Niksen in Quarantine: The Puritans, The Dutch, and Sweatpants

I have exactly zero complaints about our collective coronavirus “safe at home” lockdown. Not to brag, but I’m flat out masterful at sitting still and staring at things. An observer might think I’m feeling totally serene while my brain pings all over the place—thoughts bouncing around like a noisy old-school arcade pinball machine, swatted in all directions with those crazy flippers controlled by button-pushing adolescent gamers.

Quarantine doesn’t bother me. At all. I have no problem social distancing or having groceries delivered, nor do I have an unrelenting urge to go out to dinner at a half-empty restaurant—especially an eatery where the management has filled the requisite empty seats with blow-up dolls or mannequins in 1940s attire, (i.e., instant appetite suppressants) to help their human diners feel less alone. The German idea for distancing with pool noodle hats is more clownish than creepy but I would be continuously consumed with anxiety for the servers making their way through those colorful PVC turnstiles while balancing multiple plates of food. Not enjoyable.

Forbes Magazine May 19, 2020

Now and then I think it would be fun to poke around at Target while sipping on a Starbucks sugar bomb and filling a ridiculously oversized shopping cart with a bounty of things nobody needs. It’s a trivial pursuit but, to be fair, when asked what she wanted to do after leaving the White House one of the things on Michelle Obama’s list was “go to Target.” She’s so relatable, right? This itchy notion of mine usually doesn’t last long because my inner adult sternly reminds me that such an outing isn’t worth the risk of contracting a deadly disease. Smarmy politicians and their corporate puppeteers can clamor all they want about “opening up the economy.” I shall stay put.

It’s easy to understand that some people have a fundamental need to get out and DO something; after all, Abraham Maslow’s familiar “hierarchy of needs” is based on his theory that human beings are motivated by unsatisfied needs. I get that. Some of us humans have a strong need to experience the sensory affirmation of the outdoors or maybe the gym (so many droplets—yikes), while others seek the tranquility of a tattoo parlor or the restorative energy of a hunting/gathering trip to Costco. Thank goodness the local gyms and tattoo shops and sports bars opened safely so that those of us who enjoy visiting public libraries can fearlessly roam the stacks again now that we’ve progressed to our next opening phase. Because ‘Murica. You know, freedom and guns and stuff.

Unless you’ve been living in a fundamentalist cult for the past few decades, you have likely experienced a condition that American workers in particular seem to suffer from: The Productivity Mindset. While other countries and cultures celebrate the importance of napping and going “on holiday,” we’ve been conditioned to believe we must be productive at all times lest we turn out to be a bunch of good-for-nothing heathens. What’s my rationale for how we got here? IT’S TOTALLY THE PURITANS’ FAULT. They ruined everything with their oppressive all work/no play dogma. You’ve never seen Goody Proctor getting a mani-pedi, have you? Didn’t think so. Please let me know what’s on your “Good Things The Puritans Did For Us” bingo card. Take your time. I’ll wait. Really.

We’ve normalized the idea that doing one thing at a time isn’t enough because if you’re not a super multi-tasker then what are you even doing with your life? And don’t get me started about parents who schedule activities out the wazoo for their kids. Streams of social media posts and feature stories about what some humans are doing while quarantined only magnify our misguided conflation of Busyness and Worthiness. Ads for finding the perfect “productivity coach” don’t motivate me to “self-optimize” in the least. I am not inspired to learn Portuguese or to re-grout something, nor do I want to join the ranks of newbie sourdough bread makers who are allegedly responsible for a recent flour shortage, according to one of way too many news outlets I follow. I don’t even like sourdough bread. My “Quarantine Hierarchy of Needs” list is short: Coffee, books, iPad, New York Times crossword puzzles, and Cavalier King Charles Spaniels. And snacks. People snacks and dog snacks. Luckily, we like the same kinds of cheese.

Toward the end of last year before COVID-19 began to overtake our lives, I noticed a steady trickle of articles and book reviews about the Dutch concept of “niksen” in major newspapers and magazines. I immediately dove into the niksen rabbit hole and quickly discovered My People. I’ve never felt so seen. Among the fruits of my googling is a tiny book titled Niksen: The Dutch Art of Doing Nothing. I was hooked when I read the definition on the cover: “to idle; to lounge around; to sit around; to lounge about; to hang about; to do nothing much; to stand around.” Its format is similar to Jack Handey’s satirical Deep Thoughts series from the 1990s (as seen on SNL), featuring a photograph on one page paired with a non-satirical niksen note on the facing page. Please note that I’m opting out of this chance to use the terms recto and verso because I don’t want you to think I’m a snob.

Author Carolien Janssen cites practical examples of this sanctioned Dutch activity such as staring out a window or sitting on a couch. My favorite part of her foreword: “Niksen helps us to slow down and celebrate the moment of not achieving…similar to mindfulness, yet you don’t need anything special to do nothing.” Great news: I have attained a highly proficient level of not achieving, followed by satisfying moments of celebrating my non-achievements. If you’re curious to know more, you’ll find plenty of reading material online. Now I’m wondering if there’s an online community of niksen practitioners but that seems counterintuitive, no?

Among the many pandemic-driven changes we’ve had to accept, it seems that daily wardrobe choices are problematic for some people as they’ve adapted to working from home. I’ve read several amusing posts about lockdown life in elastic waist pants, “door pants” kept near the entryway in case you need to step outside to retrieve a parcel, the quandary of determining the proper time to change from day pajamas to cocktail pajamas, etc. Predictably, sweatpants have become a staple of the WFH lifestyle. And now I must confess a lamentable turn of events in my own household. My husband is Dutch and has lived in the U.S. for a very long time; his default decision-making method is the famously pragmatic Netherlandish approach. Over time he has created very simple wardrobe options for himself—all denim and sneakers for business travel, workout clothes for everyday—not unlike the black turtleneck people of Silicon Valley.

