"That was the most abysmal heap of drek I've ever seen in a museum in my life, period," my husband said while exiting said museum.
"Well, we never have to go there again," I said trying for appeasement. "We saw the collection now we are finished with this show." We were crossing the street and entering a small urban park. “Let’s sit in the shade for a bit and digest it.”
"I don’t want to digest it. I wish we could have seen some good art, if we had gone where I wanted to go, where I said we should go, we would have seen some really good things. Instead we saw that pile of drek and feel depressed and unsatisfied," he said.
"Next week we’ll visit your museum--we have it to look forward to, that should make you feel better," I said trying to put a good spin on our endeavor to look at modern and contemporary art. "I liked a few things, the Lee Krasner especially," I added. “She has been over-shadowed by Pollock, I think.”
"Maybe we should go to a nice restaurant for lunch to make up for it," he said after sitting under a tree for twenty minutes, having said everything he wanted to say in the first sentence of this story and not giving a damn about Lee Krasner or her "jerk-off" husband Jackson Pollock much less anything about Andy Warhol.
I could see the restaurant idea was brightening his mood after the arduous walk over five floors seeing very little of interest to him, one, possibly two, Klee drawings that were mobbed. Before we began, I assured him we would not be stopping for long in each room as that was the purpose of pop art and action paintings, you were not to spend a great deal of time looking at them, they were painted for speed and that is how we are to take them in. I quoted Andy Warhol's treatise on "fast." He all but ignored my lecture...he's not interested and no matter how many times I make him attend these exhibits, he does not give way on his basic point which is the first sentence of this story.
"I'm sorry it was so tiring, I didn't expect five floors but that there were a couple of things wanted to see as long as the admission was free today," I said.
"We should have gone where I wanted to go. You never listen to me anymore. Let’s have a nice lunch somewhere. Now where should we go? How about that Italian place on Polk? I need something to perk up my spirit after your dismal boyfriend Andy Warhol sunk it to bargain-basement level."
"He's not my boyfriend but I'd share my bedroom with a "Fright Wig" silkscreen," I said. We had whisked ourselves to the restaurant in record time and were seated in the window, the only customers having an early lunch.
"Cheap effects. Concoction. All of it. I think I'd like the mushroom stuffed ravioli with the goat cheese sauce topped with cherry tomato puree. How about you?"
"The Lee Krasner really was evocative," I reiterated for good measure, not quite ready to give it up before dipping a piece of bread into the pesto/olive oil concoction, the same blackish green hue Andy used to great effect in some of his more interesting pieces.
“Have some wine,” he said. “Forget about those punks and poseurs. Next week we'll see some real art.”
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Friday, August 13, 2010
#32 PLANS AWRY
I called him on Friday and said come and stay for a few days if you want to. I thought I'd like to finish something we started on his last visit. At least that was what I was thinking at the time so I said, "come when you want, give me a couple of days to take care of things." He then said yeah I'd like to come. "Good okay, well, we'll talk next week," I said.
He called that night said he wanted to come ASAP. I was drinking wine with a friend. He was drunk and I was getting there although I reached my tolerance and was about to make coffee. I laughed and implied I was a little tipsy also and we should talk in the morning. It was a little true and took care of the caller.
I slept in Saturday morning, he must have too. We both did not call.
On Sunday a little guilt got to me and I called him reiterating my invitation to come for a few days. He was sober and pleasant, he'd lost the high-pitched whine he uses when he is drunk talking to me. Maybe he talks to everyone that way after a certain point; I can't be sure. I feel singled out for it somehow.
On Monday I was thankful he wasn't here but looking forward to his eventually being here.
On Tuesday he called saying he might have a ride into the city and could he come later that day. I couldn't say no so I said yes even though it was a little early in the week for me to start entertaining. He said he'd call back when he knew anything definite. I said fine. He never called back and I didn't mind; it meant he wouldn't be coming and I could relax for the day.
