Drood, · where's · my · car?

Science, in the picture books of my youth, was always about fixing the future. I loved the illustrations of the moon bases that were just around the corner, or of the sterile and sanitary cutaways of the human cell, neatly diagrammed and explicated in language I could understand. The universe was orderly. Classifiable. Predictable.

These days, however, it seems more as if Science is a bit of a bummer. He’s a big Gloomy Gus, the guy who hangs around parties a little too long and butts in on conversations with people he doesn’t know to remind them that he’s been ignored all evening. No one is really interested in his talk about the nifty new inventions he’s come up with—we take increasing miniaturization and convenience as a given, and hate to be reminded that we should be thankful. So deprived of that topic, he’s reduced to reminding all the guests that life is rottener than we thought.

Civilization’s inevitable demise seems to be Science’s desperate cocktail chatter, lately. When I was growing up, there was only one little way that the world could end. You know. Thermonuclear war. No biggie. Maybe a little ice age. Maybe, if the crying native American had anything to say about it, smog might choke out Los Angeles. But that was it.

These days, though, Science wants to remind us almost continuously that there are unknown asteroids out there waiting to smash into us at some unforeseen point in the future. He tickles our fears by reminding us that a massive electromagnetic storm from the sun could wipe out our infrastructures and reduce us to baboons fighting for the last can of Del Monte creamed corn. He paints horrible pictures of global warming gone amok. He tells us our bodies are messy, and that he doesn’t have all the answers about why they go wrong. Then he prompts us to remember that the universe isn’t orderly at all, what with all those black holes right near our solar system ready to gobble us whole, and if that wasn’t bad enough, why, there’s a particle collider on the other side of the world ready to create one for us, by gosh!

Mr. Apocalypse, once he’s spread his message of doom and gloom, then moves on to the next little cluster of people and comes up with an even more dire scenario to scare them pantless. He really seems to enjoy making a stir.

Oh, Science. The desperation doesn’t suit you. I liked you better in your white lab coat, and wearing those omniscient, horn-rimmed glasses. Please. Don’t let me find out you’ve been bi-polar, all along.

--

And then there are times when I get up there and know that there have been songs I enjoyed the hell out of yowling, and yet the only thing I can think of is “One Way or Another.” For the hundredth time.

Last night it occurred to me that it would be a fine idea to make a list of all the songs I’ve ever sung at the mic, so I could carry it around with me on my phone and have as a reference at all times. I could even notate it with the key changes I liked, so that I wouldn’t have to rely on trial and error or my sad, failing memory. Once I had it assembled, I couldn’t believe how long it was. One hundred and forty songs. Some of them I do a lot. Some of them I will never do again. (Hello, “Too Shy”! I’m talking to you!) But at least no one can accuse me of not trying new things.

(And if anyone who knows me remembers me performing a song not on this list, please let me know!)

( The complete shocking list follows. )

Writers are privileged visitors here. They have a house or two of their own in the City, after all. Perhaps even well-thought of, and nicely maintained; or perhaps never much reckoned and falling into disrepair. But to have a house of any kind, even to have brought it only to planning stage, and have given up in despair, is to realize more fully the wonder of the City, and to know how its houses are built: to know also that though one brick may look very much like another, and all builders go about their work in much the same way, some buildings will be good, some bad. And a very few, sometimes the least suspected, will last, and not crumble with the decades. Writers, builders, good or bad, recognizing these things, are usually polite to one another, and a great deal kinder than the people who visit as outsiders.

When I ran across this passage the other day, it got me thinking about something that’s bothered me increasingly throughout the last few years. It seems to me that lately the City of Invention has been overrun with a particular breed of tourist I despise—and let me make it plain here that in the City of Invention we are all tourists, writers and readers alike. Furthermore, I believe the City of Invention includes all the entertainments that feed our dreaming, including the scripted television series we love and the movies we see.

But there’s a particular breed of visitor to the City that bothers me increasingly, of late. They’re loud and shrill, and fill the streets with shouts and catcalls. Their hoots of derision as they drive by in their souped-up jalopies block out the usual civilized, mannered conversations to which its citizens are used. It’s the internet culture of snark that’s invaded, and its celebrants make me want to flee the City for good.

