Monday, July 28, 2008
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Phrase Book
As I am learning French, I often find that the French word for something is almost exactly like the English word. For instance: tennis=tennis, racisme=racism, superficiel=superficial. This makes learning French vocabulary infinitely easier than learning, say, Inuit vocabulary. All that is needed, really, to complete the cultural transformation from American to French, is a cartoonish French accent added to each word to properly translate the language. It is also helpful to know that in La France, some phrases are exact translations of the American English.
For instance: when a grungy dirty man sitting across the aisle from you on the crowded Metro "accidentally" "falls" out of his chair during a minor curve of the ride and reaches out to grab the "nearest" thing to him to keep from "falling" on the floor, and, instead of grabbing the pole between the two of you, he steadies himself by pawing your luscious breast, then the following phrase is an appropriate response in both languages -
"If you fucking touch me again I will fucking kill you!"
The only difference between the American and French deliveries is that, in America, you might follow the phrase with a spray of mace in the man's eyes, while in France, simply leaning in uncomfortably close and pointing your finger in his face will suffice. It may seem to the inexperienced Metro rider that such colloquial wording would not make sense in French, but I can guarantee you (judging by the look of sheer fear in the jackass's eyes), no translation is needed.
For instance: when a grungy dirty man sitting across the aisle from you on the crowded Metro "accidentally" "falls" out of his chair during a minor curve of the ride and reaches out to grab the "nearest" thing to him to keep from "falling" on the floor, and, instead of grabbing the pole between the two of you, he steadies himself by pawing your luscious breast, then the following phrase is an appropriate response in both languages -
"If you fucking touch me again I will fucking kill you!"
The only difference between the American and French deliveries is that, in America, you might follow the phrase with a spray of mace in the man's eyes, while in France, simply leaning in uncomfortably close and pointing your finger in his face will suffice. It may seem to the inexperienced Metro rider that such colloquial wording would not make sense in French, but I can guarantee you (judging by the look of sheer fear in the jackass's eyes), no translation is needed.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Vin Rouge/Similes
My cats are like Perfection, but they shed more.
Friends are like enemies, but more pleasant.
Lust is like disgust, but more palpable.
Lawns are like Hummers, but more standard.
Laughing is like crying, but more people are involved.
Twinkies are like the 1st Amendment, but more unnecessary.
Friends are like enemies, but more pleasant.
Lust is like disgust, but more palpable.
Lawns are like Hummers, but more standard.
Laughing is like crying, but more people are involved.
Twinkies are like the 1st Amendment, but more unnecessary.
Monday, July 7, 2008
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Not Forgetting
A year ago, my friend Amie died suddenly in Evanston, IL. I couldn't be there to say goodbye, but I sent this tribute:
Lentil soup. It may seem strange that when I think of Amie I think of soup, but that’s two Italian women for you. Amie knew this was my favorite dish at the house. On those special days, it was the first thing she said to me as I stumbled downstairs for breakfast. “Lentil soup today!” she said. It always made my morning - not just the anticipation, but also the joy that someone else understood my obsession with Tuscan country food. We used to grade the revolving door of Chi Omega chefs on their skill at this particular dish. Were there enough vegetables? Was the stock seasoned? Did they use good olive oil? As a vegetarian Italian (which Amie assured me there was no such thing), she would warn me if the chef used meat in the soup. Although I know sometimes she lied because the chef himself would come out and brag about the great pancetta he had added, and then ask me not to tell the vegetarians.
The last time I saw Amie was over a year ago at a wedding in Evanston. I don’t remember what she was wearing, but I remember thinking she looked great. Not great – stunning. She was beaming, full of life. That’s how I always thought of her – this strong, beautiful Italian woman that I always wanted to laugh with and never wanted to cross. At the wedding, she told me about a trip she was planning for that summer. She was going to tour Puglia with her family and maybe make an annual tour out of it. I don’t know if she ever took that trip, but I hope she did. I hope she ate pasta 'til she got sick. I hope she drove those Italian men crazy with her blond hair and big smile. And I hope she brought back an even better recipe for lentil soup.
Lentil soup. It may seem strange that when I think of Amie I think of soup, but that’s two Italian women for you. Amie knew this was my favorite dish at the house. On those special days, it was the first thing she said to me as I stumbled downstairs for breakfast. “Lentil soup today!” she said. It always made my morning - not just the anticipation, but also the joy that someone else understood my obsession with Tuscan country food. We used to grade the revolving door of Chi Omega chefs on their skill at this particular dish. Were there enough vegetables? Was the stock seasoned? Did they use good olive oil? As a vegetarian Italian (which Amie assured me there was no such thing), she would warn me if the chef used meat in the soup. Although I know sometimes she lied because the chef himself would come out and brag about the great pancetta he had added, and then ask me not to tell the vegetarians.
