Persiflage

Laris's Haiku Year in Review

January:

Happy twenty-fifth!
Nothing says, "all grown up" like
Puking in the street.

April:

TomKat leaps into
The public eye.  Who knew that
Nutjobs had such pep?

May (law school graduation):

Parents celebrate
End of costly tuition
With expensive meal.

Inappropriate
Revelry from this JD
Involves men and beer.

July (New York bar exam):

Past consideration:
"Conviser" in the French means
"Worthless paper heap."

August:

Hurricane!  And Bush
Appointed Czar of Horsies
To do "heck of job."

October:

White Sox win it all!
With so many curses broken
I might date again.

Party Like It's 1997

Tonight, my beloved and hapless Wolverines take on the Nebraska (motto: "Mediocre is Now a Compliment") Cornhuskers in an Alamo Bowl  reminiscent of the 1997 shared championship.  Oh, how are the mighty fallen!  The play of this year's Wolverines featured inelegant blundering and a pervasive refusal to achieve their full potential.  (I can't utter that phrase without envisioning the stony face of my first grade teacher, who did not share my philosophy on the superfluousness of sentence diagramming and word problems.)  This was a team that did Homer Simpson proud based solely on the ratio of d'ohs uttered to minutes of playing time.

The only shining moments of this season were the last-second victory over Penn State, (which no one's really savoring, since Michigan fans despise so many other people that they find it difficult to work up any real frothing hatred for JoePa and the gang) and eluding the calamity of losing to each of their Big Three rivals by sending State into a tailspin after they opened their season to surprising success and much acclaim for, what, the 72nd straight year?

Love Michigan.  Watch Michigan.  Cheer for Michigan.  Lloyd needs something positive to take into spring workouts.  Anything.

Boxing Day: Putting the Holidays Back in the Box

I've finally returned from celebrating the holidays the orgy of rum balls and Shiraz required to cope with a long weekend of Family Togetherness.  My crowning moment of glory this year was my come-from-behind victory in our annual Trivial Pursuit tournament (what, you think I ended up like this without some intensive nerd nurturing?)  even though we play with the Genus V edition, which references only events that happened prior to my birth.  And includes answers like, "East Germany."  It troubles me a bit that a significant portion of my knowledge base comes from having memorized large quantities of these questions circa 1988.  It troubles me further that this state of affairs has never caused me any noticeable difficulties, academic or otherwise.

Say what you will (or what I will) about my family, I find it endearing that, despite the fact that I am almost 26 years old, have received a bachelor's in history from the Ivy League and a J.D. from a top-10 law school, my dad still attempts to give me breaks when questions are "too hard."

Some reflections upon resurfacing:

...I am beyond thrilled by the timely news that Gwen Stefani is reproducing.  Timely, because each year at the holiday season, I will be able to calm my tumultuous emotions by the reflection that, no matter what Christmas cataclysm is occurring at my house, things will be even more dysfunctional at chez Stefani.  I'd tell Baby Stefani that I'd save some rum balls for him/her, but I assume that the children of crackheaded B-list rocker parents rebel by growing up to become ultra-conservative Bible-thumping Republicans.  Or, in this case, Amish.

...Grown women?  Should not celebrate their birthdays at FAO Schwartz.

...I think I've discovered a payola-esque conspiracy surrounding the network television New Year's celebrations.  Let's explore.  Fox is offering us the star-studded lineup of Regis Philbin, Nick Cannon, Tyler Hilton, and John O'Hurley.  So, two guys I had to look up on IMDb, one obnoxious blustering blowhard, and...well, I can't in good faith ridicule John O'Hurley.  We'll leave it at that.  ABC counters with the dream team that is Dick Clark, Ryan Seacrest, and Hilary Duff.  Clark is pretty much oozing embalming fluid these days, and neither of the other two could find their way out of a paper bag.  With a joint effort.  And a map.  NBC takes the charity route, fostering Carson Daly's delusions that he has a career.  I postulate that the alcohol lobby, in a pervasive effort to ensure that everyone under the age of 82 hits the bars, has contrived to create this assault to the eyes and ears of America.  Nothing else could so efficiently account for this race to the bottom of the abyss of tastelessness.

...Tomorrow is S.'s birthday, which means that I have to be nice to him for 24 consecutive hours.  In preparation, I need to purge all of my obnoxious antagonism today.  S., consider yourself on notice of these scores and this picture.  Little commentary is required.  Renounce the dark side!  We'll help you heal.  I'll even throw a Terrible Towel into your birthday care package for good measure!

And In Right Field....Linda Evans!

Excitement began to exude from my every pore when I heard news of the Johnny Damon deal last night.  It was messy, all that excitement.  The lyre string of my glee was plucked not out of any ardor for the Yankees, but at the prospect of spending the rest of the winter demanding that S. and other rabid fans explain how this player, whom they've defamed, vilified, discredited, and calumniated for a decade has suddenly, in their eyes, been transformed into the Second Coming.  To the extent that they seem to be suggesting that Christmas was created and scheduled over 2000 years ago in anticipation of celebrating this moment.  Ah, fodder for provocation.  The universe couldn't conspire to give me a more treasured holiday bestowal.