The culture of snark glories in its own cleverness. Its practitioners are like the catty bullies in the middle school lunch room who gather around the exit to the cafeteria line in order to rip to shreds anyone and everyone who steps into their line of sight. One of them sights a flaw, real or imagined, and the rest dogpile onto it, attacking with fangs exposed, until the victim manages to escape. Then they all congratulate themselves. They’ve done a fine job of savagery, yes indeed. They’ve cut that one down to size. But their hunger is never satisfied, because there’s always another target to come.

It’s easy to be snarky on the internet. There’s no real investment there, often no need to associate one’s name or face to the comments one posts. All one needs is the rallying cry of snark aficionados everywhere, Is it just me, or does anyone else think. . . ? And off they go.

Reading websites visited by those who love snark culture makes clear that they believe they are doing a service the books and shows and movies they rip apart; they are convinced they’re setting things straight, and reclaiming the Houses of the Imagination that are rightfully theirs. They know exactly how to fix 24 or Battlestar Galactica. They use the word Whedonesque as a weapon, thinking they know what’s more Whedonesque than Whedon himself. And the breed has its variants, including the well-meaning crusaders anxious to whip the world into a frenzy. If someone’s written a book about which it’s possible for the crusaders to be outraged, because the author’s built the world differently than the way it is or the way the crusaders believe it should be, they gang up and demand apologies. Puffed up and superior, all of the snark lovers kick and pummel until they imagine they’ve superseded anything the original builder could say, and they move on to the next victim.

They think they’re being constructive. I even suspect they think that the time they spend polishing their knives is time spent erecting their own houses within the City, shining and admired. But they aren’t. Snark doesn’t build anything. It only attempts to erode. It’s the antithesis of the creative act. It’s graffiti of the least colorful and artistic sort, drive-by sniping that’s designed to harm. Clever-clever it may try to be, but in reality it reworks the same tired old tropes, over and over again—the cute nicknames, the attempts to pinpoint the shark-jumping, the eye-rolling, and lately, adding the suffix -fail to whatever it can. On the internet they yell and point and laugh and shrill out any real dialogue, until it all echoes so loudly in their ears that when the ringing stops, they’re convinced that everyone must think like they do.

Never does it occur to its practitioners that there’s an entire vast world outside the internet, and many of them don’t agree, or care. I get tired of hearing the din, though. It makes my head hurt. It dismays me. Because on a fundamental level, I don’t understand how or why culture’s shifted to a point where a new House of Imagination doesn’t get to earn any derision or scorn; it’s automatically entitled to it. Even before the paint’s dry and the front door is open, the graffiti is often there; the snark lovers don’t even have to visit to render judgment.

Erecting fifteen little shanties of my own along the City of Invention’s streets does not give me any more privileges than anyone else visiting, let me say. I’m a tourist too. Often I turn up my nose at what’s been built, and I’ll say so. But like Weldon points out, having a few houses of my own makes me painfully aware of how much work and love goes into building them. When I see a crowd outside one, jeering for the sake of hearing their own voices, my sympathies are always going to be with their builders. No one wants to write a script to a chorus of naysayers who believe their know one’s characters better. No one cares to spend months or years on a book at which a few people are throwing rotten fruit in the hopes that everyone will follow suit. That’s too much time and imagination spent in a life that’s already too short.

I’m aware how old-fashioned I sound, but the City of Invention is thousands of years old, and deserves respect. There’s civilized conversation. And there’s dogpiling, disguised as it may be with righteous intent. Snark culture is built on the latter, and that’s why I steer as clear from it as I can.

See the City of Invention with opened eyes. Be a builder. That's the billboard I want to erect, right on the outskirts of town for everyone to see as they drive in.

Be a builder.

--

When I first read the press about The Fashion Show in the months before its premiere, I had gotten the impression that although it would naturally resemble Project Runway in its focus on fashion design, that the two were supposedly to be fundamentally different in some manner. I thought that the new show was going to focus more on the production of completely lines, or something, rather than a single hastily-produced garment for that week’s challenge.