I was surprised to learn a couple of years ago that he was unfamiliar with the American garment we call sweatpants, whereupon I made a ruinous error: I bought him a couple of pairs of men’s fleece sweatpants (with pockets) at Target. It turns out that the famous Seinfeld “Again with the sweatpants?” jab at George is based in truth, as well as the late Karl Lagerfeld’s “Sweatpants are a sign of defeat,” commentary. The Dutch Husband is so happy with his basic American sweatpants that he wears them almost exclusively, usually with a hoodie. (No doubt he has fully assimilated.) I’ve fielded the, “Can I wear these?” question many times in various situations. No. No, you can’t wear sweatpants when someone invites you to their home for dinner. I’ve abandoned all hope of seeing him in normal jeans or trousers for other routine activities. Rather, I do my best to keep his beloved sweatpants laundered and free of dog hair before he leaves the house.

The Dutch Husband has presented a credible rebuttal in favor of his daily combo of sweatpants and brown leather Dansko clogs. He informed me that this “look” is similar to the traditional men’s attire in the old fishing village of Volendam in North Holland. The fishermen wore baggy woolen pants with their wooden clogs (klompen), a pragmatic choice that warmed and protected them from the elements as they did their work. He’s right. The “look” is similar.

By now the world has changed and so has Volendam. No longer a thriving fishing hub, it has become a kitschy tourist destination where visitors can sample smoked eel and have their pictures taken in traditional (stereotypical) Dutch costumes. I’ll leave you with this bit of unsolicited advice: Never buy sweatpants for your significant other. Just don’t. The risk is too great that she/he/they may never want to wear any other type of clothing. It’s too late for me but please save yourselves.

The United Nations of Spring Cleaning: How I learned to say "no" to Kondo.

Stay in your lane, Martha Stewart. Check yourselves, Instagram Pantry Influencers. 

A diminutive new Goddess of Domesticity is ascendant in the form of porcelain-doll-faced, anti-clutter evangelist Marie Kondo. Perhaps because of her new Netflix show (that I’m afraid to watch), she’s trendy enough to have made a sequined red-carpet appearance at the Oscars. Her pop culture status is secured with myriad social media hashtags and the energetic “verbing” of her name, as in, “We need to Kondo these kitchen cabinets today!”

I purchased the KonMari method books a couple of years ago and only recently dared to crack them open. What I’ve read so far about the “life-changing magic” of her cleverly branded (and franchised via certified consultants) decluttering approach is enough to stop me in my tracks. That’s probably all you need to know about me right there. 

It’s possible that I have a Princess Bride-ish “you keep using that word” issue with the meaning of “tidying.” It’s such a cute little word. “Tidying up” connotes putting away a few stray shoes or maybe clearing the kitchen table in order to have a civilized meal on a horizontal surface. It definitely does not connote evaluating and categorizing every item in the house to assess what stays and what goes where. That’s called an archeological dig, Marie. And touching each item to determine if it “sparks joy”? Not without latex gloves, or maybe hazmat gear for the basement. I will concede that her vertical folding/storage technique makes it easier to find the jeans I’m looking for but I don’t see myself being able to emulate Marie’s rapturous facial expression when I’m squinting into a junk drawer.  

After my foray into Marie’s methodology, I now realize that Japanese interior design aesthetics do not elicit predictable feelings of serenity in my being. Not even close. Those sparsely furnished monochromatic rooms with their Shoji screen walls and woven mat floors make me uneasy. At the sight of a space set with zafus and zabutons for meditation I immediately imagine the sound of my knees crackling as I lower myself to my cushions, the noise causing everyone to turn and frown at me for literally disturbing the peace. 

***

My hesitation to follow the decluttering masses is by no means limited to Japanese minimalism à la KonMari method. I would go so far as to say there’s a multinational control-your-clutter-change-your-life conspiracy at work with the deceptively benign Nordic countries leading the field. Where to begin? Sweden.

Let’s start with “döstädning,” as discussed in The Gentle Art of Swedish Death Cleaning. It’s a morbid title for such a cheery-looking little book but the content is pragmatic—even humorous—as the author guides her readers through the fraught topic of getting rid of all the junk your kids absolutely do not want (nor deserve) to deal with. I can attest to the merits of the döstädning concept based on the still-unopened boxes of stuff I saved from my mother’s house, bless her heart. She was a prolific packrat and now I have doomed myself to dispose of photos of people I can’t possibly identify, among sundry other things. 

The neighboring Finns are all about tapping into the power of something they call “sisu,” which is a particular combination of courage, happiness, and wellness, if we are to be persuaded by The Finnish Way. I’m guessing that’s how they summon the strength and determination to go ice swimming—which is supposed to bring a euphoric rush of endorphins. Thank you, no. Iced tea? Yes. Iced coffee? Any time. Ice swimming? Not a chance. Author Katja Pantzar does promote other activities to live happily in a very cold place; among them she recommends daily walking or bicycling, healthy eating (duh), and “forest therapy.” I already have enough trouble making myself go outdoors when it’s too humid so that probably nixes a prospective visit to Finland.  