All this seems just a little bit like luring away your enemy's boyfriend after hearing that she's been named as the primary heir in Uncle Percival's will and ALSO stole the deed to the Westmacott estate out of your jewelry box.  Which leaves me wondering whether the Yanks haven't gotten a little confused regarding the actualization of their goals.  To clarify: you should be trying to create a dynasty , not Dynasty.

Overheard At The Bookstore Redux

Woman On The Phone: Someone told me about a book of poetry that sounds very interesting.  I don't know the author.  And I can't remember if the title of the book is "A Few Years Ago" or if the book was just published a few years ago.  Can you find that for me?

Customer: Do I have to pay to sit in your soft chairs?
Me: No, luckily for you, this is one of our non-totalitarian locations.

Customer [at the registers, looking very confused]: Is this the library?

Customer: I need to find some famous book by Aristotle Schwartz.
Me: Who?
Customer: Aristotle Schwartz.  I'm taking this class on great books, and it's required.
Me [thinking...thinking...trying to think like a crazy person...]: Are you sure your professor didn't say, "Aristotle's works"?
Customer: Oh, hey!  Yeah, maybe!

A Soundtrack For This Space In Time

Every year around this time, when the trills of the Trans-Siberian Orchestra have launched a successful assault on radio airwaves, the hollier and jollier amongst us incessantly hum Mannheim Steamroller, and Holiday Mariah has permeated the ambient music selections of retail establishments, I become overwhelmed by the urge to stick a fork into my eye.  This, however, would likely have the ironic effect of landing me in an emergency room also infected by the jingle-belled bubonic plague that is holiday music.

Rather than inflict physical violence upon myself, I've instituted an annual December tradition of pulling together a playlist consisting of the songs most emblematic of the past twelve months.  Although also useful as a time capsule, I view this creation primarily as a defense mechanism.  Once burnt into CD format and downloaded onto the iPod, I'm immunized against involuntary exposure to "Santa Baby."

The following is not so much a "best of" list as a compilation of songs that will bring back this year even when I'm an old bat in a nursing home, unable to remember the names of my children and screeching at any and all passersby for espresso and Percocet, in that order.  Here, for your listening pleasure, is the 2005 edition.

Lady (Lenny Kravitz)
You Are A Runner And I Am My Father's Son (Wolf Parade)
Soul Meets Body (Death Cab for Cutie)
Where Does The Good Go (Tegan & Sara)
Smile (Remy Zero)
Open Invitation (Black Rebel Motorcycle Cult)
Poison Oak (Bright Eyes)
Portions For Foxes (Rilo Kiley)
So Begins Our Alabee (Of Montreal)
Comfortably Numb (Scissor Sisters)
Swing Life Away (Rise Against)
Ageless Beauty (Stars)
Felt Tip (Love Is All)
Forever Young (Youth Group)

Persiflage Says, Part Deux

Persiflage returns to bestow upon you culture and taste.  And to smack any possessing the gall to disagree with her pronouncements.

Persiflage is...

Reading: A.S. Byatt's The Virgin in the Garden.  Reading Byatt is akin to having a conversation with Persiflage's mother.  Neither has quite mastered the intricacies of flipping the "off" switch to the monologue.  Both A.S. and Persiflage's Mom often offer interesting and provocative contributions, yet the recipient quickly becomes wary of the abstruse and seemingly incessant verbal flux.  The Virgin in the Garden left Persiflage irritated and weary.  Also stiff and tense, since whilst reading she unconsciously adopted the defensive tactic most frequently employed during maternal interactions: holding as still as possible in the hopes that, by feigning death, her conversational partner would at last recognize the futility in continued onslaught.

Listening: To all Wolf Parade, all the time.  Apologies to the Queen Mary is a record collection must-have.  "Apologies" is an album you feel, an album of silken raggedness with insightful lyrics and complex instrumental meshings and arrangements.  Buy it.  Now.

Attending: A performance of Handel's Messiah, the first concert Persiflage has attended in several years where she ran no risk of returning home with beer-drenched socks.  This, in itself, left her feeling swank and self-congratulatory in the eclecticism of her taste.  Persiflage, who was raised by Sesame Street to expect constant sound-bite entertainment, was impressed that the performance managed to command her attention for three full hours.  The obvious highlight of the afternoon was the Hallelujah Chorus, but the final Air, performed by the soprano and first violinist, was full, haunting, dramatic, and memorable.

Watching: Miranda July's performance-piece-cum-film, Me and You and Everyone We Know, which reminded Persiflage of a digital-age Free To Be You and Me.  July's film, carrying a heavy-handed message on the prevalence of disconnection in contemporary society, is rife with those prickly, awkward, embarrassed-for-the-character moments which made Persiflage desperately yen for a breath of fresh air.  This effect Persiflage did not appreciate, since she inhabits a land of frozen arctic tundra and did not particularly wish to venture out of doors.  This film had its moments, particularly those when the viewer was allowed to contemplate the gorgeous cinematography, but Persiflage found it ultimately trite and unsatisfying, with cartoonish characters and a halting plot.