Apparently I was wrong. The Fashion Show appears to have been designed from the ground up as a Project Runway clone. There are the same wacky challenges—“Design an evening gown for a socialite using only ten dollars!”—and the same inevitable episode in which the aspiring designers are asked to create clothing for women smaller than a size zero and spend an entire hour whining about it. Isaac Mizrahi pretends to be Tim Gunn and Kelly Rowland fills in for Heidi Klum. It doesn’t really work. Mizrahi knows what he’s talking about, but seems to have been instructed to copy Gunn’s patented “I’m worried!” expression whenever he visits the designers. Rowland looks pretty and enunciates exquisitely, and that’s pretty much her entire contribution.

It’s the designers who make Project Runway compelling, and here it’s the designers who make The Fashion Show such a wallow in joylessness. It’s as if designers with actual talent were somehow advised to steer clear of this street corner Gucci handbang knockoff of a show, and the casting directors were left only with Z-list designers. Not even that . . . the directors seem to have assembled the cast solely from any fast-food worker they could find who once stared off into space and thought, you know, I wish I could be a fashion designer.

If for some reason my description compels anyone to watch (please don’t let it), I’ll catch you up. There’s a bitchy black guy who’s quick with the finger waving and the head bobbing. There’s a Zoe Deschanel lookalike. There’s a pimply sylph of a fellow of pan-Asian extraction who giggles like a geisha behind his hand every time the camera turns in his direction. And then there’s a special appearance from Tingle, famed fairy from the Zelda series.

I ain’t lyin’.

--

Last year she became emboldened by a outdoors encounter in which she body-slammed a squirrel against a fence. I witnessed its sequel over the weekend, when I took her out into the back yard for a supervised roll in the dirt, and was appalled when the first thing she did was to spy one of her rodent enemies and chase it, at the highest speed imaginable, into the neighbor’s yard. Then, almost as quickly, she realized what she’d done, slinked guiltily back, ducked behind a stack of mulch bags, and emerged to squeeze her eyes at me and rub against my leg and attempt to convince me that everything I’d seen had been a hallucination, because she was really a sweet kitty who would never eviscerate small mammal. Unless it was really, really fat and tasty.

Then there was last night. The Mont and I were both sitting in the den at the back of the house after dinner, when Fred spied a squirrel on the roof. It thudded noisily over one of the three skylights, then hopped onto the edge of the next. Fred was fascinated. She craned her neck up to stare at the squirrel’s underbelly as it munched seeds from the maple tree. She hopped onto one of the chair, leapt to a bookshelf, and then sprang onto the top of the entertainment center—the tallest object in the room.

From the edge of the entertainment center Fred watched the squirrel for a good five minutes, until the squirrel moved forward into the last of the skylights, directly above her. I heard the Mont inhale sharply. When I looked up, I saw Fred spring into the air and heard a hollow boom as her body collided with the skylight glass. There was a terrible moment in which time seemed to freeze, like in some Warner Brothers animation in which the coyote is suspended in mid-air after chasing the roadrunner off a cliff’s edge. Fred looked down at me from nine feet in the air, eyes wide, paws extended, her face plainly saying, Uh-oh.

She fell to the ground and landed safely, though immediately she sat down, tucked her tail around her rump, and attempted to look dignified. The Mont and I looked at each other with horror, but once we realized she was fine, we started to laugh. And laugh. And laugh. We couldn’t stop, though tears were stinging the corners of my eyes. Fred tried to ignore us, but it was too late. She stalked to the door, lay down, and tried to pretend that none of it had ever happened.

--

This is SimVance we’re talking about, of course.

( Or, why one shouldn't get involved with a minimum-wage would-be community-theatre actor. With photos. )

“No,” I’d say, smiling. “Just going for the weekend.” But what I’d really want to ask was, Um, what about me says that I attend huge international leather fetish events? Because if I’m giving off that vibe, I’m really going to have to exploit it more often.