Fortunately, there’s the less intimidating Danish concept of “hygge” (pronounced hoo-ga), whereby one can find tranquility with a combination of warm blankets and hot beverages, scented candles, and enjoying simple pleasures with people who don’t get on your nerves. I’m okay with the Danes’ idea because they are generally reported to be among the happiest people on the planet and they’re not telling me to throw everything away. The nearby Dutch have a similar term for this cozy setup: gezelligheid. And you just know the Germans have a word for it because there’s a German word for everything: gemütlichkeit.

***

As the Kondo phenomenon grows here in the U.S., we have the incongruous first-world option to watch multiple television programs about the life-changing hazards of hoarding. We can choose from Hoarders, Hoarding: Buried Alive, Clean House, Clean Sweep, even the British version called The Hoarder Next Door. It’s ridiculous. It’s voyeuristic and nauseating. It’s also undeniable that hoarding programs provide us with a self-congratulatory, “at least my house doesn’t look that bad,” sigh of relief. The German word for that feeling: schadenfreude.

Maybe our species’ penchant for collecting stuff evolved from a deeply primal hunting/gathering thing; if true, then my excuse for buying too many books—and shoes—is akin to a squirrel’s need to pack away a food supply for winter. And what about an artist like Joseph Cornell? He collected the most unlikely objects and turned them into marvelous, eccentric collages. Google him. He was a fascinating man.

***

Meanwhile, Marie Kondo recently found herself in the middle of a huge publicity mess when rumors spread about her KonMari limit of thirty books per home. That’s crazy talk and many people (ahem, book hoarders) were MAD about it. Social media posts were flying and opinion writers were ranting as it blew up in her face. Through her translator, she claimed it was all a misunderstanding and that it’s okay to keep more than thirty books in your house. 

The damage is done, Marie, and now the world is inadvertently a better place for all the delightful, persuasive articles and other posts generated in opposition to your “alleged” book-purging dictum. I especially enjoyed Ron Charles’ contribution: “Keep your tidy, spark-joy hands off my book piles, Marie Kondo.” (He’s the Washington Post book critic and target of my verbiage about his 2018 anti-banned-books-week article but now I’m not mad at him anymore.)  

If you decide to read Kondo’s original life-changing-anti-clutter title, take note of her extensive rationale for keeping so few books. It’s baffling to me that she has such a surgical mindset about the reasons we read and why we love having books in our surroundings. I’m curious to know what she thinks about the Japanese word for all those piles of books: “tsundoku,” which to me looks like an etymological relative of “tsunami” which, in turn, is what my stacks and stacks of books often look like.

Maybe you have thirty books or a thousand books, but it’s doubtful anyone else could have amassed 300,000 books like the recently-departed fashion designer, Karl Lagerfeld. How do I know this? From reading one of those exuberant anti-Kondo articles, specifically Emily Temple’s “10 Famous Book Hoarders” post at lithub.com. (FYI George Lucas has 27,000 while Ernest Hemingway had a mere 9,000.) The number is not so important, but a person’s attitude toward books is a big deal.  

Here’s where it gets ugly: I simply cannot get over Kondo’s account of how she arrived at a process for de-cluttering her own books. It was a given that she’d dispose of them. Her problem was figuring out how to preserve her favorite quotes. First, she tried copying them into a notebook but she soon decided that was “far too much work.” Then she thought it would be a good idea to photocopy her favorite passages and paste those into a notebook. Alas, “it was even more work.” Her solution: She “decided to rip the relevant page out of the book,” but pasting those pages was “also a pain.” Marie finally opted to put the torn pages into a file, a process she claims took her only five minutes per book and allowed her “to get rid of forty books and keep the words that [she] liked.” WHO DOES THAT?! 

If you’re squeamish I’d advise you to pretty please skip this side note about my reaction to that passage: 

Upon reading about these acts of biblio-vandalism, my brain made an immediate and visceral comparison with the practice of shark finning, whereby fishermen cut off the fins and sell them to restaurants for making shark fin soup, a delicacy. The mortally incapacitated sharks are thrown back into the water to die. Barbaric. Unthinkable. So yes, now I can see all of my vertically folded scarves in a single drawer at a glance, but at what cost, Marie?!

***

After an appropriate cooling-off period, I put aside the Kondo books and their Nordic companions. In their place I picked up two tiny, bleep-worthy KonMari parodies from author Sarah Knight. Her approach is a complete departure from dealing with physical clutter as she describes the ways our daily choices create unnecessary emotional burdens and mental clutter. Knight’s response to the KonMari Method is the NotSorry Method. Instead of looking for things that “spark joy,” she advises us to ask, “Does it annoy?” If yes, then we should walk away from whatever it is as briskly as possible.

It’s good stuff.

10/10 would recommend the NotSorry strategy over KonMari any day. 

And now I should go dust something but, as fate would have it, my Swiffer does not spark joy.

Blurbicide:* An unexpected episode of “Never judge a book by its cover.”

*Don’t worry. The book doesn’t die in this story but six—that’s six—criminally negligent proofreaders are still at large.  

Let’s be clear: I love shopping for books. And owning books and giving books and reading books and having stacks of unread books and touching books and browsing for books and keeping lists of books to consider buying. But—I’m not a diligent reader of book jacket blurbs. I glance at the contributors’ names and skim the statements that get my attention. Azar Nafisi? Yes, I’ll read her blurb any day. Joyce Carol Oates? Probably not. Apparently, I’m shallow that way. 

I have mad respect for the innumerable authors, publishers, and publicists who spend their days literally laboring over book blurbs. It’s big business. Google is rife with tips for snagging a celebrity promo or writing the ideal blurb that will really, really sell that new title. Granted, it’s hard to write something short and jam-packed with just the right information, witness the difficulties many users had with Twitter’s original 140-character limit. Or haiku, which I maintain is (are?) always a little too exquisite. 

