CarrollBlog 11.30

I firmly believe in small gestures: pay for their coffee, hold the door for strangers, over tip, smile or try to be kind even when you don't feel like it, pay compliments, chase the kid's runaway ball down the sidewalk and throw it back to him, try to be larger than you are-- particularly when it's difficult. People do notice, people appreciate. I appreciate it when it’s done to (for) me. Small gestures can be an effort, or actually go against our grain ("I'm not a big one for paying compliments..."), but the irony is that almost every time you make them, you feel better about yourself. For a moment life suddenly feels lighter, a bit more Gene Kelly dancing in the rain.

CarrollBlog 11.28

Vienna is a city of plaques. All over town you see them on the sides of buildings announcing Mozart lived in this house on Blutgasse (Blood Lane), or Beethoven composed the Heiligenstadt symphony here. Of course there is a large one at Berggasse 19, the office of Sigmund Freud. Further down the fame ladder you have impressively sized plaques that announce the film director Fritz Lang lived in a dark unprepossessing building near an equally anonymous place where Billy Wilder stayed before migrating to the US before WW2. Another plaque I’ve seen is in the middle of a beautiful wine vineyard on the edge of the Vienna Woods. It is for the dramatist Ferdinand Raimund and announces he proposed to his fiancee on that very spot in the early 19th century. Raimund committed suicide three years later in his forties after being bitten by what he believed was a rabid dog. Apparently he was more terrified of dying THAT way than by his own hand. My favorite plaques are for people you've never heard of with names like Egon Wolfclick or Alfred Dingl. They lived here too and to some authority figure in this town, they rated a permanent commemoration in stone or brass. It's like a treasure hunt finding these announcements-- you're always looking when out for a walk. Now and then you spy one for a Socialist politician from the early 1900’s, or the brothers who in their time, were famous graphic artists and lived in this building until both were sent to Auschwitz. Recently the city has even started putting small square brass plaques on the sidewalk in front of doorways all over town that announce that so and so—no ones really—lived at this address until being arrested by the Nazis and deported to various concentration camps around Europe. As you can imagine, there are a great many of these plaques everywhere you go in Vienna. The wonderful American novelist Stanley Elkin said all he dreamed of as far as artistic success was to have a big beautiful plaque on the side of his suburban St. Louis house saying Stanley Elkin lived there and the dates. Before he died a few years ago, his wife surprised him on a birthday with just such a plaque. Elkin said all kidding aside, he was surprisingly moved by it.

CarrollBlog 11.28

Of the Seven Deadly Sins, anger is possibly the most fun. To lick your wounds, to smack your lips over grievances long past, to roll over your tongue the prospect of bitter confrontations still to come, to savor to the last toothsome morsel both the pain you are given and the pain you are giving back — in many ways it is a feast fit for a king.
The chief drawback is that what you are wolfing down is yourself. The skeleton at the feast is you.

CarrollBlog 11.27

Part of the act of creating is letting go. I remember very vividly when writing The Land of Laughs that I reached the part in the story where the dog speaks for the first time. I wrote the passage and stopped. I thought-- the *dog* just spoke-- that's crazy. But a moment later I said okay, let's just see where that goes. In an essential way it was the turning point of all writing I have done since then. My paradigm moment came about because I simply let go, accepted the nutty for fact, and kept moving. The Germans have a nice phrase about trust in romance-- 'fall back and I'll catch you.' The same could be applied to writing or any art, as far as I can see: If you believe you have it in you, write whatever it is you want and stop thinking about approaches or limitations or or or... Just *write* it. Clear your mind of hesitation and everything other than the sentence you are trying to write and do it. Then write the next one. The more you think about it, the less well you do it. Start with a phrase or a character you like or who intrigues you. Then begin to spin a spider's web out from that center point. But don't *think* about it. Very often when I begin a book or story, I only have a single line or image which I put down and then think--who is this? What are they like? 'Haden was in trouble again' is the beginning of GLASS SOUP only because I liked that line. After writing it I thought-- who's this Haden? He's a handsome asshole. Okay, what does he do? He’s a tour guide. Where does he do it? Etcetera. Don't think about it-- just be a spider and spin the web only you can design.