The International Mr. Leather event was being held at a hotel downtown. Signs outside it warned the public that the hotel and everything within was closed for a private event. The gold script in which the sign was printed seemed to hint at something upscale and genteel, but since the hotel’s entrance was clogged to overflowing with muscle men wearing nothing but black chaps and jockstraps, one would have had to have been of an extremely sheltered background not to guess what was going on inside.

We went to the leather mart for an afternoon—an event that seemed to take longer to get into, than actually explore. Getting in involved standing in a massive line in which leather-wearing men scrutinized our drivers licenses at three checkpoints, before we paid our entrance fee and let them be studied one more time. Then we received a disclaimer form which we were required to read and sign. After agreeing that we were aware that the displays within might be considered SHOCKING and SCANDALOUS and involved sexual content, we finally were loosed into the SHOCKING pit of depravity.

Only it wasn’t that shocking, really. There was certainly nothing I hadn’t seen before. The scores of exhibitors had plenty on display—leather gear for every part of the body, lubricants, inhalants, bondage equipment, mechanized devices, electroshock equipment, sex toys of every anatomical shape known to man or beast, DVD porn, printed porn, vintage porn, used porn. There were beds that converted, Transformers-like, into bondage devices. We saw body paints and vacuum pumps and whips and floggers and blindfolds, both purely functional and highly decorative.

Vendors sold candles scented like leather and sweat (apparently someone’s sweat smells like sandalwood), jockstraps tattoos, fake tattoos, and translucent printed shirts that made it look like you were tattooed. There were booths full of fancy piercing jewelry and a piercing tent, for those who wanted to wear them on the spot. There were demonstrations of bondage and mummification that were about as scandalous as my grandmother’s parlor. About the only thing out of the ordinary I really spied was a massive inflatable fold-up alien egg that claimed to be the ultimate in sensory deprivation, and the only reason it puzzled me was because while I could perhaps conceive of someone, somewhere murmuring, Mmmmm, dirty boots are hot!, I have difficult conjuring up an image of anyone—anyone—touching himself in private places in the middle of the night and whispering, Ooooo, I wish I had an alien egg with me right now. That would really push me over the edge!

The Mont and our friends Clark and Jeffrey kept up a brisk pace throughout the exhibits. I tended to linger and wander. I was also the only person of our foursome who bought anything. I bopped out of an exhibit, and saw their three sets of eyes all take in the fact that I was suddenly carrying a big ol’ opaque carrying bag, filled to the brim. Then I saw three sets of eyebrows raising, and three heads turning in the opposite direction. It was as if they’d silently agreed in that moment, after everything they’d seen, up to and including the alien egg. No one wanted to ask what I’d purchased.

And for the record, it was potpourri. Lavender potpourri and Butterick sewing patterns. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

--

ACT ONE: MY FATHER'S HOME

MY FATHER: If you didn't mind, I thought we would have Thai food tonight.
ME: I never mind Thai food.
MY FATHER: I thought, if you didn't mind, that I would invite Mustafa and Ana. You know. I talk about them all the time. He teaches history. We're colleagues. They're Muslim.
ME: Fun. A night out with the history department.
MY FATHER: Only. . . .
ME: Yes?
MY FATHER: He and I do not discuss Palestine.
ME: And?
MY FATHER: Just don't bring it up.
ME: Have you ever heard me discuss Palestine?
MY FATHER: You might have said something accidentally.
ME: Yes, I can see how you might worry, considering that in all my life I have brought up the issue of Israeli-Palestinian relations a total of NEVER times. But tonight might have been the night!
MY FATHER: Are you being facetious?