The last time I saw Amie was over a year ago at a wedding in Evanston. I don’t remember what she was wearing, but I remember thinking she looked great. Not great – stunning. She was beaming, full of life. That’s how I always thought of her – this strong, beautiful Italian woman that I always wanted to laugh with and never wanted to cross. At the wedding, she told me about a trip she was planning for that summer. She was going to tour Puglia with her family and maybe make an annual tour out of it. I don’t know if she ever took that trip, but I hope she did. I hope she ate pasta 'til she got sick. I hope she drove those Italian men crazy with her blond hair and big smile. And I hope she brought back an even better recipe for lentil soup.
In Rare Form Out of Context
Fletcher stumbles out of his chair and navigates through the drunken melee to the living room.
LIVING ROOM
When he gets to the snack table, the Cheetos are gone. He grabs a girl who is holding a Heineken. She is AMBER, a sorority girl with a beer-belly.
FLETCHER
Amber. Cheetos. Where are the Cheetos?
AMBER
I didn’t buy any Cheetos, Fletcher.
FLETCHER
Yes you did. I saw them on the
table, but now they’re gone.
AMBER
Dude, you need to lay off the weed.
I didn’t buy Cheetos.
FLETCHER
Dude, I just saw--
AMBER
No you didn’t, because my couch is new.
FLETCHER
Huh?
Amber has her back turned to the couch. Beside the couch, a KEG sits on a table, in ice. TWO GUYS sit on the couch and attach a CONDOM to the keg tap. The condom starts to fill with beer, getting larger, and larger - Amber does not notice.
AMBER
I just picked up the couch from
Salvation Army, right? And it’s
“like new,” right? The fabric is all
eggshell, and the Cheetos are just
orange. You know, like the cheesy
factor of the Cheetos is artificial
orange, right? And I spent all my money
on Heineken, so I can’t afford the
fabric cleaner, and they didn’t have
any chocolate tones at the Salvation
Army, so I was forced into this
eggshell, which complements the rug and
all, but just doesn’t do well with
artificial orange. So I went with Sour
Cream and Onion Ruffles. I mean, do you
see what I’m saying? The couch is new--
The condom EXPLODES, spewing beer all over Amber’s eggshell couch.
Fletcher pushes past Amber towards a latter-day Bob Marley, who sits on the floor staring at lava lamp, mesmerized. He is CARL, and he is stoned.
CARL
It’s like, all the colors live in
harmony. . .
LIVING ROOM
When he gets to the snack table, the Cheetos are gone. He grabs a girl who is holding a Heineken. She is AMBER, a sorority girl with a beer-belly.
FLETCHER
Amber. Cheetos. Where are the Cheetos?
AMBER
I didn’t buy any Cheetos, Fletcher.
FLETCHER
Yes you did. I saw them on the
table, but now they’re gone.
AMBER
Dude, you need to lay off the weed.
I didn’t buy Cheetos.
FLETCHER
Dude, I just saw--
AMBER
No you didn’t, because my couch is new.
FLETCHER
Huh?
Amber has her back turned to the couch. Beside the couch, a KEG sits on a table, in ice. TWO GUYS sit on the couch and attach a CONDOM to the keg tap. The condom starts to fill with beer, getting larger, and larger - Amber does not notice.
AMBER
I just picked up the couch from
Salvation Army, right? And it’s
“like new,” right? The fabric is all
eggshell, and the Cheetos are just
orange. You know, like the cheesy
factor of the Cheetos is artificial
orange, right? And I spent all my money
on Heineken, so I can’t afford the
fabric cleaner, and they didn’t have
any chocolate tones at the Salvation
Army, so I was forced into this
eggshell, which complements the rug and
all, but just doesn’t do well with
artificial orange. So I went with Sour
Cream and Onion Ruffles. I mean, do you
see what I’m saying? The couch is new--
The condom EXPLODES, spewing beer all over Amber’s eggshell couch.
Fletcher pushes past Amber towards a latter-day Bob Marley, who sits on the floor staring at lava lamp, mesmerized. He is CARL, and he is stoned.
CARL
It’s like, all the colors live in
harmony. . .
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