Molly Bloom's Diary

"Yes because he never did a thing like that before as ask to get his breakfast in bed with a couple of eggs since the City arms hotel when he used to be pretending to be laid up with a sick voice ..."

And so it begins--and ends--a rambling, lengthy monologue, just going on and on and on and on and ... so this is literature. And so it is. They told us it is and so it must be. It must be, I mean, yes, it must be. Because they told us so and so it is. Yes, I said yes, yes it is ...

Speaking of lengthy, rambling monologues ...

Time Magazine, Jan. 9, 1934:

What is it all about? Trusting readers who plunge in hopefully to a smooth beginning soon find themselves floundering in troubled waters. Arrogant Author Joyce gives them no help, lets them sink or swim.

Arrogant? Such a petty insult. Brilliant, yes. And I'm sure at times insufferable and indeed even perhaps arrogant. As for his intentions--to purposely confuse, confound and frustrate his readers? Possibly. To be positively obtuse and difficult? No doubt. Isn't that the trait of a great author?

I have found that many great works of art require a bit of work. At least on some level, even the most seemingly simplistic work contains hidden context, meaning, juxtaposition, what have you. Take Leonardo's "Last Supper" for example. Art historians have studied this piece for centuries, looking for its studded clues, its subtle reminders of mortality, spirituality and sexuality, only to mention a few themes. And yet hundreds of thousands of visitors flock to Milan each year to view this piece and enjoy it on its most basic level.

So that brings us to enjoying art on its face. Some people read mysteries. Very black and white. Others read Umberto Ecco, a mystery writer in his own right. "Ulysses" hardly seems the candidate for the kind of literature one just breezes through while lounging on the beach. (And I must confess, I've never read the whole thing myself). However, it does have its entertaining passages.

Bronze by gold heard the hoofirons, steelyringing.
Imperthnthn thnthnthn.
Chips, picking chips off rocky thumbnail, chips.
Horrid! And gold flushed more.
A husky fifenote blew.

Our critic from Time (1934 -- when the book finally made its way to American shores) suggests that only the most educated Odyssey scholars can make sense of this. Be that as it may, you had better have more than a familiar passing with Homer to get this book. Joyce weaves at least a dozen languages into this dense novel, plus innumerable puns, parables, allegories and other word tricks. To read it is to be awed. Or bored beyond dead. Take your pick, beach readers.

The Art of Jaywalking, Part 9

I've noticed a disturbing new trend in my humble town. As if the sidewalk did not exist at all, people have taken to walking in the street. And not just on the side of the road, mind you. No--they walk right down the middle of the street. Cars be damned, they just saunter down the middle of the road. I just don't understand. Are the sidewalks not wide enough? Smooth enough? What's worse, some of these people walk their dogs down the middle of the street. And some of them barely step aside to allow a car to get by. They have their iPods plugged in, cranked up to max volume or they're talking on their mobile phones. Not one sliver of attention to the cars bearing down on them.

In these situations, I believe in survival of the fittest. I believe that my 1,900-pound car (a weakling by today's standards) could squash your puny 200-pound ass. And your little dog's too. Sorry, folks, but the law does not give you the privilege of just strolling casually wherever you'd like. It's for your own good. It's the same reason you have to be 21 to buy liquor and can't buy heroin at all. Just looking out for your welfare. We don't want you doing anything stupid.

So, folks, stay off the smack and stay out of the street. Jaywalking is one thing. But taking up the whole street is just asking for it.

Diary of a Delusional Man, Part 2

I was looking over some old letters and came across some from Frank. Ol' Blue Eyes really knew how to make me laugh. Even at my most dire moments. And vice versa.

Here's a passage from 1962:

Had breakfast with Sammy today. He sends his regards. He was kind of blue. Played the Sands last night and he felt his performance fell short. He beats himself up almost every night. And he has a set of golden tonsils, let me tell you. Talent to burn. I just don't understand it. Wish you'd been there buddy to cheer him up. And to see my set! Man, it was smokin'!

And so on. Ah, we would laugh. That night he coughed up blood. OK, not so funny but later ... ? Oy. We were doubled over. At least he was.