ACT TWO: IN A THAI RESTAURANT AFTER DINNER

MUSTAFA: So what have you done this week, Vance?
MY FATHER: Well, Tuesday he spaded the garden and spread compost in the rain, and today he planted all my annuals and cut down a tree and chopped it into three-foot lengths. . . .
ANA (scandalized): On his vacation?! Alan!
MY FATHER: Ana, how many times have I told you that children are supposed to be cheap labor?
MUSTAFA: And how are your dad's cats treating you?
ME: Well, Rebecca is a sweetheart.
ANA: Yes she is.
ME: But Andy . . . well, whenever I approach Andy, she gives me a baleful, haunted look. Kind of like I'm a kitty proctologist who's just snapped on a fresh glove and dipped his index finger in a tub of Vaseline.
MY FATHER (horrified): Oh gawrsh, Vance.
MUSTAFA AND ANA (after a stunned moment): BWAAAH-HAH-HAH-HAH!
MY FATHER: Oh gawrsh.

ACT THREE: FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, IN THE CAR

MY FATHER: Kitty proctologist? Oh gawrsh.
ME: But at least I didn't mention Palestine.

Posted via LiveJournal.app.

MY FATHER: Arby's, Arby's, Arby's. Famous for their roast beef, no?
ME: We're up next. Do you what you want?
MY FATHER: What is this 'peek fife' special?
ME: Why are you pronouncing it like you're in West Side Story? It's a Pick Five special. For seven dollars you can pick five of the following: The Arby Melt, the Arby-Q, the Arby Swiss Melt, a bottle of water. . . .
MY FATHER: Water? In a bottle?
ME: O brave new world! Mozzarella sticks, a Jamocha shake, a cherry or apple turnover, curly fries or a potato cake, and a soft drink.
MY FATHER: How many of those?
ME: Five. As in, Pick Five We're up next. Make up your mind.
MY FATHER: So I could have four Arby-Qs and a curly fries and a potato cake?
ME: That's six. Pick five. And a potato cake or fries.
MY FATHER: But I could have them both if they were two choices.
ME: I guess.
MY FATHER: So I could have an Arby-Q, a mozzarella sticks, a curly fries, and a potato cake?
ME: And. . . ?
MY FATHER: And what will you have? It's my treat. Have what you want.
ME (impatient): PICK FIVE, Sugar Daddy! Not pick four!
MY FATHER: Ah!
CLERK: Hi sugar, welcome to Arby's. How may I help you?
ME: He wants the Pick Five special with the Arby-Q, the potato cake. . . .
MY FATHER: No, that was just theoretical. I want the Arby Melt, the Arby Swiss Melt, curly fries, apple turnover, and a Pepsi.
ME: Pick FIVE . . . oh. That is five.
MY FATHER: I know how to count.
ME: You just really like to fuck with me, don't you?

Posted via LiveJournal.app.

MY FATHER (upon my entering his house): What in the world is that on your face?
ME: It's called a beard.
MY FATHER: Hoooooow did it get there?
ME: It's not from the novelty counter, if that's what you mean. I grew it.
MY FATHER: You look like a hippie.
ME: Great. Thanks.
MY FATHER: Did you grow it because you don't have to go to an office?
ME: You know, I'm pretty sure they allow beards in offices.
MY FATHER: Did you grow it to make a statement?
ME: Only if that statement is something along the lines of, "I have hair on my face."
MY FATHER: Did you grow it because all writers have beards?
ME: Yes. I grew it because Emily Dickinson had a hell of a beard.
MY FATHER: You look like a hippie.
ME: Didn't several of your colleagues have beards?
MY FATHER: Well. . . .
ME: Didn't my uncle William have a beard?
MY FATHER: Well. . . .
ME: And didn't your favorite student, Marc, have a beard?
MY FATHER (pouncing): And he was a hippie!

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I am referring, of course, to Whatever, Martha!, which is essentially Mystery Science Theater with irreverent comments directed at episodes of Martha Stewart Living instead of at bad movies. The concept, in fact, was allegedly dreamed up by Martha Stewart herself while watching a late-night episode of MST3K . . . and yes, I know that it’s virtually impossible to imagine Martha Stewart watching television, much less that show, but that’s the way this particular legend goes. Over classic clips of Martha showing her viewers how to frost cakes, pack potted plants for transport from the city apartment to the summer home, and organize your room-sized linen closest, two hosts cackle and giggle and question her fashion choices.