***

Of course I had to go down the word origin rabbit hole looking for “blurb,” which sounds like something a dermatologist should examine rather than a glowing proclamation about a new publication. I still don’t know why a “blurb” is called a blurb but I did find an NPR story about the practice. It turns out we can thank American humorist Gelett Burgess, credited with coining the term in 1907. His 1906 book Are You a Bromide? (so weird) was released with a jacket depicting the fictitious Miss Belinda Blurb, “in the act of blurbing.” Now we can all take a moment to appreciate the gerund form of blurb. 

NPR photo

It’s not that I am anti-blurb. Don’t get me wrong. It’s just that I have difficulty with overenthusiasm in any form. That’s probably the root cause of my disinterest. My default reaction is distrust, similar to my response when introduced to someone whose handshake smashes my fingers. I also have a problem with overwrought make-believe words like “unputdownable,” which was included among the laudatory descriptors mentioned in the NPR piece. 

Conversely, blurbs that are deliberately ridiculous are somehow less annoying, e.g., the entire back cover of self-published The Amy Binegar-Kimmes-Lyle Book of Failures: A funny memoir of missteps, inadequacies, and faux pas. It’s probably true that I did feel 20-32% better about my own life after reading her book, as one blurber promised. The omniscient Amazon.com recommended this title “inspired by my browsing history” and I did enjoy it, mostly. Also, what a sad statement about my browsing habits.

***

Now we get to the blurbicide case.  [Cue ominous “Law and Order” underscoring.] 

Via The Guardian, we meet Roxy Jacenko, real person, Australian socialite and businesswoman, PR specialist and former contestant on Australia’s Celebrity Apprentice. Are you impressed so far? She wrote her latest book in a breezy six weeks; Roxy’s Little Black Book of Tips and Tricks is a “no-bullshit guide to PR, social media and building your brand.” Thank goodness for such a straightforward resource because I’m one of the millions of people who still hasn’t created a “personal brand.” For the record, the cover of Roxy’s new book is actually an outrageous hot pink; it is neither black nor little.

But wait—there’s more. Roxy has previously written three fiction titles and—color me not at all surprised—she’s married to a “high profile former stock broker” who was convicted of insider trading in 2016. These people make me nostalgic for the earnest heartlessness of Daisy Buchanan and Jay Gatsby. (Yes, I know Daisy and Jay aren’t real and that’s my point.) 

Author of four books. Miley Cyrus lookalike. Roxy’s Marie Claire magazine photo.

All of the advance copies of Roxy’s new book had to be pulped because of a proofreading oversight. Pulped! Such a waste. An erroneous submission from Roxy’s friend and radio/television personality Jackie O proclaimed Ms. Jacenko “never fails to disappoint.” You are not misreading that quote. Jackie concludes her blurb with, “…this book is an easy, interesting read that people in a lot of professions (not just PR) could learn something from.” 

The whole blurb makes my head hurt. How did that word salad get past six proofreaders? Six people. That’s twelve eyes, we can assume.  The publisher has not disclosed how many copies were printed with the error. Roxy dismissed her girlfriend’s mistake, saying the blurb should have read “never fails to deliver.” Whatever. You do you, Roxy. 

***

This mindless “never fails to disappoint” episode reminds me of one of my all-time favorite wits in the realm of dark humor, the late Oscar Levant. He could have uttered that same statement about a restaurant he frequented or any person, place, or thing in his orbit. Levant was indeed a genius. He authored Memoirs of An Amnesiac, among other sardonic titles, and was an incredibly gifted pianist and composer, film actor, and radio/television personality. Levant was also a notorious hypochondriac who wrote about his struggles in a brilliantly self-deprecating style that only he could pull off. About himself he said, “Underneath this flabby exterior is an enormous lack of character.” You see? It’s funny when it’s intentional. 

***

In the realm of less-notable-but-no-less-egregious oversights, I will leave you with two images from the hallowed cinder block halls of academia where I used to teach. These are actual signs posted in an actual school. We will never know how many sets of careless eyes these linguistic atrocities passed in production, from the original work order to the engraver to the custodian who stuck them to the hard surfaces they cling to still. And I’ve never been arthorized but I hear it’s not pleasant. 

For Sale: French Provisional* Piano

Maybe you’ve been watching too much cable news like I have lately. If so, you’ve probably heard political pundits alerting voters to “Ask for a provisional ballot! It’s your right!” in the event something wonky should happen at polling places on election day. Provisional ballots make sense. Provisional pianos? Not so much.

Often while I’m watching too much cable news I’m simultaneously reading a book or scrolling my phone or iPad, idly checking for email or new Instagram posts of the dogs and designer shoes which comprise about 90% of my feed. (The remaining 10% is food and coffee.)

***

My casual scroll came to a full stop a few days ago when I noticed an ad for a “French Provisional Piano.” *Of course it’s the wrong word, but someone at Piano Market Plus in Elkhart, Indiana, actually paid for the ad. What’s worse is that the word “provisional” appears twice (maybe a BOGOTYPO special). To be fair, the mistake doesn’t appear on their website but it’s too late now. I did spot a few errant apostrophes in some pianomarketplus.com posts about shiny “piano’s” available for purchase or rental. The owners and staff are just trying to make a living like the rest of us but it’s hard to forgive the use of an apostrophe to make a plural. I guess it goes without saying that I don’t/can’t patronize businesses in violation of my unofficial “If you can’t spell it, you can’t sell it,” rule. (See also: a long-forgotten restaurant menu featuring “burr blanc.”)