On Wednesday, he didn't call and I began to get nervous so I called him after work having just purchased minutes on my phone, to see what gives. He said he didn't know anything anymore and he would let me know when he knows something but otherwise
he would come on the ferry Thursday or Friday whenever I wanted. I said I had no preference so he said he needed to get out of the house and Thursday would work for him. Or Friday. "Okay, Friday," I said. "Let's make it Friday" He was hoping for Thursday but I want to prolong the suspense; why do I want to see him in the first place and in the second, what do I hope to get out of this battered relationship? I had answers to neither questions and put them to bed.
On Thursday afternoon he called to say he would be coming tomorrow if that is okay. I said it was and he said the usual time and I said great and he said I'll call you if anything changes, I said great see you tomorrow.
He called early Friday morning to say the bus had broken down and he wouldn't be here at the usual time. In fact, he didn't know when he would get there because he missed the ferry and he was really frustrated, raging, in fact, I could feel it through the phone. I sounded sad and said well just try to figure things out
and if you can't make it today, then tomorrow. "No I'll get there today somehow, I just can't tell you when." His voice was like a machete cutting through jungle brush. I hoped he'd get here for his own sake; he'd explode if he had more trouble, a geyser with steaming orifices. Now I had to wait but at least I wasn't dealing with public transportation gone awry, I think to myself. I can feel his pain, but glad that I'm not personally in it.
He arrived safely at 3 p.m. in need of a triple shot of something but he was happy to have arrived and wanted to go shopping. Now we would only have our giant egos to maneuver around, never a sure thing. His mood changes with the alcohol level in his bloodstream. After a few days I get tired of that being the solution to anything, even chemical addiction but he doesn't see it that way and ignores me. I get pesky after awhile and he gets nervous and belligerent, it all boils over and we are left in emotional meltdown again, he says I'll leave in the morning, I say great, I need privacy.
Monday morning he leaves early. He doesn't know what to think, I don't want to think and... "yeah, nice seeing you too." "Yeah, call me sometime, or not..." We trade barbs and could go on with this rancor but it is too early. The door of my room was not exactly slammed but there was a distinct rebuttal in the way he almost slams it. He is a drummer and can shut a door in a multitude of cadences; that I know this and can read them tells you how closely synchronized we are. He's gone, I breathe easier.
I don't expect to see him for some time, that is to say, a worthy amount of time, but one of us will eventually crawl to the phone and see what the other is up to, both looking for something. In my case, it's a firmer grasp of the streets, a companion, a muse, someone who speaks my language. He mirrors not only my awfulness, but my brilliance. It's an even trade-off. As reflections of each other, when he explodes, I do the same. The trouble with mirrors is what they reflect is a distorted image. It can only be. It's a pity we're not either of us very nice. We each take a turn at it but it comes out wrong, we go back to being who we really are when stressed; disjointed, fractious, unsure.
Two or three weeks will pass and I will make the call. I ask if he's planning on coming into the city. He says he doesn't trust me to behave myself and says he thinks maybe it isn't working out between us. I agree then say, "so what do you want to do, not come in anymore?" Well maybe I'll come later in the week if you don't mind, I have some things to do in town he says. That will be okay I say...call me when you decide. "Well what do you want, it's up to you, you know, it's your room." Yeah, Friday is good I say. Or Thursday if that's better for you. Okay I'll call you Thursday he says.
Thursday morning he does not call and it all begins again. I suspect he'll be here on Friday. It has been uneventful without him. I can't tell you who or what I am--I seem to disappear on my own. I look forward to his arrival after he confirms he will be here Friday at the usual time and do a little housekeeping, buy some food and wine, little things he likes, and begin the wait.
He called Friday morning while I was writing this story to say he would arrive at the usual time. I smile and think, transportation permitting.
He called that night said he wanted to come ASAP. I was drinking wine with a friend. He was drunk and I was getting there although I reached my tolerance and was about to make coffee. I laughed and implied I was a little tipsy also and we should talk in the morning. It was a little true and took care of the caller.
I slept in Saturday morning, he must have too. We both did not call.
On Sunday a little guilt got to me and I called him reiterating my invitation to come for a few days. He was sober and pleasant, he'd lost the high-pitched whine he uses when he is drunk talking to me. Maybe he talks to everyone that way after a certain point; I can't be sure. I feel singled out for it somehow.