CarrollBlog 11.26

"While much in this life is beyond our control, all of us hold the power to choose our friends. We can each be a Nobel prize winner at friendship. None of us are perfect friends always, but one way to think about friendship is in terms of carefulness. Be careful with those you love. And surround yourself with people who are careful with you. A good friend of mine devised a rather taxing standard for love and friendship - and a grim one too - "who would you want to become a refugee with?" If your neighborhood were hit by Hurricane Katrina, or Cyclone Nargis, who would have your back? Look around you today. Your parents have your back, your siblings have your back, your closest friends have your back. Keep it that way. And be sure they know you have theirs."

CarrollBlog 11.25

I’ve been reading Nicholas Weber’s good new book THE BAUHAUS GROUP about the founding of the famous design movement. The personalities of the people involved were really larger than life. Here’s one story. For those unfamiliar with them, Walter Gropius was the founder of Bauhaus. For a while he was married to the infamous Alma Mahler who was famous mostly for her many husbands and lovers, among them Gustav Klimt, Gustav Mahler, Gropius, Oskar Kokoschka, Franz Werfel and others.

CarrollBlog 11.24

WARNING
by Jenny Joseph

CarrollBlog 11.23

She said she fell in love with him the night of the flying saucers. It was one of their first dates. At the time it was obvious he was more interested in her than vice versa. She *was* interested, but he didn't make her hair stand on end. In Manhattan they went into a diner and sitting at the counter, ordered coffee. Those were the days of cigarettes and coffee at any time of the day or night. They lit up and started chatting. The waiter who served them was short and thin, scrawny. After bringing their order he walked away and began talking to a fat guy at the other end of the counter. A few minutes later the two men-- fat and thin-- began arguing. At first it was no big thing but quickly escalated into a shouting match. Everyone in the place was staring at them-- everyone except her date who kept talking to her. He stayed calm and didn't even glance at the men yelling twenty feet away. Suddenly there was a crash. Standing, the fat man smashed a saucer on the counter. The pieces went flying everywhere. The little waiter shouted You'll have to pay for that! Big man snatched up another saucer from the counter and threw it against a wall. Furious, the waiter reached out and grabbing big man by his shirt, yelled for someone to call the cops. The two fighters staggered and shoved their way down the counter until they were near the woman and her date. Any customers still in the place quickly moved to the farthest corner of the diner to get away from the action. All except her date who stayed where he was sipping his coffee. She yelled at him to get out of there-- was he crazy? He only looked at her, smiled and shrugged that everything was fine-- no problem. Luckily the police arrived and separated the fighters. The men calmed down and sheepishly tried to explain to them what had happened. With a gallant sweep of his hand, her date gestured to the empty seat next to him. As if to say-- coast's clear, come on back.
Then.
Right then she fell for him big time.

CarrollBlog 11.22

I now fully believe there are people who spread pain wherever they go. They aren’t necessarily bad like a Hitler or some other outsized villains. Often they are just you and me’s trying to live their lives. But somehow pain bringers are cursed with a dark talent for making things go bad; leaving behind them suspiciously long trails of angry broken hearts, or dreams, or plans… Whether it’s conscious or unconscious they continuously mess life up, or make jobs harder for others to do, confuse where confusion is not necessary, grate where smoothness was once the norm before they arrived. It can be on a small scale or large. Whenever they enter a life or situation they tramp a kind of psychic mud onto clean floors that is difficult to clean and sometimes permanently stains. Now and then these people are unquestionably mean or selfish, but not as a rule. Like those poor souls who are struck by lightning again and again for some mysterious reason throughout their lives, pain bringers only have to become involved in something and too frequently for it to be chance or coincidence, they cause it to go south in very negative ways. I was thinking about this for a long time today and could specifically name three people I have known who fall into this category. You couldn’t identify it by looking at any of them. They’re often compelling, passionate, funny, capable, alluring, attractive, or even generous people. But bond with them in any other than a superficial way and you can almost be certain you’ll be hit by *their* lightning. Beyond any doubt it will leave some kind of nasty scorch mark on your psyche/heart/life/business/confidence/values/beliefs/soul or otherwise.

CarrollBlog 11.21

“We value love not because it’s stronger than death but because it’s weaker. Say what you want about love: death will finish it. You will not go on loving in the grave, not in any physical way that will at all resemble love as we know it on earth. The perishable nature of love is what gives love its importance in our lives. If it were endless, if it were on tap, love wouldn’t hit us the way it does.

