights”. As a group, we all sang the Backstreet Boys, ABBA, etc. Mortifying, and plenty of fun. I oughta see Muriel’s Wedding again.

In other news, two more days ’til I’m unemployed, woot!

Russian composers know something about grief

I just came back from seeing PNB’s production of Romeo and Juliet.

Music by Prokofiev, who I know from two things — Piano Concerto #3 (have listened to dozens and dozens of times… thrilling and gorgeous in every way… YouTube seems to have an excellent recording of it here) and Peter and the Wolf (awesome, but let’s be honest, it’s a little silly). Once I heard the Romeo and Juliet “theme” I thought oooohhhhhh, I totally know this, etc. And while the theme is stirring, ominous and somehow comforting in its familiarity, the rest of the score has passages that are terrifying and almost in the vein of The Rite of Spring. (I have been on a 24/7 Rite of Spring kick for two months… sometimes I listen to nothing but that and Firebird, and as if my Twitter feed wasn’t irritating enough already, I keep rattling on about it.)

Choreography by Jean-Christophe Maillot, who has restored my faith that “story ballet” can be riveting. I was mostly bored by Swan Lake in the spring, and resolved not to watch anymore preposterous mimery. But the PNB lady on the phone assured me that R ‘n’ J would be “different”, “exciting”, “I hate story ballets, too” and “come down here and strangle me if I’m wrong”. She was right. The choreography slipped into triteness only here and there — a real achievement given all the hubbub in the plot. Remember that I’m entirely new to ballet and I don’t know up from down, but the dancing was compulsively watchable from start to finish. In fact, if I had to choose between watching this and Balanchine’s exciting but emotionless Jewels again, it’d be an easy contest.

The lighting design and sets were deeply satisfying… simple, powerful and noticeable only when it mattered.

Costumes by Jerome Kaplan, another triumph. After the traditional weepery of Swan Lake and sitting through any number of serviceably costumed Shakespeare plays, I’d given up hoping that there was anything new to be done with Elizabethan-period costumes. None of the photos on the PNB site do the costuming (or the choreography, really) any favors, so I won’t link ‘em.

Story, modeled after one by our buddy Shakespeare, is ridiculous and horrible, as any tale of dying teens must be.

The dancers are perfectly wonderful throughout, but Kaori Nakamura went above and beyond what I expected… dancing and acting the part of Juliet, bringing the story to us as much with her face as with the rest of her.  Maybe this is all par for the course, but I was near tears throughout — I could handle it if it was just the beautifully sad dancing of doomed lovers, but her expressions of joy, rapture and sorrow were too much for li’l ol’ weepy me. Chalnessa Eames as Juliet’s Nurse was delightful in her own way, dancing fancifully and with personality. Finally, Carrie Imler (as Lady Capulet), Maillot and Prokofiev conspired to drive a sensation of grieving into my mind like an axe.

It plays for less than two weeks, I’d say it’s worth a trip.

Mid-life crisis has been extended, 1992-?

Ducklings! Did you realize that I haven’t posted to my blog since late July?! Well, it’s been gnawing at me, I assure you, and it’s not for a lack of things to post about. I’ve been reading a lot of books that I would be delighted to complain/rave about, but I just haven’t had the focus to sit down and do either.

Plus, there is (as always) chaos in Vinnyland. I realized in my early 20s that I was having a mid-life crisis, complete with the profound uncertainty about the meaning of life, desire to throw it all away and start over, get a series of Rosicrucian tattoos, etc. (Lest ye wonder, I’ve never been that interested in red convertibles, but I have been daydreaming lately about getting a motorcycle. In particular, a 2010 Yamaha VMax. Oh yes, blowing a $20k hole in my bank account would be wiiiiise.)

So, my latest mid-life crisis (quitting my job, planning to spend a few months “being creative” and mulling my future) is just one more link in my perpetual “crisis” of a life. Thankfully I have no debt, no kids and no responsibilities aside from my adorable cats so this is an option for me. Weee!

Anyway, within two weeks I will have no excuse not to post more often, so I will try to entertain you. More  regularly. I’m starting a Fairy Tale writing class and a photo class this week, so whimsicality will swiftly run rampant herein.

Vinny out!

Trivia tonight!