On Monday I was thankful he wasn't here but looking forward to his eventually being here.
On Tuesday he called saying he might have a ride into the city and could he come later that day. I couldn't say no so I said yes even though it was a little early in the week for me to start entertaining. He said he'd call back when he knew anything definite. I said fine. He never called back and I didn't mind; it meant he wouldn't be coming and I could relax for the day.
On Wednesday, he didn't call and I began to get nervous so I called him after work having just purchased minutes on my phone, to see what gives. He said he didn't know anything anymore and he would let me know when he knows something but otherwise
he would come on the ferry Thursday or Friday whenever I wanted. I said I had no preference so he said he needed to get out of the house and Thursday would work for him. Or Friday. "Okay, Friday," I said. "Let's make it Friday" He was hoping for Thursday but I want to prolong the suspense; why do I want to see him in the first place and in the second, what do I hope to get out of this battered relationship? I had answers to neither questions and put them to bed.
On Thursday afternoon he called to say he would be coming tomorrow if that is okay. I said it was and he said the usual time and I said great and he said I'll call you if anything changes, I said great see you tomorrow.
He called early Friday morning to say the bus had broken down and he wouldn't be here at the usual time. In fact, he didn't know when he would get there because he missed the ferry and he was really frustrated, raging, in fact, I could feel it through the phone. I sounded sad and said well just try to figure things out
and if you can't make it today, then tomorrow. "No I'll get there today somehow, I just can't tell you when." His voice was like a machete cutting through jungle brush. I hoped he'd get here for his own sake; he'd explode if he had more trouble, a geyser with steaming orifices. Now I had to wait but at least I wasn't dealing with public transportation gone awry, I think to myself. I can feel his pain, but glad that I'm not personally in it.
He arrived safely at 3 p.m. in need of a triple shot of something but he was happy to have arrived and wanted to go shopping. Now we would only have our giant egos to maneuver around, never a sure thing. His mood changes with the alcohol level in his bloodstream. After a few days I get tired of that being the solution to anything, even chemical addiction but he doesn't see it that way and ignores me. I get pesky after awhile and he gets nervous and belligerent, it all boils over and we are left in emotional meltdown again, he says I'll leave in the morning, I say great, I need privacy.
Monday morning he leaves early. He doesn't know what to think, I don't want to think and... "yeah, nice seeing you too." "Yeah, call me sometime, or not..." We trade barbs and could go on with this rancor but it is too early. The door of my room was not exactly slammed but there was a distinct rebuttal in the way he almost slams it. He is a drummer and can shut a door in a multitude of cadences; that I know this and can read them tells you how closely synchronized we are. He's gone, I breathe easier.
I don't expect to see him for some time, that is to say, a worthy amount of time, but one of us will eventually crawl to the phone and see what the other is up to, both looking for something. In my case, it's a firmer grasp of the streets, a companion, a muse, someone who speaks my language. He mirrors not only my awfulness, but my brilliance. It's an even trade-off. As reflections of each other, when he explodes, I do the same. The trouble with mirrors is what they reflect is a distorted image. It can only be. It's a pity we're not either of us very nice. We each take a turn at it but it comes out wrong, we go back to being who we really are when stressed; disjointed, fractious, unsure.
Two or three weeks will pass and I will make the call. I ask if he's planning on coming into the city. He says he doesn't trust me to behave myself and says he thinks maybe it isn't working out between us. I agree then say, "so what do you want to do, not come in anymore?" Well maybe I'll come later in the week if you don't mind, I have some things to do in town he says. That will be okay I say...call me when you decide. "Well what do you want, it's up to you, you know, it's your room." Yeah, Friday is good I say. Or Thursday if that's better for you. Okay I'll call you Thursday he says.
Thursday morning he does not call and it all begins again. I suspect he'll be here on Friday. It has been uneventful without him. I can't tell you who or what I am--I seem to disappear on my own. I look forward to his arrival after he confirms he will be here Friday at the usual time and do a little housekeeping, buy some food and wine, little things he likes, and begin the wait.