CarrollBlog 11.20

She appeared again today and this time I felt like going over to her and saying leave-- just go away and let him have this space, this place, this hour in his day when he can be alone to work on something obviously important to him without you here to make him feel young and silly. The boy started coming to the gym a few weeks ago. I usually go midmorning and at that time the place is used by a few regular hardcore lifters and bodybuilders, some retirees on the treadmills, and a very tattooed woman who seems to be there all the time looking ripped and ferocious. So it was surprising to see this boy-- 11? 12?-- show up one morning to work out. My first thought was 'Shouldn't he be in school?' He's thin as a coat hanger and reminds me of my grandmother's line, "he's so skinny that he has to run around in the shower to get wet." But the kid is very serious about working out. The first few times I saw him, he was with one of the men who runs the place and was being given detailed instructions about how to use the equipment. He did exactly as he was instructed and the look on his face is always serious and dedicated. And then one day his mother started showing up. I assume it's his mother or some member of the family. She walked into the gym in street clothes and went right over to the boy. His eyes widened and his shoulders sank. She laughed, touched both arms and even tried to hug him but he pulled away. After a few minutes she rubbed his head and left. I think every one of us in the place looked away to spare the boy any more embarrassment. All right-- so he forgot something or she had to tell him something important. Once. It was okay for her to show up there once. But now she comes all the time. Today she had a camera and took photographs of the boy in his workout gear. When I was teaching, so many times I told the parents of my students, particularly the troubled ones or those who were struggling, give them a lot of room. Stay out of their space--physically and psychically-- as much as you can now. If you love them, give them space-- to grow, to figure out who they are and what direction they want to choose. Perhaps the worst part is this mother is coming here because she loves her son but obviously has no idea what a trespasser she is in so many important ways.

CarrollBlog 11.19

There was a prominent article in the New York Times recently about how what a person reads can make or break a relationship. One woman said if she's dating a guy and finds out he likes to read, say, John Grisham novels then she's all but certain the relationship will never work because she prefers more top shelf, serious fiction. The article went on to say a lot of people interviewed felt the same way to one degree or another. As I read I kept thinking are they *nuts*? This is insane: The fact your partner doesn't like the same sort of books you do, or films or music or other things like that can doom your relationship? Do they honestly feel that if they met someone new (man or woman) who liked to play video games for hours, or didn't read much, really enjoyed early Adam Sandler films, or their favorite food was chili cheese dogs BUT they're kind and thoughtful and loving and funny and generous and a great kisser and and... those latter qualities don't cancel out the others?

CarrollBlog 11.18

My parents lived in New York for many years. A very small old man lived on the top floor of their building. I used to bump into him now and then when I visited the folks. He was always dressed in a perfectly tailored three piece suit, thick silk tie, and white shirt with cuff links. We smiled and nodded at each other but never spoke. One day when I was with my father we ran into him in the hall and were introduced. His name was Lewis Galantiere and from the way he dressed and spoke, he was elegance personified. For some reason I didn't understand then, my father told this stranger that I was studying literature in university and hoped someday to be a writer. Galantiere lit up and said well, we should talk about that--why don't you come for tea sometime. When he was gone, my father told me Galantiere was one of the greatest French to English translators. His Proust translations especially were world renowned and used in many universities. But even more interesting, this man had lived in Paris in the 1920's and knew everyone who was there then-- Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Gertrude Stein, Picasso-- the whole starry sky of talent that lit up that glittery city in those days. A week later we went to visit him. The apartment was small but beautiful. Oriental carpets on the floors, substantial leather and wood furniture, and artwork covered the walls. My father spent much of the visit studying the pictures and later told me there were original Matisse and Cezanne sketches, a Picasso, photographs by Man Ray, a handwritten recipe by Alice Toklas, on and on. We spent a couple of hours with Galantiere and I think he was glad for the company. In his quiet ironic voice he spoke casually of having picnics with the Fitzgeralds, going to the horse races with Hemingway, arguing with the irascible Ms. Stein. He was not showing off-- just talking about the early days of his life. His stories were amazing, as close as I will ever come to knowing or being with those gods. One thing I remember vividly came at the end of the afternoon. When he was obviously tired and winding down, Galantiere paused and deep in thought, stared at his hands. Then he said, "The one thing biographers of these people rarely talk about is how hard they all worked. Most biographies just go on and on about Fitzgerald's drunkenness or Hemingway's bullying and carousing. But they give little credit to how *hard* they worked and at least in those days, the complete dedication to their craft. I have never seen harder working people; they were like ditch diggers. When they finished for the day, their hands were always dirty."