Jennifer Koppelman Hutt and Alexis Stewart shriek and bicker with each other like two long-term friends. While Martha does her self-assured and maddeningly competent thing, they curl up on sofas and bitch about Martha’s anal tendencies, yell at her baggy sweatshirts and ugly shorts, and whoop over Martha’s tendency to flirt shamelessly with young interns on the set. When Martha invites her personal trainer to show viewers how to do crunches, Jennifer and Alexis are the first to point out when Martha is cheating at them. On those occasions when Martha hosts a cupcake decorating party and fires off delightful animal-themed cupcakes with suspicious ease, Jennifer and Alexis stand by with frosting bags and make piles of frosting that look like cow turds. And when Martha takes up her glue gun and makes bead-encrusted candles, Jennifer and Alexis stand by with craft equipment of their own and attempt to ape her, in real time—usually to give up in frustration and howl that they’d rather buy their beaded candles at Pier 1.

Jennifer is sweet and air-headed, but it’s Alexis Stewart, Martha’s daughter, that gives the show its bite. She originally appeared on The Apprentice: Martha Stewart in the Carolyn Kepcher role, and impressed me then as being unusually level-headed without outright kowtowing to her boss. (She must have made an impression on Trump as well, because he shortly thereafter canned Carolyn and hired his own daughter to stand in her place.) Alexis is gorgeous, impossibly leggy, foul-mouthed, and outright crazy—she makes no bones about the fact that she’s on anti-depressants and keeps a squadron of analysts on her speed dial. When Martha coos about her Turkey Hill farm, Alexis is there to point out that it was a pit with no heat or doorknobs, and that her mother’s idea of parenting was to use her daughter as free labor. She will rail against her upbringing at the drop of a hat one moment, then reflexively rattle off what makes a truly exceptional caesar salad the next. She’s like Martha Stewart’s dark shadow, all uncontrolled impulse and id to Martha’s carefully regulated superego. She’s frank about the fact that she’s slept around a lot. She curses like a sailor, is abrasive, and doesn’t give a damn what anyone thinks about it. She’s also the first to laugh at what an ass she can be.

Yes, I secretly want to be Alexis Stewart when I grow up.

Whatever, Martha!, minor amusement though it might be, has a few things going for it—the not inconsiderable charms of its hosts, a chance to see that yes, other people think the same evil things as you when watching Martha Stewart in action, and the general irreverence of its concept. It’s difficult to conceive of America’s frostiest domestic empress green-lighting a show that pokes fun of herself, but it’s the one facet of Martha that I can appreciate.

--

A tense few minutes followed my response, in which I imagined everything that might be happening in the near future. Things like, Sorry, this isn’t working out, we’re canceling your contract, to Listen, this book sucks. Could you write another by the end of May?, to We like your concept and characters, but could you change the plot and setting and theme in your next draft? All bad things naturally, because lately my imagination has no room for anything else.

But no. New Cool Editor merely wanted to say that the manuscript was spot on, and that he wanted to know if I intended to insert epigraphs from imaginary books at the start of every chapter, the way that I ended up doing for The Glass Maker’s Daughter. And if I could draft up a map, of course. The only change he wanted, in fact, was a slight revamp of the first page. Other than that, he thought it was great.

Which means, of course, that I get to keep the scene in the brothel. And that the hero is essentially the adopted son of a same-sex couple. I like to think of myself as subversive in tiny little ways.

--

The Glass Maker's Daughter
V. Briceland

This captivating fantasy takes place in a city rich in history and sensory detail. Cassaforte, reminiscent of medieval Venice, is protected by an ancient enchantment tying the king to the seven caza, noble families of craftsmen, by virtue of a nightly fealty rite. Missing the rite is disastrous, and when the king disappears and the prince stages a coup, imprisoning the cazzari and their heirs, everyone is in danger.

Risa Divetri, the youngest daughter of Caza Divetri, has always felt misunderstood: her glasswork is different from her family’s, and because neither god chose her during the ceremony all children of the Seven undergo, she can’t learn the Divetri’s glasswork enchantments. At first ashamed and humiliated, Risa is now the only one who can save Cassaforte, and she realizes that the gods have another fate in mind for her.