Once I recovered from the initial jolt, I found myself entertained by the notion of what a “provisional piano” could be, recalling some of the minimally functional instruments I’ve encountered soooo many times—pianos with lots of sticking/broken keys, hopelessly depressed damper pedals, missing keys, you name it. None of my former school administrator bosses ever took me up on my Dead Piano Demolition Derby fundraising suggestion but it could work (sketchy details below). I still think it’s a good idea, but whatever.

Yes, I googled the words “French Provisional.” Apparently the error is common enough to make the oh-so-credible Urban Dictionary website. The top definition: “Usually a misspelling of the words 'French Provincial', could also refer to a line of cardboard temporary furniture in the French Provincial style.” Sample sentence: “I won’t be living here long, so I’ll just furnish the place with some French provisional furniture.”

***

History peeps might appreciate the generous amount of information Google offered about the very real French Provisional Government in place from 1944-1946 in the aftermath of WWII. Just leaving that note for anyone who’s curious. Also because the phrase “French Provisional” turned up some actual search results. #GoogleWin

I opted to skip the deep dive into the history of French governance and moved on to find out what “French Provincial” really means. It’s a term I’ve always associated with girly bedroom furniture (ruffled canopy optional), never giving a thought to its link to the southern provinces of France. Transparency alert: I also gave zero thought to Ricardo Montalban’s indelible “rich Corinthian leather” pitch from the mid-1970s Chrysler Cordoba television commercials. We were played. There’s no such thing as Corinthian leather.

It’s not hard to figure out the origin of French provincial style. The commonly accepted story is that 18th-19th century Parisians of a certain socioeconomic class wanted to distance themselves from the urban setting, leaving the city for vast estates in the provinces. To be labeled “provincial” was not (is not) a compliment. Die-hard Parisians who stayed put considered the provinces to be well out of the mainstream of culture and the inhabitants to be narrow-minded rubes who painted their rustic furniture white and gilded it with little flowers and curlicues.

***

The 1991 film “Impromptu” perfectly depicts the French provincial lifestyle. (Full disclosure: I hate the word “lifestyle.”) It’s one of my favorite movies and there’s a 99% chance you haven’t seen it despite its celebrity cast: Hugh Grant as Frédéric Chopin, Judy Davis as the notorious George Sand, Mandy Patinkin, Bernadette Peters, Emma Thompson and more. It’s a crazy amount of star power in a film that didn’t get a lot of attention. Okay, it’s not a brilliant film but it’s certainly not a snooze.

Emma Thompson plays the socially ambitious and hilariously gaffe-prone Duchess D’Antan who invites a group of artists (Chopin, Liszt, Delacroix, etc.) to her estate for a visit. Her husband the Duke runs away from it all to go hunting while the guests are there. On the way from Paris to the countryside in their horse-drawn carriage the guests speculate about the hostess they’ve never met, imagining her as “one of those titled tarts stuck in the provinces with an uncouth husband,” Correct. “Famished for culture and determined to import it at any cost.” Bingo.

Impromptu, 1991. The Duke and Duchess D’Antan

 The Duke’s attitude about his house guests is, predictably, the opposite. He unwittingly encounters George Sand while hunting in the woods, telling her:

“I’d invite you to my home for a drink, but I’ve got a house full of fops. Guests of my wife’s. I won’t let her move to Paris so she’s trying to bring Paris here. Still, it’s her money. And I love her for it.”

And there you have it. It’s a very funny film. You can watch it online. For free. And you should, if only to see Emma Thompson. Two or more thumbs up.

***  

Here’s the aforementioned Dead Piano Demolition Derby Proposal. It’s simple:

1.     Round up a bunch of dead (i.e., no longer provisional) upright pianos.

2.     Put them outdoors on a field somewhere. Procure lots of safety goggles.

3.     Round up a bunch of hammers, rocks, power saws, axes, drills, etc. No guns.

4.     Round up a bunch of people who have lingering PTSD from childhood piano lessons.

5.     Collect donations on a sliding scale based on the destructive power of weapon of choice.

6.     Profit. Also call the junk guys to clear the debris. Recycle what you can.

Banned Books, Unexpected Beard Tricks, Tables and Chairs

A few days ago I noticed a Washington Post op-ed titled “Do we really still need Banned Books Week?” My silent-yet-adamant reply: “Oh hell, yes!” (followed instantaneously by the inevitable ear worm and holiday favorite, “It’s the mosssst wonderful time of the year!”). 

The author of the quasi-provocative article is Ron Charles, book critic at WashPo. His dismissive opening paragraphs perturbed me. He described his annoyance with the whole week-long thing, labeling it an “annual orgy of self-righteousness” promoted by the American Library Association (ALA), claiming that the observance appears to “exaggerate a problem that’s largely confined to our repressive past.” Um, what? Does Mr. Charles live in a bubble wherein he sees no repression in the present? I could point out a couple of examples for him, say, our current administration’s litigious attempts to ban entire populations from entering the country based on their Muslim identity or its flirtation with a ban on LGBTQ military service.

Books aren’t the only targets and book banning is certainly not confined within U.S. borders. Only six years ago we were horrified by the news that young Malala Yousafzai nearly lost her life in Pakistan at the hands of the Taliban for defiantly pursuing her education. It’s too bad Mr. Charles didn’t have an advance copy of Rod Nordland’s unflinching New York Times article about book banning on the other side of the Persian Gulf in Kuwait, published a few days later on October 1st. Yes, we are far removed geographically from the ultraconservative forces in the Middle East but the Internet makes that physical distance disappear. Information and dis-/misinformation know no borders.