CarrollBlog 11.17

They agreed the movie was terrific. A love story, it ended sadly with the woman committing suicide. Walking out of the theater afterwards, his girlfriend said she liked the film but it bugged her how often people in movies commit suicide for love. How many people do that in real life? It's just pure Hollywood, melodramatic nonsense. He stopped and stared at her strangely. "The woman doesn't kill herself for *love*. She kills herself because she knows at that moment in her life she's as happy as she'll ever be. She's sure everything that comes afterwards will be either anti-climactic or disappointing. So she'd rather die now, at the peak of her life. How wonderful if you've got the courage to do it: Go out in flames rather than sizzle down slowly into ash." Shaking her head, his girlfriend smirked as if he were an adorable idiot. He'd seen that look before. They walked on in silence, thinking about their different interpretations of the film. Finally she took his arm and squeezing it said, "You always see things so optimistically." Hearing that, he winced because he knew in certain profound ways they viewed life so differently and that it could undo them. In time it did.

CarrollBlog 11.16

After they broke up, she continued to send him things in the mail occasionally. Nothing big-- CD's she made of favorite music, new books she read and liked, small stuff. She did it simply because she thought he would like them too and she wanted to share them even though they no longer had contact. Just a nice thing to do. According to the rules of romance you're not supposed to do that after you've stopped seeing someone, but who made those rules? She had loved him and they were very happy once. Wasn't that reason enough to send things now and then that she believed would make him glad? They had gotten along so well when they were together, she was certain he would understand now why she did it. I liked this and I think you will too. I remember the things you liked. That's all. Nothing more or less. I hope you enjoy it. But he didn't understand. Eventually he wrote her a short curt note saying "I don't know how to feel about these things you've been sending me." Once they'd told each other essential secrets about themselves and confessed to weaknesses they had tried to hide from the rest of the world their whole lives. For a short blessed time, they'd felt both safe and at home with one another. Despite that intimacy, now she had become only a stranger bearing gifts and of course we should always be suspicious of them.

CarrollBlog 11.15

The Sum of Man
by Norah Pollard

CarrollBlog 11.14

Coming towards me is a ravaged junkie. One of those young dirt-covered, head nodding, eyes half-closed, slow wobbly-walking sad cases you can pretty much bet will either be dead or in a hospital before the year is out. Someone I know calls them '4th Dimension People' because they don't really live here anymore. They're somewhere else-- sort of alive, sort of dead, sort of in a 4th dimension someplace we earth inhabitants have never been or experienced. I start to walk a wide arc around him as he approaches. But when we pass each other, I suddenly smell the most wonderful cologne. I've never smelled such an aroma before. It's delicious, mysterious, beautiful and there is no question that he is wearing it.

CarrollBlog 11.13

She said: I think about you every day.
He said: I think about you all day long.

CarrollBlog 11.12

Years ago I saw her almost every day walking with her daughter. The two women were inseparable. I never saw either of them with a man, so I just assumed the father was gone. They always appeared to be having intense conversations. It was clear from the way they spoke that they took each other seriously. Both dressed nicely and with care, as if they were on their way to somewhere special whenever you encountered them. Then one day I saw the woman walking alone. It surprised me because I could not remember ever having seen her by herself-- she was always with her daughter. The girl now appeared to be in her middle teens so I just assumed she was off at school somewhere and would be back for holidays. But I never saw her again. Only the mother and the sad thing is, whenever I see her now she's always walking very quickly, as if late for an appointment. However I discovered eventually where she was going: to the neighborhood park to feed the birds. She carries a large purse and out of it she'll take either bread crumbs or bird food and scatter it on the ground at specific spots around the park. No matter what the season, she's there feeding the birds and filling their drinking spots with bottled water. The other day I saw her and mentioned her to someone from the neighborhood. "Oh yes, the Bird Lady. Do you know she goes four or five times a *day* to feed them? It used to be a couple of times a week. Then every day, now it's four or five times a day. Soon she'll probably pitch a tent and just live in the park." I looked at the well dressed woman and wondered where her daughter was, her great friend, the one who for so many years kept her from becoming the bird lady.

