OF A GOLDEN AGE

For some reason, one of my old posts draws every single attempted spam for this entire blog. It must have the secret keyword or something.

Anyway, one today had a hilarious phrase which caught my eye:

“You succulent children.”

I just purchased legal mp3s from the internet.

A tiny island nation, in a sense.

North of the Scottish mainland lies the archipelago Orkney, a council area comprised of many islands, most of which are uninhabited. The history of these islands goes back longer than is fathomable to my American mindset, including an eighth-century chapel and an eleventh-century chapel built over that.

The island of Papa Stronsay was abandoned by herring fishers in the 1970s after their curing business dried up. And, in a curious, marvelous, and resourceful twist of fate, a Catholic order purchased the island and made it their home: Transalpine Redemptorists at home.

They farm potatoes and care for the island along with their studies and duties. Browsing this blog has delighted me.

You moved far away several months ago and, sometime since then, I bought something for you at a thrift store, the perfect thing. I expressed a desire to mail it, which led to a weekslong process while you waited to establish a P.O. box, since your physical address could not receive mail.

Once I got that P.O. box number, it took me a few weeks to get to the post office, mostly because I didn’t know where the nearest one was. I told you I finally mailed it. Several days later, a frenetic Facebook message saying you’d given me the wrong number. Later that same day, a phone call. The caller I.D. lists the state where you used to live.

“I sent you a Facebook message,” you said.

“Oh?” I said, though I’d read it already.

“I thought I gave you the wrong number for my P.O. box but I was wrong about being wrong, I’m pretty sure.”

“You’re pretty sure?” I said.

“Yeah, the one I gave you the first time was right.”

“So I should disregard this message, is what you’re saying?” I said.

“Yeah. Listen, I gotta go. All my love,” you said.

“Yes, yes. Take care of yourself,” I said.

Friends, I have had a terrible cold for going on a week now. In case you ever wondered how it felt to be on NyQuil for six days in a row, the answer is: Exactly how you imagine. Like a high schooler after a Thunderbird bender.

Speaking of bum wine, did you know Mad Dog is actually Mogen David?? Hilarious. I’ve only ever tried Manishewitz, which tastes like Welch’s Concord Grape Jelly thinned with vinegar. Once at a weird college seder my delightful (and, contrary to this story, brilliant) friend Maxy accidentally spit it all over himself as his chair fell over backward onto the floor.

I finally found my cookie sheet: it was in the freezer.

• A reader’s email forms this moving, candid Andrew Sullivan post:

One of my friends actually hosted us at a nice dinner (that they probably couldn’t afford), presumably to get us liquored and then to ask to borrow money. I didn’t and now he blames me as much as anything for them having to go into bankruptcy. I can see it in his eyes when he talks to me.

• Robert Hariman studies two U.K. press photos of the Middle East and contrasts them with the U.S. press:

In this photo, there is no Arab street nor Iranian masses dominated by Mullahs and demagogues. A middle class tableau reveals that so much of what is in fact ordinary life for many people in Iran and elsewhere in the Middle East is never seen in the US.

In a way, this echoes Marjane Satrapi‘s intent with her graphic novel (and then movie) Persepolis. Regular everyday life is never as exciting or intense as we sometimes imagine, even in historically war-torn regions.

• Adora Calcium‘s 30-calorie chocolate supplements have only the slightest metallic taste. Whole Foods gave out free samples this morning and I was pleasantly surprised, especially because the dark chocolate version contains no dairy, and the supplements are all vegetarian-friendly.

• Ravenswood Used Books, where have you been all my life? This claustrophobic wonder had more books than I could handle and at reasonable prices. It’s local, independent, and totally insane on the inside, definitely a place to experience as well as patronize. Also, owner Jim Mall’s blog (where that link leads) is a delight:

On an unrelated note, we are going to install a trap door under the floor of the poetry section. This will lead to the basement alligator pond. The trip wire will be triggered arbitrarily, ensnaring the beautiful as well as the damned.

The poetry section is where I found a great volume of Edna St Vincent Millay’s letters and two Everyman editions of medieval texts.* Be still my heart!

* A modern translation of Piers Plowman and a modern prose translation of du Troyes’ four Arthurian epic poems! I know, you’re already sorry you skipped down to this.

Slate has a great piece on narcissistic personality disorder (NPD):

Shame, that painful sense one has acted in an unacceptable way, is another necessary emotion that is also largely missing from the person with NPD. Since shame feels so terrible, it sounds liberating not to feel it. But psychologist Schore points out a feeling of shame signals that we need to reassess our behavior. “Shame is a moral emotion,” he says. “It’s without feeling shame that the most horrendous acts occur.”

The article suggests that so-called “helicopter parents,” the type who invade children’s lives and make decisions for them, serve on boosters and school committees and basically are my worst nightmare personified, are at least triggering NPD in more children. By smothering children from birth, parents can negate children’s ability to do internal emotional regulation, make children the center of their own worlds, and, sometimes, kill the ability for empathy before it even emerges.

My parents put a lot of trust in me from a very early age, which means, surprise, I’m my own person and don’t need validation from other people. At the same time, I’m painfully empathetic and feel too connected to other people most of the time, something doubtlessly preferable to narcissism.

There are two love songs I really, really love. They’re both country songs.

Alan Jackson’s “Living on Love”:

Two young people without a thing
Say some vows and spread their wings
Settle down with just what they need
Living on love

Simple, effective.

And Randy Travis’s “Forever and Ever Amen”:

You’re not this time that I’m killing
I’m no longer one of those guys

Shakespeare’s sonnets sometimes seem cloying or overly ornate to us now, mostly because of their language. When he wasn’t mocking intentionally, Shakespeare sought to pay simple, meaningful tribute. It’s hard to find both simple and meaningful these days.

Since my parents went to see Fleetwood Mac my dad has texted or emailed me a Fleetwood Mac-related tidbit or thought at least once a day. This morning, he said he couldn’t find one of their albums to download and his hard copy was cracked.

Well, good thing like 10 years ago I ripped it onto my own computer and have been moving it around to new machines ever since. So I just sent him back a copy, because I’m generational backup.