A very informative read, if you like: https://www.nytimes.com/2018/10/01/world/middleeast/kuwait-ban-books.html#click=https://t.co/SNnYOr2Kd1

My favorite quote from Nordland’s article? I’m so glad you asked because I’ve discovered a useful new word pairing: Literary Scofflaws, as in, “Underground banned-book dealers are already doing a brisk business serving literary scofflaws.”

Maybe you agree with me that “Literary Scofflaws” would make a totally excellent indie band name. Probably a stereotypical angry girl band featuring lots of flowery book quote tattoos, large-rimmed glasses, and songs about female protagonists. You get the point. Censorship is censorship, everywhere on the planet. Book people will always find a way.

***

As for my beef with Mr. Charles’ “repressive past” comment, I should give him props for doing his journalistic due diligence in an interview with James LaRue from the ALA Office for Intellectual Freedom. Here’s one of the tough “gotcha” questions he asked Mr. LaRue: “Who are we kidding?…Books aren’t ‘banned’ in this country anymore. The Supreme Court has made that impossible.” I don’t recall Mr. LaRue’s response to this STUPID question because—”Who are we kidding?”—by this point in my reading I was beyond annoyed and had decided Mr. Charles was playing his audience.

He’s no Sacha Baron Cohen “Who Is America?” prankster but, as self-appointed Banned Books Week devil’s advocate, Mr. Charles did elicit some predictable ALA counterarguments from Mr. LaRue. Your basic First Amendment stuff—libraries as places for finding common ground, places where a person has “the right to investigate the choices” and make an informed decision.

Short version: Stay in your lane. If you don’t like a book, you don’t have to read it but you’re not the boss of my reading choices.

Here’s the WashPo link if you’re interested (and/or sleep-deprived): https://www.washingtonpost.com/entertainment/books/do-we-really-still-need-banned-books-week/2018/09/26/80e924be-c0fd-11e8-90c9-23f963eea204_story.html?utm_term=.4bda6421b117

***

When I taught Advanced Freshman English I did have some memorable encounters with naive rule-breakers and scofflaw wannabes—nothing serious, especially with www.turnitin.com as a backup. I shamelessly took advantage of the adolescent trait I’ve unofficially labeled The Outrage Reflex. It’s an utterly non-scientific classification but whatever. The trigger of this angst-y outrage can be great or small, maybe a new dress code rule or the fact that I didn’t allow chewing gum in my classes. Of course there were violators who managed to keep their gum literally squirrelled away in their cheeks during class; it was their minty-fresh breath and the occasional “pop!” that gave them away.

Manifestations of The Outrage Reflex include but are not limited to:

·      vehement eye rolls

·      “but whhhyyyyy”

·      heavy sighs

·      “that’s just stupid,” “that’s not fair,” etc.,

·      and perhaps a sleepy “WHAT?!?!?” from the guy in the back of the room—you understand.

How did I tap into this bountiful natural resource of negative energy? To counter the simmering dread over the required year-long grammar immersion, I kept a large stash of sidewalk chalk and we diagrammed sentences on the asphalt in the parking lot, weather permitting.

Teaching intransitive/transitive verbs was super easy using pop culture news headlines, e.g., “Kanye interrupted,” vs. “Kanye interrupted Taylor,” following his notorious music awards show mic-grab. It’s interesting—and baffling—to see the Kanye vs. T-Swift political headlines popping up this week. She says, “Vote.” He says, “Got this magic red hat.” Perfect metaphor for 2018.

To lighten the rule-bound atmosphere in the typical high school world of “don’ts,” we always observed Banned Books Week. We shared our disbelief at the annual ALA list of Most Challenged Books. We laughed at the idea that someone could find Captain Underpants offensive. We researched national news articles about parents who proposed banning books (some they hadn’t even read) at local school board meetings.

It was all fun and games until I asked my students to choose a favorite book—[pausing for a pedagogical moment of silent “think time”]—then I told them to imagine their favorite book had been challenged by a parent who probably hadn’t read it. The assignment: Prepare a defense using the guidelines in a school policy document we’d found—maybe from Texas?—doesn’t matter. What followed was a revealing exercise in how much books really mean to us as literate, sentient human beings. Some of my students found it quite difficult to choose a single favorite book. My evil plot worked well.

As defenses were presented to the class, favorites followed a predictable path—lots of Harry Potter titles, To Kill A Mockingbird, The Perks of Being a Wallflower, etc.—with one stunning exception: The Dubliners by James Joyce. How many 14-year-olds do you know who’ve read James Joyce? For that matter, how many adults? (I count myself among those who can claim multiple failed attempts at Ulysses, so there’s that. Dubliners was no problem.)

There are two primary reasons I will forever remember young Michael Perry, Defender of The Dubliners.  

1.     His poignant, intelligent, impassioned defense of a beautiful literary work.

2.    His bushy full beard wherein he habitually stored his pencil horizontally at his chin.

***

My own book banning initiation occurred when I was in elementary school. Apparently we (girls) were totally distracted by and subsequently forbidden to read the wildly popular Nancy Drew series at school, as I recall. Some of us made lame attempts to conceal the bright yellow covers behind other books. We weren’t fooling anyone.

My favorite Nancy Drew title: The Clue of the Leaning Chimney. I have no idea why. What I do remember is that we didn’t DARE try any funny stuff in the school library. Our librarian, Miss Carolyn Nicholson, would have none of it. When it was time to line up to go back to the classroom, no one was allowed to leave until every library chair had been pushed back into place at every library table and Miss Nicholson had given us the nod.