CarrollBlog 11.11

"The real difference between God and human beings, he thought, was that God cannot stand continuance. No sooner has He created a season of a year, or a time of the day, than He wishes for something quite different, and sweeps it all away. No sooner was one a young man, and happy at that, than the nature of things would rush one into marriage, martyrdom, or old age. And human beings cleave to the existing state of things. All their lives they are striving to hold the moment fast, and are up against a force majeure. Their art itself is nothing but an attempt to catch by all means the one particular moment, one mood, one light, the momentary beauty of one woman or one flower, and make it everlasting. It is all wrong to imagine paradise as a never-changing state of bliss. It will probably, on the contrary, turn out to be, in the true spirit of God, an incessant up and down, a whirlpool of change. Only you may yourself, by that time, have become one with God, and have taken a liking to it."

CarrollBlog 11.10

When she was younger she was a model. She had a mediocre career although she slogged on in the business for years. Her one great job ended with a wickedly ironic twist. She had a beautiful figure and one day her agency told her a famous suntan cream manufacturer was casting for a model for their new campaign. This campaign is world famous. The image is iconic because it is always the same-- a tanned statuesque woman with a spectacular body in a bathing suit is posed with her back to us while she looks out over some sun-holiday landscape-- Greece, Morocco, Seychelles... That's all: Goddess figured woman with her back to us, wonderful sunny setting, and beneath the photo is the name of the product. She auditioned for the job and got it. The company paid her a great deal of money because the advertisement would be everywhere-- in magazines, on posters... She was ecstatic. They flew her to Santorini with a famous photographer and a large crew. The resulting pictures were fantastic. Within a short time her image was on display literally all over the world. She proudly placed the pictures in the front of her modeling "book." The book of your best photographs that you bring to all castings to show potential clients your previous work to give them an idea of how you look in different roles and poses. At one of the first castings after the campaign came out, she handed her book to the client. He turned to the first page and saw her suntan cream pictures. He smirked, chuckled, and shook his head. He showed the pictures to his partner sitting next to him who smirked too. She asked what was wrong. The client said she was the third model who'd come in for that job with these same pictures in their book. All three women said they were the model in that campaign. Indignant, she said but I WAS the model-- all you need to do is check with the company. He looked at her dismissively. "Do you really think I'm going to call them and maybe make a fool of myself just so I can find out if that's your *ass* in this picture?" This happened frequently afterwards when she showed her book to casting directors. Few of them believed her because it seemed like every model with a nice body and her color hair in Europe was taking credit for those pictures. Her greatest modeling triumph didn't help her flagging career at all.

CarrollBlog 11.9

One of my favorite Beatles songs is "A Hard Day's Night" despite the fact the first time I ever heard it was while sitting in the backseat of a police car on the way to the town police station where we had to give statements about how we had just found the body. So naturally ever after when I hear the song I think back to that day and remember the radio DJ excitedly saying "And now the new song by The Beatles!"
My sister worked at the town theater that summer. They were about to open for the season and wanted as much PR as possible. So she hired my pal Joe and me for five dollars each to go down to the railroad station and hand out flyers announcing the first performance to commuters as they boarded early morning trains to NY. The station was right next to the Hudson river so when there was a lull between trains, Joe and I walked over to the water and threw stones in. He threw, I threw, he threw, I threw. Sometimes we did it for distance, sometimes we threw to see who could get their stone to skip the most times across the water. Joe eventually found a large stone and heaved it in with all his might. It hit something. That something moved and suddenly a large inverted "V" appeared in the water about twenty feet out. We stared at it for a while until one of us, I don't remember who, said "It's an elbow!" Joe ran back to the station to call the police while I waded into the water to get whatever it was. When I was in up to my chest I reached the elbow which was now rocking back and forth in the water current. I took hold of the arm and slowly pulled it toward me. It moved easily and now I could see down into the water. It was a girl. She was wearing a white bra and underpants and long dark hair obscured her face. The one thing I remember most vividly was being calm. I was probably 11 or 12 at the time and as skittish as any kid that age, but for some mysterious reason seeing the body didn't scare or make me nervous. To this day I do not know why that was. Holding the dead girl's arm, I calmly decided the best thing I could do was pull her back to shore. It was a short way and easy to do. Back on land, I reached down into the water and taking hold of her shoulders, pulled her up onto the small beach. She was in rigor mortis by then. One arm was crooked in that "V" position, the other was across her chest, as if even in death she was trying modestly to cover herself. One of her knees was bent. Across her face something that looked like whipped egg white completely hid her features. Without thinking, I reached down and wiped the frothy stuff off. She was very pretty. Her expression was peaceful-- as if she were only sleeping. I had never seen her before. I don't know how long I was there alone with her but the whole time was peaceful. She was dead and I was keeping her company until someone arrived. Someone who would take over and know what to do with her. And eventually they did.
Years later I decided to use that event in my novel KISSING THE BEEHIVE. The oddest part was before beginning the book, I wrote to the town police department asking to see their records on the case. Back then the only thing I heard about it was a rumor that the girl-- who came from the next town over-- had been murdered by her boyfriend and thrown into the river. But the police wrote to me and said they no longer had any records of the case. They doubted if any even existed after three decades. I was amazed. I did further research but no one anywhere in the county had information. It was as if the event had never taken place. Stephanie Wendel. That was her name. I hope I am spelling it correctly. Last year I learned that my friend Joe died too a long time ago. On hearing that, part of me wondered if they might have met up somewhere in the land beyond and talked about this.