Risa is a willful, capable, and caring heroine, and her bantering relationship with a cheeky guard provides a nice touch of romance. With suspenseful plotting and a marvelous cast of characters, this is a strong addition to female-centered fantasies.

— Krista Hutley, Booklist

--

V. Briceland, The Glass Maker's Daughter

A heroic young woman saves a city in this charming young-adult fantasy. Cassaforte is a city of islands and canals, with seven noble houses, or cazas, each with a magical talent for a particular craft. Risa is a daughter of Caza Divetri, famed for its glass; she enjoys working with glass, and looks forward to going to one of the two schools that teach the children of the cazas the spells they need. But the gods fail to choose her for either school, something unheard of. Without the magic, her glasswork is unwanted, and Risa feels unwanted herself, despised as unchosen, looked down on as a mere female, and her innovative glassmaking ideas rejected. Then she becomes aware that things aren't right in the city, and finds the gods may have a special role for her, as with the help of an odd old man and a young guard she investigates an attempt to overthrow the rightful rulers of the city. --Carolyn Cushman, Locus

My phobia of car washes, however, is one hundred percent, unshakably, unquestionably genuine and grounded in nothing but fact.

I know, I know. It sounds silly to admit that I’m afraid of car washes, but there it is. It sounds like one of those silly little things one confesses over drinks at a party, hoping to endear oneself as a quirky oddball. But no. I genuinely am afraid of the things. I can’t drive into one to save my life.

What am I afraid of? I’ll tell you. The whole automated car wash is a Rube Goldberg contraption designed solely to reduce my car to a smoking pile of scrap iron. If I don’t align my tires perfectly with the tracks designed to grip them and run the vehicle through the tunnel of suds, if I neglect to put the gear into neutral, if I neglect to wait at the end and shift into drive before the track has let go of the car—well, it’s over, isn’t it? Not only will I induce the wrath of a dozen rag-wiping men, but my car’s wheels will fall off. It’s too much pressure, I tell you. Too much!

I also have an equally well-established phobia of oil change establishments. Frankly put, they scare the heck out of me. I know that when I drive over that pit below, where the men work, that I’m likely to swerve unexpectedly and send three thousand pounds of car crashing down blow, possibly killing someone. But while I really don’t have to wash my car, I do have to get the oil changed on occasion. So while other people rev confidently into their local Jiffylube, I’m the guy who’s creeping forward over the pit, inch by inch, while the fellow trying to guide me in impatiently beckons me forward and looks at his watch, hoping that I’ll make it inside by the time his shift is over.

So basically what I’m saying is that if you’re driving in the metropolitan Detroit area and you see someone with an impossibly dirty car, it’s probably me. But I have reasons.

--

Let me say up front that I'm not pointing my finger at any one individual. Some of my favorite LiveJournal diarists are guilty of the offense, and I still like them very much indeed.

However, yesterday I started reading over my friends page and saw entry after entry that made me want to claw my eyes out, so I'm going to take the leap and say the words: I really am not interested in your daily digests of your Tweets.

Yes, I know that I'm laying myself open for criticism, here. You may not like all my entries, either. That's fine. I know it's your LiveJournal and you can do what you damn well want with it, and I can only tell you what to put in it the day that I start paying for your account, and probably not even then.

Some of you are considerate and hide your Tweets behind cuts. Some of you apologize in advance for posting them in lieu of a real entry. But I read my LiveJournal friends page for good writing, and to read the accounts of some very interesting people about their thoughts and their views of the world. I don't read it for your Tweets. If I wanted to read your Tweets, I would sign up for Twitter and follow you. Which I haven't. And won't.

Tweet away if you must, but know that there's at least one of us here who is distressed to load up his friends page and see nothing but digests of the damned things here, instead of on Twitter where they should remain. And I can't imagine I'm the only one.

--

Then came the deluge.

( Under the cut: Dizzee Rascal, Calvin Harris, RuPaul, Sophie Ellis-Bextor, James Morrison, Lily Allen, and more Calvin Harris. )