I miss him. He would write nearly every night he was on the road. The highs, the lows. And everything in between. He would let me in on all the details. I felt as if I were there. Here's one from 1958:

The joint sure was jumping tonight. Lester and the orchestra sounded marvelous. When I broke into "These Foolish Things," the crowd went wild. I wowed 'em, baby. Just wowed 'em! Knocked 'em dead. They were on their feet at the end of the number. And yet I feel an emptiness after every performance. A hollow, sinking feeling that only the wild, appreciative applause of 300 people can replace. It puts me in a lonely place. But I'm back again on that horse tomorrow. And when I feel that low again, I can always drown my sorrows in some gin.

Yes, Frank could be mercurial. And cruel, God knows. He went for months without writing. I never heard from him. And when he did finally break his silence, there was not one word of apology or even an acknowledgement that he'd cut me out of his life (even if it was temporary). I would lay in bed and let the tears stream down my face thinking how he had hurt me. But I knew it was unintentional.

Many people ask me about my relationship with Frank. My therapist is especially curious. Some folks even try to suggest that it was not "real" or "imaginary." I tell them all the same thing. It was a real as any relationship I've had with any other human being in the wonderful world of entertainment.

More people with double names

Yo Yo Ma
Evans Evans
William Carlos Williams*
Dudley Dudley, former Democratic state chair, New Hampshire (who has the added distinction of being a woman with a double male name)
Lisa Lisa (and the Cult Jam)
Humbert Humbert (fictional, yes, but also double named)

*This merits special mention since it's not the same two names in a row.

Phrases I want to drop in everyday conversation

"Why, I oughta ..."
"Say, what's the big idea?"
"I oughta sock you right in the puss!"
"Scram! I said, am-scray!"
"Say, what do I look like, some sorta sap?"
"What gives?"
"That is one hep hepcat."
"Sez you."
"The jig is up, boys!"
"Don't flip your lid!"
"Get outta here, youse mugs!"
"What are you -- some kinda wise guy?"
"Good day, sir! I said, good day!"

the Point

"I guess I believe there's a point
To what we do.
But I ask myself is there
something more besides you?"

Cowboy Junkies

The point is, what's the point? They have a point -- asking what the point is. Secondarily, who is the "you" in this song--a lover, a friend, God? It hardly matters, I think, in the larger context.

We're always looking for a point. See the movie. We want our answers neat and tidy--tied up with a very pretty little bow. Quick and ... to the point. But answers are often not simple. They are complex, ugly, difficult. We want to skip to the end ... see what's waiting. But isn't the journey half of it?

OK -- I think I've laid out quite a few cliches and platitudes.

The Crash, Part 12

And so, with the end near, he was unsure if anything he had learned would matter. It seemed to him that the cold, lonely lessons were merely academic strictures that had no applicability in the broader world. The firm handshake, the nervous smile, the glances, coughs and vocal tics meant less and less as he approached the final stop.

Even meaning itself held little or no meaning. He now felt as if he were entering a gigantic void, surrendering to a sense of nothingness. All the wisdom, all the mistakes, all the knowledge he brought with him would be left behind like so much clothing to shed before a bath.

He would gladly surrender these things for the peace of mind that he was sure to trade it for. But there was no guarantee of that. It was risk. And he thought it was unlikely that he had a choice.

The Crash, Part 2

He would often think about his childhood but only in vague, nondescript terms. He had no concrete memories, no complete stories to tell. There were only fleeting images and passing scenes--dreamlike--that evoked just a flicker of emotion before evaporating.

He had no solid picture of his mother in his mind. Nor his father. He had only fragments and they were not detailed. He wasn't sure what color his mother's eyes were. When he tried to conjure her up, they appeared gray, an ill defined, indiscreet color.

And so it was with all of his memories. They took on a gray, indistinct, murky feeling.

The Crash, Part 1

He was at home. That's where things were. All of his things in a neat tidy bundle--his razor, shaving cream, his shoes (sorted by color --brown and black--in his drawer), his magazines, his records. And so much more. His photographs. Perhaps they meant more than anything. They could raise the past like nothing else. Except his albums, which he never played anymore. He kept them in a corner near the untouched stereo. To play them would be too heartbreaking. Yes, the aural was a much more powerful tool to dredge up old images and memories than the visual.