CarrollBlog 11.8

At another time they might have had a rewarding, perhaps even profound relationship. But there are people we meet in life who miss being important to us by inches, days, or circumstance. Another place, time, or emotional frame of mind and we would happily fall into their arms; eager to take up their challenge or invitation. But as it is we encounter them when we are discontent or content, but they are not. Or they are hungry and we have just finished a big meal. One of us is looking for love while the other is looking for solitude. Whatever serious chemistry might have been possible if, isn't.

CarrollBlog 11.7

The Sacred
by Stephen Dunn

CarrollBlog 11.6

At the end of the film A VERY LONG ENGAGEMENT, after many struggles and setbacks the heroine is reunited with her adored fiancee. The only problem is the lover has suffered a grievous head wound that erased all of his memory. When they are reunited, he doesn't know who she is. In Julie Christie's recent film AWAY FROM HER, she plays a woman with Alzheimer's Disease who gradually loses her memory and with it her ability to recognize her husband of many years. At the end of both stories the ones "left behind" look at their partners with equal amounts of longing and confusion because there they are right in front of them, but no, they aren't "there" at all any more. In both cases it brings up the essential question-- what makes us who we are? Our physical selves? Our memories? Our ties to other people? Our achievements (including our children)... Other, perhaps more ineffable/undefinable things? It's stuff for a serious ontological discussion (or philosophy class), but also an intriguing question that can be batted back and forth across the ping pong table of your own mind when you're in the bath tonight: what makes me who I am? If you took away this or that (my memory, or my sense of humor, or my eyesight, for example) would I still be me? Or would the loss of such things disappear me?

CarrollBlog 11.5

Today's homework assignment: In one hundred and fifty words or less, describe one of the happiest days of your life.

CarrollBlog 11.4

Two decades ago before the Internet and websites like www.abebooks.com made the process easy, it was both tough and expensive to find rare or out of print books. We were talking about books that really mattered to us. She mentioned Theodore Weesner's great novel THE CAR THIEF. Both of us swooned on about how wonderful it was and how we had discovered the book when it came out in the 70's. She said years later she suddenly got the desire to re-read it but could not find a copy anywhere. So she contacted a bunch of rare booksellers by mail and one of them eventually said he'd found a mint first edition of the book but it cost a lot. She first thought OW when she saw the price, but then reasoned not only would she get to re-read it, but she'd own a perfect copy of a favorite book that she could treasure always. So she took a deep breath and $$ be damned, bought it. A couple of days after it arrived, she had to go on a business trip to London. She decided to take THE CAR THIEF with her because an airplane is the perfect place to do concentrated reading. But by the time she got on her night flight, she was so exhausted that she sat down and immediately fell asleep. She never even opened the book. The next morning after landing, while moving through Heathrow airport, who should she see but David Bowie walking alone toward her. Bowie was her favorite singer and as soon as she recognized him she thought I have to say hello/do something/let him know how much I love his work. Then it came to her-- she reached into her bag, took out the unopened pristine, outrageously expensive copy of THE CAR THIEF and walked right over to the famous singer. Handing it to him she said, "I love your music and right now the only way I can show you that is to give you this. I hope you read it and love it as much as I do." Bowie took the book, smiled and after a small bow to her, walked off