Reading: W. G. Sebald's Austerlitz, a delicate and moderate gift to Persiflage's brain after the excesses of Byatt.  Sebald's last work winds and twists as the reader follows the digressive conversation between the two main characters, but Sebald was a master of his craft and never allows the reader's interest to wane.  Sebald's scholastic digressions are in stark contrast to Byatt's, as they always augment, however subtly, the line of plot and story.  Austerlitz is a dark and gorgeous contemplation of memory and history, with sparse tinges of hope which are all the more exquisite in their subtlety.

Persiflage's Game of the Week: The Indianapolis Colts continue their pursuit of a rare undefeated regular season when they take on the 8-5 San Diego Chargers, perhaps the best mediocre team in football.  The Chargers can't afford another loss as they attempt to stake their claim on an AFC wildcard berth, but the Colts are chasing history, and Persiflage feels that the hackneyed phrase, "team of destiny" may not be a misnomer in this instance.

Update

Apparently I'm rapidly moving into my dotage, because the chocolate I had for breakfast is making me nauseous.  Come on, digestive system, work with me!  I'll chalk this instance of rebellion up to the interesting amalgamation of alcohol I consumed last night, but let's not have any more of this.  If you don't shape up, I'm going to have to start giving you bran.  Or fruit.  And no one wants that first thing in the morning after a night of debauchery.

Ok, that wasn't the update.  The real update is that the time warp yesterday?  Wasn't my fault.  Believe me, when I'm powerful enough to implement a time warp, you'll all be hearing about it.  I'm in the process of picking up the pieces and rewriting some content.  Keep waiting on tenterhooks, even though that sounds uncomfortable.  There'll be new Persiflage for you post-haste.

Silver Linings

Hey, Nicole?  Hi.  It's been a week since your breakup, so you've had some time to work through that run-over-by-an-eighteen-wheeler feeling that always... What?  It's a kind of truck, Nicole.  A truck.  You know, those large vehicles?  On the highways?  They transport things?  Ok, never mind.  We'll keep this simple.

Honey, if your most bubbling effusion over your impending nuptials was along the lines of,

"I'm looking forward to marriage. Your name changes, which will be exciting."

then all this might have been for the best.  There, there.  Cry it out.  We'll get through this rough patch, we will.  If it'll make you feel better, we'll take a little jaunt down to the courthouse when you feel up to it.  You can fill out the change-of-name paperwork.  Yes!  You can do that all by yourself!  Or...I can do it for you.  But I have faith in you, Nicole.  You don't need Adam.  An adult nanny and a registered dietitian, perhaps.  But not this man about whom you are so clearly ambivalent.

It's Not Me, It's...You

In a moment of sublime reversal, I had to turn down a job yesterday.  I've so often been on the other end of employment-related rejection that I was luxuriating in the opportunity.  Yes, I told myself, the conversation would last only a moment, but I could relish and luxuriate in that moment of regal self-possession and empowerment.

It did not go well.  It went, in fact, so poorly that it reminded me of a breakup.  The kind of breakup which comes at the end of a virulent and acrimonious relationship in which both parties have committed such perverse and blatant transgressions that the barbs of malice are laced through several layers of tissue.  And, more precisely, the ironic moment of the breakup at which each moan, wail, shriek and lamentation from the dispossessed party does not cause you to reconsider, but only adds to your growing awareness that if you do not extricate yourself from this situation RIGHT NOW IMMEDIATELY, you will end up, due to this person's machinations, hanging from your toenails in a homemade basement torture chamber, replete with slime, ooze, manacles, and a rack.  And imported bats.

The conversation went something like this:

Me: Hi, this is Laris.  I wanted to thank you for your offer of X position, but unfortunately I'll have to turn it down.  Thank you for your consideration, but after some reflection I decided that it would not be a good fit for me.

Them: Why!?  Why would you do this to us?

Me [out loud]: As I said, I didn't feel as though it would be a good fit for me at this point in time.

Me [internal monologue]: Because every time we discussed this job, there was a crescendo in the number of times the words "canvassing" and "fundraising" were bandied about.  To the extent that our last conversation basically consisted of you humming, "canvassingcanvassingcanvassingfundraisingfundraisingfundraising" into the receiver.  As though it were a mantra of sorts.  Do you not recognize that I am a lawyer?  A term of art synonymous with "misanthrope"?

Them: Can you be more specific?

Me [out loud]: Um...no.  Not really.

Me [internal monologue]: My sphere of involvement in fundraising will be limited to securing the health and well-being of my checking account.

Them: What else?  You have to have more reasons.  Why are you turning down this opportunity?

Me [out loud]: Admittedly, I also felt the compensation was inadequate, based on my level of education and experience.

Me [internal monologue]: You wanted to pay me $22,000/year.  In DC.  No WAY would I be able to afford one of the "good benches" on 12th Street.  Heck, I doubt I could even find decent box space on that budget without a lot of legwork.  And you can FORGET about amenities.

Them: Well, you're making a profound mistake.  We have a lot of connections with other political organizations, and you can be sure we'll make a note of this.  You'll be sorry you turned us down.  You'll be sorry!

Me: Have a...nice? morning?