You hope that when your book is published, it will break out…While I’d been planning, pushing, and preparing for my book launch, mutated white blood cells in my daughter’s body had been stealthily multiplying, on a mission to crowd her healthy blood cells out of her marrow and her bloodstream completely. But their success, unlike my book’s, was inevitable.
The booger in the pool is way more important to me than what place I came in at the 1988 or 1992 trials.
Tig Notaro is coming out with a memoir!
People in the newsroom and on various monitors were already using the word that would soon be hung around his neck like a millstone. “Fatwa.
Sometime during the summer of 1986 I went with my family to see a circus version of Bulgakov’s The Master and Margarita in an outdoor theatre in Kreuzberg, West Berlin. My only memory of the production is of Margarita herself on a trapeze, her laughter vampish and defiant, as she sliced the air above us. By then we were nearing the end of the Cold War though at the time no one knew it, and right there in a courtyard, metres away from the Wall, was this exultant and ephemeral expression of the conquest of space.
The conquest of space. The phrase comes up again and again as I sift through dozens of Soviet documents of the period. By 1986 the ardent years of the Space Age were of course over, its most notable vestiges a few space stations orbiting Earth, but the embers still retain a beguiling, and decidedly nostalgic, glow.
There was a lot to observe in Paris about seduction, about the Parisian manner of seduction. If only because seduction was the base syrup of most exchanges, business or otherwise, along with confrontation.
I found more lessons in my coworkers’ social-media updates than in watching lovers make out along the Seine—most of those lovers being tourists. Of course, plenty of French people still made out along the Seine; they simply had more company these days, Paris having so many goldfish in the privacy of their bowls …
Anyway, my French coworkers used the Web pretty much the same as Americans did, but with greater respect for individual privacy—I never saw photos of any coworkers shotgunning beers, though perhaps shotgunning beers wasn’t the best test case—and, in almost all exchanges, with flirtation.
There was also greater tolerance for sexy material. Men, and plenty of women, would get up from their desks to cluster around what ever nude flesh was trending on the Web. Of course, it was excused as a business exercise; we worked in an ad agency, and we required inspiration. And French advertising didn’t lack for nudity. Like one condom TV spot that got passed around. Six of us clustered around Josette’s computer. The video showed a woman’s face and bare breasts responding to something being done to her offscreen—a lot of tickling, perhaps, during an earthquake.
“What I like is the music,” Josette said. The soundtrack had a young Wayne Newton saying thanks in German. “That and the joy that is presented by the contrast, rather than anything nasty.”
The men chimed in, Ah oui, la musique …From Paris, I Love You But You’re Bringing Me Down by Rosecrans Baldwin