CarrollBlog 11.3

There is a discount supermarket chain in Austria (let's call it Delta) that sells ‘almost- things.’ If your favorite candy is called 'Freddy' bars and they're wrapped in red white and blue packages, what Delta does is sell their own brand called 'Friendly' bars, wraps them in virtually identical red, white and blue packages, and charges less for them. Whether it be candy, frozen pizza, red wine... the company's thing is to sell cheaper products that are almost the real thing but not quite. Unfortunately the same is true about how these products taste or work. 'Friendly' candy bars might have almost the same ingredients as 'Freddy' bars, but they don't taste as good. Delta dishwashing soap is thin and sort of useless although it's colored and packaged to look just like Palmolive. The meat in their dog food cans is a weird shade of marble’y gray and makes the dog fart *a lot*. However as is usually the case, it takes two to dance. The Delta people are saying "Why pay full price for Freddy bars? Ours are just like them but cost half as much." You know though that isn't true. The dull truism is you usually get what you pay for. Yet you still buy the cheaper one anyway and end up disappointed. So is Delta trying to fool you with their almost-goods? Yes. But are you to blame for buying them when you know about 90% of the time products like 'Friendly bars' are crap? Yes.
Walking by one of these stores the other day, someone said to me, "You know Michael? He always reminds of something you'd buy at a Delta store." I knew exactly what she meant.

CarrollBlog 11.2

"One of life's sad facts is there are people we no longer see who nevertheless gave us some of our best or most important experiences; but they don't know it and never will. That's because we didn't know it until much later, in retrospect. He thought about the summer in Greece almost thirty years before when they were together and flew from island to island on cheap rattle'y propeller planes whenever they felt like it. Ten dollar rooms with the toilet outside down the hall. They read wilted, water-stained books while sitting next to each other on the small balconies off the rooms. Or sat silently together in complete peace while staring at the sea. No matter what kind of accommodations they rented, there always seemed to be a view of the sea. Every day they ate salads of tomatoes, olives, onions, and thick savory chunks of chalk-white feta cheese drizzled in fresh olive oil for lunch. They rented a blue Vespa. They walked on black volcanic sand. He bought them baseball caps because the Greek sun was ferocious. He was happy then and knew it. But his heart needed three decades more perspective and experience to understand just how happy he had been-- Hall of Fame-happy, once in a lifetime-happy. By the time he realized it, she was thousands of days gone. One of his final wishes was to tell her, thank her for those days together. And if life were magical, which it is not, to sit together again in one of those rustic tavernas at sunset watching the harbor, the boats, the stars coming out, their simple dinner being served, thank her for being… her."

CarrollBlog 11.1

I don't play chess but I really like the Chess Club. Housed in a store that used to sell mirrors and window glass, the Club's display windows are full of different wood and stone chess sets for sale as well as faded, curling pamphlets and sun bleached books with wonderfully obscure, arcane titles like "Gevonoff's Thrumble Openings and Counters." The windows are half frosted but you can see into the place which, like a vampire, only comes alive after dark. The store is around the corner from my building. Having walked by it for years, I don't think I've seen customers inside there during the day more than two or three times. But at night the place is cooking. One room has been set aside for playing the game and on the evenings the club stays open, all the tables are filled. Surrounding them are a wide variety of zealous observers and kibitzers who hang over the players like Snoopy the dog pretending to be a vulture in the PEANUTS cartoon. Some in this audience are rubbing their chins thoughtfully, others have their hands in their pockets, some simply can't stand still and go up and down on their toes as they watch. You get the feeling they'd like to pounce on the board and play both sides at once, if given the chance. Everyone's attention is on the games. All the mental energy focused on those chess boards could boil an egg if you could somehow harness it. Last night was cold and misty. I walked by around nine and as usual, the room was full. For the first time as I passed, one of the spectators looked up and our eyes met. Then a player moved a piece on the board and my man snapped his eyes away from mine back to more important things.