Saturday, February 28, 2009
Above the fold is an expression rich in meaning, conjuring metaphors financial, erotic, biological, psychological, historical, chronological, sporting, physical, metaphysical, informational, categorical, theological, semantic, and musical. Connotations, denotations, and illustrations also abound in the world of fashion, clothing, and tailoring; or baking; or sheep-herding.
. . . then it stands to reason (or stands to emotion; though neuroscientists increasingly tell us there is no difference between reason and emotion; these are Aristotelian impositions, labels) that below the fold conjures metaphors scatological, Earthy, apocalyptic, illiquid, liquid, Venusian, recondite, illusory, underdoggerel (or is that subcaninic?), impish, secondary, tertiary, secretive, preternatural, fecund, fetid, and nascent.
Below the fold.
I like to read below the fold as well as above the fold.
It is most difficult to read or discern precisely at the fold itself. Perhaps at the fold is the most cogent metaphor for our current times.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
"Although customers who received substantially more from their Madoff account than they put in may be required to return the excess money -- a step called a clawback -- the trustee and his lawyer repeatedly tried to reassure the audience that it would not be practical for them to seek clawbacks of small amounts from customers of limited means."
Clawback. Just where to begin? (Who isn't of limited means these days?)
I predict the word clawback will be in the running for Word of the Year, 2009.
(Last year, I picked tranche.)
And why not?
Think of the myriad applications of clawback, with its rich imagery and motherlode of metaphorical mayhem.
The divorce lawyer wished to insert a clawback clause on behalf of her client.
Cosmopolitan magazine headline: "Cuddly? Or Clawback? 5 Hot Ways to Get There!"
He's showing some clawback in his swing.
They thought his political prospects were damaged, but he's got clawback written all over him.
The owners are demanding clawback from his huge contract after such terrible stats.
"What's your favorite little thing?" he whispered. "Clawback, baby," she murmured huskily.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
FICTION BEGINS HERE
Hmmmmm. Well, at least the sign wasn't on the non-fiction floor. How mystifying. "Fiction begins here." We can all use such overt warnings now and then. I mean, we don't always get such explicit declarations. For example, many folks entering a marriage or other such relationship would welcome such a disclaimer. At least you'd know what you were in for. "Fiction Begins Here." That would also work on the boss's door. Or even on the top of the annual so-called performance evaluation form in bold italic underscore all uppercase. Or maybe it should be the standard crawl on the bottom of the television screen when certain public officials are speaking (for my money, you know I'd reserve it for jowly, white-shirted, obstructionist Republicans). "Fiction Begins Here." It's a handy sign, and of course the library fiction department is a swell place to have such a sign, sacramental or otherwise.
Incidentally, not far from FICTION BEGINS HERE, I saw this sign in the library:
Right below that sign, immediately below it, maybe even taped to it, was this:
Security Cameras Are In Use
So, does that mean the security cameras are or are not in use? Fiction? Or fact?
Non-fiction fiction ends here, for now.
Friday, February 06, 2009
25 Random Things About Me
1. Last week I discovered I don't care that much for Bruce Springsteen, not anymore; though that can change, like anything else.
2. I have my doubts.
3. Crying comes easy.
4. For parts of 30 years I've had a recurring nightmare about lying about not drinking alcohol.
5. Right this minute, I am sitting in a coffeehouse, wearing only one sock, nothing else (won't say where -- the coffeehouse is, or the sock).
6. I am already tired of doing this.
7. I want to miscount on this list and see if anyone notices.
8. Thirty days in a chipaholic rehab center did not cure me of my potato chip addiction.
9. My pantyhouse is itching me.
10. I do not shower every day and don't mind at all.
11. I like aromatic soaps.
12. My deodorant is very expensive, from Crabtree & Evelyn.
13. When I was under 10 years old, I tried to call Willie Mays.
14. Sometimes I wish I were a priest.
15. Walking the dog alone is often my favorite part of the day.
16. I'm not ready to die, but maybe I am.
17. I've read very little of Soren Kierkegaard; I love the name.
18. I envy enormously people who can gracefully and seemingly effortlessly do anything physical, things like rollerskate or ice skate or dance or swim or play the piano.
19. Now I'm enjoying doing this.
20. I am still angry that Mr. Tunick hit me and sent me shocked and reeling to the floor in junior high.
21. I feel guilty (slightly) that I haven't sprinkled this list with references to my wife and children, but, hey, they should make their own lists!
22. I like the number 22, its palindromic endlessness.
23. I wonder if there is a heaven and hell; purgatory was always hard to accept; more so, limbo.
24. It was probably (almost certainly) the best thing to shuck my job a year ago, but bitterness sometimes sneaks in about how it went down.
25. When I was very little, I loved to rub my fingers along the silk border of the blankets, especially along the sewn nubs, hypnotically entrancing me.
Consider yourself tagged.
Sunday, February 01, 2009
And another regrettable thing about death
is the ceasing of your own brand of magic,
which took a whole life to develop and market —
the quips, the witticisms, the slant
adjusted to a few, those loved ones nearest
the lip of the stage, their soft faces blanched
in the footlight glow, their laughter close to tears,
their tears confused with their diamond earrings,
their warm pooled breath in and out with your heartbeat,
their response and your performance twinned.
The jokes over the phone. The memories packed
in the rapid-access file. The whole act.
Who will do it again? That's it: no one;
imitators and descendants aren't the same.