Hullo! Yes, I’m still alive. For further proof, come to play trivia tomorrow night at the Hopvine on Capitol Hill, 8pm or so.

I’m just sayin’: you probably want to know a bit of British naval history and a bit about the Nicaean council. Oh, plus stay up late watching Bob Fosse choreography videos… Not that it will help, just that it’ll put you in my frame of mind!

Hope to see ya there.

Name that band!

I picked up a CD today, and was pretty surprised when I popped out the liner notes and saw this photo. They definitely changed their look as time went along. Any guesses?

Fireworks without, stillness within

Watching the fireworks tonight, I was reminded that the last time I had a girlfriend on July 4th was in… fucking 2004. Jesus H. Christ at-a-taxi-stand-with-an-expired-AmEx, that’s some lame, weak, unforgivable sauce right there!

Men approaching 40 with spotty dating resumes — and I’m certain that there are more than a dozen of you reading this blog — will feel me on this one: there are times when one must fish or get off the pot. My problems with dating are manifold, as I’ve doubtless spat about here previously. But shall we count them, you and I, just for the meadow-strolling loll-aboutery of it?

Hold on, I need another drink. 1.5 oz vodka, .5 oz triple sec, .5 oz creme de menthe. I shit you not! This is a special “project drink” I’ve crafted that will enable me to plow through a bottle of shitty vodka I bought in a moment of ill-advised thriftiness some years ago and have regretted since. People come over and say, “Vinny! Whip me up a screwdriver,” until they spy the jug of reprehensible vodka and quickly switch to straight whiskey, mezcal or whatever civilized liquor I have on the rack. Keeping foul vodka in your liquor cabinet is a slap in the face to a distinguished guest — it obviates so many beverage choices — so I’m hell-bent on drinking my way through the squalor of “Bartlett’s Bulbitation”.

I’m back, toting a vodka ‘n’ creme de cassis ‘n’ bitters payload. Not horrible, but nothing I’d serve to someone I love.   So, let’s take a look at that obstacle course, yes?

• New friends are surprised to hear that I’m shy. But it’s true, when talking to women I’m attracted to. I’m a garrulous lad in welcoming company, but can’t get over my assumption that any woman I’m attracted to will find me duller than Sunday’s bus schedule on a Tuesday.
• And why would I resign pre-battle? Track record, ducklings. Two solid decades of dating has laid down a pretty horrifying paper trail: If I’m hot for her, she must be interested strictly in punk drummers, the over-50 set, accomplished professionals, danseuses, wakeboarders, and/or Yalies. If she’s hot for me, I have — so far — wanted so much more.
• “Oh shut up!” you cry, faint with faith that 20 years of dating would have surely dredged up some tender grubling, crackling in her febrile nubility who shuddered with a universally-recognizable aura of Gaia’s sexual imprimatur? Oh yes, and you’d be right. But those aurae have — through thickness of skull, thinness of valiance — been missed or struck at too late. In the dervish-thicket of competitive sperm we males swim in, there are not days, minutes or weeks — certainly not months — that we may lay idle, wondering if phone calls or flowers would be appropriate. Hesitation, pondering, gentle treading, thoughtful chats, apologetic embraces — these have been the guiding lights of my dating MO, the fidgety gestalt I (fussily) foment.
• But what folly! that souls twinned at conception should fall prey to mistimed text messages, asshat flight attendants from Memphis that would chat up one’s True Beloved, that a woman wouldn’t just say, “so, you’re saying you’re into me?” But oh, yes, we live in that world.

I live in it, anyway. There’s 4+ bullet points to go, but they will wait for another night of shoddy vodka and creme d’ cassis.

Tunnel rage, now with facts!

Remember that post I made yesterday about how we’re gonna replace the viaduct with a tunnel? And how stupid the idea is, and how it makes my blood run black with white-hot rage? (Look it up, by the way. This happens all the time in the big city when effete liberals get P.O.’d: our blood actually turns black, and we become untrifleable-with.)

Anyway, today I’m happy to provide a link to HugeAssCity, one of my favorite blogs, where Dan Bertolet calms me down by asking a few questions like, “How likely is this to actually happen?” Answer: it’s far from a done deal.  Take a look. Dan has black blood syndrome, too, but actually knows what he’s talking about, unlike Uncle Vinny.