He called Friday morning while I was writing this story to say he would arrive at the usual time. I smile and think, transportation permitting.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
#31 EXAGGERATION VS. UNDERSTATEMENT
It's a good thing I am in day two of the workshop, "Put some Funny Into Your Writing." I tried my hand yesterday and did some crazy scribbling but whether this means I'm humorous, funny, or even droll remains to be seen. It is difficult to know how bad things are at this time--the recession seems to have overwhelmed me and many that I know. I might like to cry but instead will try to find some humor despite newspaper stories of unemployment, suicide, bankruptcy, foreclosure, destroyed credit, homelessness and to top them all, a woman who smothered her two babies because she couldn't deal with caring for them anymore. No one wants to dwell on these things and we shouldn't. Not a funny topic in the bunch.
It is said that two ways to add humor to a story is to exaggerate, or its opposite, to understate. Deadpan they sometimes call it. Exaggeration as a modus operandi I live with each day. My husband, let's call him Mr. X, really understands the art of exaggeration; everything he says, all stories he tells, all incidents related are in a perfect pitch of exaggerated tension, and I do mean tension. He exaggerates all the phobias, neurosis, wackiness and lifestyles of his friends, family members and sometimes himself. He'll say anything to make the scenario more dire. He is a cartoonist and exaggeration is his stock and trade after all. Still in all honesty, I don't usually find him humorous at these times. I do get his humorous attempts, but only rarely do I laugh at his exaggerations because they are always on the negative side and tend to make me nervous. I'd rather talk to someone who understands the power of positive thinking but positive is not as funny as negative. All comedians play up the negative aspects of life and Mr. X, while no comedian, does like to entertain and practice hilarity whenever he can. Truth be told, he revels in other's misery. Some people are like that.
None of this story is funny so far, you more than likely are thinking, and you have a perfect right to do so. I haven't written anything that could be classified as humorous. I've got a lot on my mind, none of which strikes me as humorous today. I'm having a dark night of the soul and it's a bright San Francisco afternoon. It couldn't be more blustery wonderful. Still, I'm in a darkish mode and find it ironic to be in a humor-writing workshop but irony is also a form of humor. I will have to read what I am writing to the class so you can see the trouble I'm in. I've flunked classes before; this won't be my first failure.
I admit I'm having trouble with exaggeration even though we all do it whenever we tell a story or an anecdote or spin some sort of yarn. You have to be inspired to exaggerate and I'm not in the mood, so let's go on to the other mode; understatement. I am prone toward understatement and Mr. X never gets it. He glazes over, finding exaggeration more compatible with his personality. I'm too understated to garner his attention. He assumes I'm just muttering banalities on the day's events when instead I'm brandishing witticisms right and left, I'm in the key of low and my laughter is a mellow smirking. It all goes by Mr. X, who needs a higher key to emit any laughter, possibly a pie in the face. I have no audience with him but do occasionally make others laugh.
It occurs to me that I should give some examples of Mr. X's exaggerations and an example or two of my understated wit. Okay, well, he waves his hands in the air as he tells of his friend who is on the brink of a) losing his house, b) getting arrested, c) getting hurt, d) getting divorced, e) losing his driver's license, f) going to jail, is in jail g) going to rehab, has been in rehab. You get the picture: all of this is about to happen to this one person, this week. A little truth, a lot of exaggeration all told with the appropriate wild gestures and vacillating eye contact.
My use of the understatement tool of humor-writing would say about the above person; a) "he'd better watch out," b) "what a character," c) "what a screwball," or d) "what a wife he must have to humor him," all said with a brittle laugh or rolling eyeballs--I might do either. This is a lot of understatement in describing a near madman.
I admit, so far, none of this is particularly funny and I'm sure you're disappointed if you're reading this; the other people in the class will have to carefully avoid yawning. If you're expecting funny, unfunny is never a good substitute.
But we've come to the end of this exercise, the moderator tells us to put our pencils down. A little lax, I'd say, though I tend to deprecate myself, another form of humor.
Larry David is not worried about the competition here I suspect but we did think about exaggeration and a little of understatement. "It's up to you to use it in your own particular genius", said our teacher, possibly attempting a sort of dry exaggeration. "Woody Allen does exaggeration, Bill Maher does understatement. Both are truly funny," he added subjectively.