He had kept a diary. Just short entries. Very specific and short on descriptions. "Had lunch with X today. He complained of his parents." And so on.

He made the same breakfast every day. Toast, butter, jam and eggs. The only variant was how he cooked the eggs. Sometimes scrambled, sometimes sunnyside up. Never over easy.

Life would not end here, he hoped. And yet it felt as if it ended every day. And then, invariably, without pause or delay, it would begin again.

Fellas, What's Up With the Double Names?

Boutros Boutros-Ghali

Sirhan Sirhan


Ford Maddox Ford

Duran Duran

Major Major

Mister Mister

Diary of a Delusional Man, Part 1

Had lunch with David Bowie today. I was saddened to see that he has not given up smoking. And he still prefers Marlboros.
"How have you been?" I asked him.
He sighed. "Very tired. Working hard. Iman and the baby. You know."
We talked about his 60th birthday. Then I asked him who the Bewlay Brothers is based on. He just laughed. Sometimes I don't think he takes me seriously.
Then he leaned in and said to me, very earnestly: "Do you think you could help me with my next album?"
I was stunned. "In what capacity?" I said.
He leaned back, drew on his Marlboro, then said: "Producer."
I let some silence pass.
"Of course, David," I said. "Of course I'll produce your next album."

The Art of Jaywalking, Part 8 (Walk, Don't Run)

Here we get into the real mechanics of it. It's important to remember, at all times--no matter how quickly a car is bearing down on you--that it is jay walking, not jay running. So it is absolutely imperative that you keep your head about you and not give into the temptation to so much as break into a light jog. Rather, the secret is to take long strides and push hard off the balls of your feet. This will give you the momentum to get across the street quickly and smoothly without giving the appearance that you're rushing. If oncoming cars sense your fear, it will only increase your panic. Stay cool. Move like a panther. Keep your destination in mind. Stay focused. You will arrive safely.

What Darkness is This?

She despised the dark. In it lay mysteries and fear--gloomy seas and heartache. It was in the darkness she lost her father. It was in the darkness her lover left. Neither had said goodbye. Her father fell away. Her lover simply disappeared. It was a temporary blindness. It made her breathing difficult. Yet, there was a certain comfort in it.

"When did you first become aware of your fear of the dark?"
"I was very small."
"What happened?"
"My mother turned out the light, said goodnight and walked out of the room."
"And how did you feel?"
"Afraid."
" ... "
"But not quite terrified."
" ... "
" ... "
"And so when was your most recent encounter with the dark?"
"Last night."
"Ah? Yes?"
"Yes. I turned out the light."
"That's funny."
"I know. But it wasn't intended to be funny."
"I know... . I'm going to turn out the light now."
"I wish you would."

Reasons to Avoid Starbucks

There are those of us who cannot live without it. There are those of us who have no choice. I am fortunate. I have a wonderful local coffee shop I visit just about every day. The service is friendly, the coffee is good, the atmosphere is down to earth. Yes, the service can at times be infuriatingly slow. But it's my coffee shop. And I feel comfortable there.

Starbucks, on the other hand, is like a rental. It's reliable, but there's something iniquitous about its environs. First, as you walk in, you are assaulted by that vicious odor -- a coffee smell too strong for coffee. Second, there is an artifice about the place. Something synthetic and unreal. Perhaps it's the uniforms, the clerk's forced smiles or the air of crass commercialism. I hate being upsold. Every time I've been in a Starbucks, they try to sell me something I have no interest in. "How about a muffin to go with that?" "Are you interested in any cookies?" Look, I'm not buying a suit. I don't need a shirt, tie and pair of shoes to go with it. Just give me my coffee and let me exit this pretentious, prefabricated place. And no matter how little I linger, my clothes retain that skunky over-roasted coffee smell.

So, yes, this has been done to death. Starbucks detractors have scrawled, screamed and scratched their screeds over the inherent problems with a McDonald's-like institution that serves caffeinated beverages. But just to keep the dialogue going, here's my four dollars and fifty cents.