To. This. Day. Decades later The Nicholson Rule holds. I still push the chairs back whenever I’m in a table-and-chairs situation—meetings, restaurants, offices, you name it. I’m the one lagging slightly behind to make sure it’s all good for a safe exit. You never know when some literary scofflaws might show up and move the chairs around. Life lessons, people.  

Pleonasms and Pluvial Pronouncements

Today as we count the dwindling hours until the Autumnal Equinox, it’s 94 degrees and 100% miserable outside. Not exactly pumpkin spice weather, although that doesn’t seem to deter the diehard pumpkin spicers of Instagram. This week’s overwhelming weather news has brought with it an inescapable reminder of the desperate consequences of climate change. For grammar peeves like me, this week’s coverage has been a reminder of the pleonasms that plague our first world conversational habits. You might prefer to call them redundancies but how often do you get to drop a dandy word like “pleonasm” in conversation?

Maybe I’m the only human on this planet who involuntarily identifies parts of speech while watching (i.e., quixotically yelling at) cable news hosts and pundits. It’s important to know that our elected representatives are prudent with their usage of metonymy and synecdoche, although I wish they would lay off the quasi-patriotic abstract nouns spewing forth when they don’t have facts to support the points they're making. (For the record, I also suffer from self-diagnosed involuntary harmonic analysis but that’s a different topic for a different day.)

In the Dark Ages before iPads were a thing, I kept a large Webster’s dictionary on the bedside table in case of a word emergency. In matters of personal safety, I figured it was heavy enough to momentarily distract potential intruders if I hurled a big fat book in their direction. I absolutely cherish my 1990 hardback copy of The Concise Oxford Dictionary of Literary Terms; it’s tiny but it packs a metaphorical wallop with its reference powers. 

I also did a Velveteen-Rabbit-level number on my first copy of Mrs. Byrne's Dictionary of Unusual, Obscure, and Preposterous Words—so much so that I had to keep a rubber band around it and repaginate from time to time when it literally fell apart but who cares. Just reading a dictionary—pretty much any dictionary—is one of my favorite non-contact sports.

I watch ESPN once a year when the exquisitely awkward and frightfully prepped Scripps National Spelling Bee kids are competing in their final rounds. Rationale: If it’s on ESPN, it’s a sport. If my reasoning holds, the Awkward Spelling Bee Children are my favorite team.

How do they train? They memorize thousands of dictionary entries. It takes months and months of practice. It’s grueling. And comical. If you’ve never seen the documentary “Spellbound” (Jeffrey Blitz, 2002), you should. It’s nothing like the Hitchcock film with the same name but it does have plenty of suspenseful moments. (I won’t tell you who wins, but it’s not Harry.)

***

And now I’ll demonstrate some adult-ish self-monitoring skills and redirect myself to The Pleonasm.

Some pleonasms are so familiar that we (and by “we” I mean some of us) barely notice. Oldies like PIN number and free gift hardly merit an eye roll anymore. Other thoughtless pairings no longer stop me in my tracks—added bonus, for one. By now—if you’re still reading (thank you)—you’re probably thinking of your own favorites to contribute to the list.

When confronted with our collective linguistic mindlessness these days I find myself nodding slowly with resignation as I involuntarily bite my lower lip. Menu items like naan bread don’t even elicit a gasp—just a sigh. And now I’m reminded that audible gasp is another pleonastic keeper I encountered recently.

Other perennial irritants include:

·      [hour] a.m. in the morning

·      safe haven

·      false pretenses

·      exact same

—you get it.

***

I initially thought this week’s (tiny) hands down winner in Presidential Pleonasms had to be Mr. Trump's description of Hurricane Florence as “tremendously big,” with an honorable mention for his description of Puerto Rico last year as “an island surrounded by water.”

I was mistaken.

The panel of judges that forever resides in my head has awarded this week’s Presidential Pleonasm Prize to yesterday's rhapsodic video performance wherein Mr. Trump claims that Hurricane Florence is “one of the wettest we’ve ever seen from the standpoint of water.”

Aaaarrrrgggghhhh.

(Take your time, deep breaths—brb after I retrieve my mandible from the floor. Again.)

Watching and listening to this man triggers my English Teacher PTSD, I must admit. His tetchy, inattentive facial expression during the Oval Office FEMA hurricane briefing is that of a high school student for whom the dismissal bell can’t toll soon enough. When he speaks off script, I rage-cringe at the incomprehensible ramblings of the student who believes he can bullshit his way through a long-assigned project presentation he failed to prepare for. Yes, that’s a dangling preposition. Because PTSD is a bitch and swearing is a common symptom. I often wonder if other  English teachers share my theory that the occupant of the White House is perhaps the real-life Stradlater from Catcher in the Rye. 

***

And now I ask your indulgence as I make a relatively embarrassing disclosure:

In the early weeks of the current administration I thought all those stacked little round things on the table behind the Resolute Desk in the Oval Office were actually Keurig coffee pods. Now I know they are some kind of shiny badges/magpie bait--but--I can defend my initial findings based on the hospitality aspects of the Trump Brand which surely incorporate coffee pods and Keurig pots in hotel rooms, on breakfast buffets, etc., including the ubiquitous seasonal pumpkin spice. 

Happy Autumnal Equinox, everyone. 

Summer Reading Confessional

“Oh, scabrous day! Callooh! Callay!” *

I always chortle* with joy upon discovering new words, don’t you? Hear me out, please.