This workshop continues tomorrow so there is still some hope for a slice of humor discovered in the nick of time within the confines of my dark night of the soul. Stay tuned as they say in the often humorous world of television...I recommend that you stay away from the news if you want to laugh any time today; its use of exaggeration is not funny at all.
It is said that two ways to add humor to a story is to exaggerate, or its opposite, to understate. Deadpan they sometimes call it. Exaggeration as a modus operandi I live with each day. My husband, let's call him Mr. X, really understands the art of exaggeration; everything he says, all stories he tells, all incidents related are in a perfect pitch of exaggerated tension, and I do mean tension. He exaggerates all the phobias, neurosis, wackiness and lifestyles of his friends, family members and sometimes himself. He'll say anything to make the scenario more dire. He is a cartoonist and exaggeration is his stock and trade after all. Still in all honesty, I don't usually find him humorous at these times. I do get his humorous attempts, but only rarely do I laugh at his exaggerations because they are always on the negative side and tend to make me nervous. I'd rather talk to someone who understands the power of positive thinking but positive is not as funny as negative. All comedians play up the negative aspects of life and Mr. X, while no comedian, does like to entertain and practice hilarity whenever he can. Truth be told, he revels in other's misery. Some people are like that.
None of this story is funny so far, you more than likely are thinking, and you have a perfect right to do so. I haven't written anything that could be classified as humorous. I've got a lot on my mind, none of which strikes me as humorous today. I'm having a dark night of the soul and it's a bright San Francisco afternoon. It couldn't be more blustery wonderful. Still, I'm in a darkish mode and find it ironic to be in a humor-writing workshop but irony is also a form of humor. I will have to read what I am writing to the class so you can see the trouble I'm in. I've flunked classes before; this won't be my first failure.
I admit I'm having trouble with exaggeration even though we all do it whenever we tell a story or an anecdote or spin some sort of yarn. You have to be inspired to exaggerate and I'm not in the mood, so let's go on to the other mode; understatement. I am prone toward understatement and Mr. X never gets it. He glazes over, finding exaggeration more compatible with his personality. I'm too understated to garner his attention. He assumes I'm just muttering banalities on the day's events when instead I'm brandishing witticisms right and left, I'm in the key of low and my laughter is a mellow smirking. It all goes by Mr. X, who needs a higher key to emit any laughter, possibly a pie in the face. I have no audience with him but do occasionally make others laugh.
It occurs to me that I should give some examples of Mr. X's exaggerations and an example or two of my understated wit. Okay, well, he waves his hands in the air as he tells of his friend who is on the brink of a) losing his house, b) getting arrested, c) getting hurt, d) getting divorced, e) losing his driver's license, f) going to jail, is in jail g) going to rehab, has been in rehab. You get the picture: all of this is about to happen to this one person, this week. A little truth, a lot of exaggeration all told with the appropriate wild gestures and vacillating eye contact.
My use of the understatement tool of humor-writing would say about the above person; a) "he'd better watch out," b) "what a character," c) "what a screwball," or d) "what a wife he must have to humor him," all said with a brittle laugh or rolling eyeballs--I might do either. This is a lot of understatement in describing a near madman.
I admit, so far, none of this is particularly funny and I'm sure you're disappointed if you're reading this; the other people in the class will have to carefully avoid yawning. If you're expecting funny, unfunny is never a good substitute.
But we've come to the end of this exercise, the moderator tells us to put our pencils down. A little lax, I'd say, though I tend to deprecate myself, another form of humor.
Larry David is not worried about the competition here I suspect but we did think about exaggeration and a little of understatement. "It's up to you to use it in your own particular genius", said our teacher, possibly attempting a sort of dry exaggeration. "Woody Allen does exaggeration, Bill Maher does understatement. Both are truly funny," he added subjectively.
This workshop continues tomorrow so there is still some hope for a slice of humor discovered in the nick of time within the confines of my dark night of the soul. Stay tuned as they say in the often humorous world of television...I recommend that you stay away from the news if you want to laugh any time today; its use of exaggeration is not funny at all.
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