Why I do everything I can to avoid Starbucks:

Overpriced--Nearly $4.00 for a large (or tall, or whatever the biggest coffee is)?!
Over-roasted--(See above) Their French roast smells like Pepe Le Pew stepped into a vat of grounds, then broke wind.
Overrated--I can get better coffee at Dunkin' Donuts.
Over-exposed--Lewis Black tells a great story about finding the end of the universe. It's in Dallas at the end of an alley. On one side of the alley is a Starbucks. Directly across the street is ... a Starbucks.

Reader's Mail, Part 2

More mail from my faithful readers who opt to skip the comments section and send me a private email.

"Dear Glick: You must think you're something."

As a matter of fact, I am something. Mostly water.

"Do you ever get writer's block?"

No, but sometimes I get writer's cramp. And one time someone bought me a New Kids on the Block CD. It also gave me a cramp.

"My name is Ajit Prestashagun. I have a very high position with the Namibian government. We have recently suffered a loss at the hands of fate. A beloved rich man has died. In order to expedite his savings and bequeath his money to his heirs I would like to transfer $42 million U.S. into your personal bank account. You need to do nothing at this point. At a later time, after the money has accumulated some interest, please to write a check to my personal name in the amount of $40 million American. Yes, you will get to keep $2 million for yourself."

My troubles appear to be over. Thank you, Mr. Prestoshotgun. And I look forward to a lucrative and rewarding relationship with you. Please forward the money immediately.

"Dear Glick: What's that smell?"

You mean it's not just me?

Women Who Played Mothers to Men Too Old to be Their Sons

Jesse Royce Landis (1896-1972) to Cary Grant (1904-1986) North by Northwest
Maureen Stapleton (1925-2006) to Dick Van Dyke (1925- ) Bye Bye Birdie
Angela Lansbury (1925- ) to Laurence Harvey (1928-1973) The Manchurian Candidate
Cindy Pickett (1947- ) to Matthew Broderick (1962- ) Ferris Beuller's Day Off*

* This is a close one. She would have been 14 when she had him, but given her character in the movie, it's unlikely.

A Lesson in Patience, Part 2

A friend of my family's was throwing a brunch one Sunday morning and ran out to the store to pick up a few last minute items. The lines were extraordinarily long and he was in a bit of a rush. This was in the days before express lanes and he stood behind an elderly woman who had a cart full of groceries. He asked her if she would mind if he went before her since he only had a few items. She regarded him for a moment, then said, "Sonny ... I don't have as much time as you."

Names That Seem Less Threatening When Combined

Lil Kim Jong Il
Charles Manson Reilly
John Wayne Gacy Allen
Al "Ted" Bundy
Jeffrey Dahmer Chrysler (Yeah, I know it's "Daimler")

The Art of Jaywalking, Part 7 (Body Contact)

Jaywalking should not be a contact sport. However, you should think of yourself as a running back or wide receiver and use all parallel traffic as your defense. Even better, you're the quarterback and traffic and people are your defense. Oncoming traffic is the opponent's secondary. So if someone to your right begins crossing the street before you do, get in step with him/her. They may act as a human shield. The ideal situation is to have two defensemen on either side. Better yet, if you're at a four-way stop, move in rhythm with any cars traveling the same direction as you. There's no better defense than a couple two-ton vehicles. Unless it's Julius Peppers.

Words That Should Exist

In the spirit of the Washington Post Style Invitational, here are words I've made up (ususally a combination of two words) and their attendant definitions. (Speaking of the Washington Post, writer Gene Weingarten has an excellent example of this little wordplay, known as conflation.)

Ludacrive (n) A financially successful but completely silly venture, such as the fashion industry or tabloid journalism.

Sparcasm (n) When sarcasm gets so heated, it almost comes to blows.

Cigaregrette (n) A feeling of queasiness following a cigarette. Symptoms may also include uncontrollable shaking and a bad aftertaste. Usually applies to recovering ex-smokers who swear that's the last one. Really.

Inplement (n) An observation that comes off like a compliment but really is not. ("Oh. You got a haircut. Huh." or "New dress. Hmm.")

Scarcasm (n) Sarcasm that is so scathing it actually leaves emotional scars on the victim.