Maybe it’s a sign of high intelligence or maybe it’s undiagnosed adult-onset ADHD but my habit of reading more than one book at a time seems increasingly irreversible, although I have yet to unlock the skill level of my friend who can read a print book and listen to a different audiobook simultaneously.

This summer my brain has been hanging out with Joan Didion, Ann Patchett, Jenny Lawson, Anne Lamott, Maira Kalman, and Delia Ephron. Before you accuse me of blatant misandry, I should say that I’ve also been reading some Tom Hanks and David Sedaris, and—I’m slightly embarrassed to note—Michael Wolff’s Fire and Fury: Inside the Trump White House.  

Mind you, I have no real interest in Michael Wolff, Trump, et al, but I do have an impulse control problem when I see a New York Times op-ed titled “Everyone in Trump World Knows He’s an Idiot” (Michelle Goldberg, 01/04/18). True enough, but I had to slow my roll at the beginning of her third paragraph which reads: “Wolff’s scabrous book comes out on Friday.” The briefest of Google searches revealed the distasteful reasons behind my ignorance of the term “scabrous.” Maybe that’s a word you use on the regular but it was new to me.

Now it’s Labor Day weekend, Fire and Fury has deservedly plummeted from its January best-seller status, and Michael Wolff has pretty much vanished following his underwhelming television book tour. It was all kinds of fun to watch Fred Armisen’s blistering SNL portrayals, I have to admit.

Eight months post-release, picking up my copy of Fire and Fury is like reading an old People magazine in the dentist’s office waiting room. All the insider gossip Wolff and his publisher hyped just doesn’t deliver a punch anymore. We are bombarded every day with the overwhelming incompetence of the “president” and his lack of intellect/cognitive ability. We’re tired of all the winning. It’s not funny. We know he is surrounded by indescribably unfit people. Duh. At least Omarosa’s Unhinged copycat book tour was mercifully brief and her sales numbers took a precipitous turn in short order.

***

I confess that I totally fell for the Fire and Fury “liberal catnip” Jonathan Martin so aptly described in his January 8, 2018 Times book review. I also confess that I did not read the book review until after I’d started reading the book. Moreover, I should allow that to claim I “finished” the book really means I did a LOT of skimming—a cringeworthy reminder of the response many of my former high school English students must have felt as they were forced to comply with the dreaded Summer Reading Assignment.

Once upon a time, in a department-wide attempt to mitigate the ickiest parts of the reading requirement, the English faculty decided that incoming freshmen should be assigned a memoir or biography of their choosing; in turn, I crafted what I considered to be a clever and engaging oral (easy) assessment for my classes: Each student would tell the class about his/her selected title, including its subject, their reason for choosing, and the most unexpected thing they learned about the person.

Everything went along pretty well, with most students telling us about famous athletes, pop stars, adventurers and entrepreneurs, except for one kid: Jacob Berdichevsky. He had read a LONG biography of the long-dead Golda Meir. His reason: “It was the only one in our house.” I immediately gave him full credit for the assignment based on his reticent courage and for having survived the blank stares and utter disinterest of his classmates. Reading and talking about what you’ve read shouldn’t be a painful experience. Ever.

***

In that same vein of compassion/acceptance and in order to rationalize my investment of time, money, and cognitive real estate, I find it helpful to acknowledge that I have gleaned a handful of largely useless things from my slog through Fire and Fury.

1.  Michael Wolff really loves to flex his vocabulary and I love collecting new words, Yiddish or otherwise. It’s nice to be reminded of adjectives like “benighted” and “hortatory,” although they (among others) seem a tad fancy for this tabloid-ish text. References to “gossip squibs” and phrases like “rambled and fumphered” sent me racing for the dictionary and that’s my favorite way to do cardio, so, bonus!

2.  GOP super donor/Bannon backer Robert Mercer has a Steinway grand on his yacht and prefers to sit and play the piano for hours rather than interact with his human guests. Who needs people skills when you have a squillion dollars and can afford to buy all the politicians you want? I do want to know what he plays, though. Show tunes? Jerry Lee Lewis? Yanni? So many options.

3.  Many of the most dangerous people Wolff writes about have already exited the White House—some of whom are on their way to court, like Flynn, Bannon, and Manafort. We must take our small comforts where we find them, right?

***

On top of the embarrassment I’m schlepping around in my head for buying, reading, and writing about Fire and Fury, there is the problem of getting rid of a book I no longer want. I confess that I am physically incapable of putting a book in the trash. I cannot deal with the guilt that comes with putting a book in the recycle bin. I guess that makes me a book hoarder and, if you’ll excuse me for a moment, I’ll pile on the accompanying shame and guilt about that, too. Maybe I should call myself a Super Compulsive Book Protector instead and pretend I have a magical cape that hides all the books I’ve bought but haven’t read yet.

I’m happy to report that a disposal solution was waiting literally around the corner from my house via the neighborhood Little Free Library. It’s staked out right next to the neighborhood Little Free Dog Poop bags so it’s hard to miss. What a relief to nestle Mr. Wolff’s title alongside lots of worn Nora Roberts paperbacks and several other non-threatening offerings (Little Visits with God devotionals, anyone?). I’m comfortable calling it a win-win-win for the dog walkers, the seekers of free books, and the people who can’t throw away books.

*with apologies to Lewis Carroll for my “Jabberwocky” scabrous-rhymes-with-frabjous reflex, even though he was kind of a photography creeper and quite possibly a pedophile. Go ask Alice. [your groan here]