In the December 23 entry from Tape For The Turn of the Year, A.R. Ammons writes, “release us from mental / prisons / into the actual / fact, the mere / occurrence—the touched, tasted, heard, seen.” For many, Christmas is a spiritual time, but it’s also a sensual time, of food, music, lights. It’s a mistake, I think, to elevate one over the other. The spirit and the senses are not disconnected. They are a two-way street.
Hallelujah, I’m a bum!
Today an interviewer asked me what was the common trait that the artists I look up to share, and without missing a beat, I answered, “They all work harder than I do.”
“I don’t like work,” sang Harry McClintock, “and work don’t like me!” I think my fellow millennials, most of whom will spend their lives working harder and harder for fewer and fewer returns, should make this their anthem:
Oh, why don’t you save
all the money you earn?
If I didn’t eat
I’d have money to burn!
(Avocado toast, my ass.)
I’m also reminded of this Ivan Brunetti Nancy strip, which I’ve had hanging above my desk for years (even back when I did have a day job):
The search box
A few months, I became nostalgic for the good ol’ MS-DOS command prompt:
The nostalgia was brought on by two things:
1) reading two programming books back-to-back, Ellen Ullman’s Life in Code and Seymour Papert’s Mindstorms, both narratives of making computers do what you want them to do, with snippets of code embedded into the text
2) watching the scenes in Halt and Catch Fire with character Cameron Howe punching code into her primitive computer, programming an OS that literally asks you what you want to do with the machine:
For the 4th season of the show, the marketing team cooked up these graphics:
Those search boxes have me thinking: maybe it’s not so much the command prompt I’m nostalgic for, but the days when the computer wouldn’t do anything without me — I had to explicitly tell the computer what I wanted to do, and if I didn’t tell it, it would just sit there, patiently, with a dumb look on its face.
I really miss how computers used to be “dumb” in this way. The primary computer in my life — my “smartphone” — is too smart. It used to constantly push things on me — push notifications — letting me know about all sorts of stuff it thought I wanted to know about, and it continued doing this until I had the good sense to turn them all off. It’s dumber now, and much better.
The apps are worse in the same way: they think they’re really smart. They assume they know what I want to see and what I want to think about. I want them to be dumber. I often wonder what Twitter would be like if instead of “What’s happening?” it would ask me, “What do you want to think about?” (You can still sort of do this: the “People You Follow” filter in Twitter’s advanced search is one of my favorite things.) Come to think of it, I’d pay for a Twitter app that bypassed my feed and went straight to the search box.
After all this time, this dumb little box is still my favorite thing on the internet:
My last tweet
This would be a perfect final tweet. I love to imagine it just floating there forever, and never posting another word to that website again. How long could I make it? A weekend? A week? A month? But, oh look, there’s an email from my publicist about a discount she wants me to promote. Oh well. Maybe I’ll just pin it.
Shelf life
Here’s a photo of Steal Like An Artist on sale at a Target in Columbus, Ohio. (Photo by my cousin.) Sure, it’s on sale at all kinds of places, including some of the best bookstores and museum gift shops in the world, but there’s a kind of weird fun knowing that my aunt saw my book while doing her grocery shopping and texted it to my mom. (And a kick for my mom, I imagine: There’s not a whole lot of social currency in small-town Ohio when you tell your friends your son is a writer.) Even my wife said she got a little thrill seeing it in our local store.
In this Sunday’s New York Times, Jason Segel gives it a shout-out in his By The Book interview:
The book is 8 months older than my oldest son, and he reads chapter books, writes songs in Garageband, and tells poop jokes. He has a whole life of his own now! So does the book. I was 28-years-old when I wrote it. I’ll be 35 next year. Sometimes it doesn’t even feel like it was me who wrote the thing. How strange to see it still making its way out into the world, to have people reading it for the first time. I am lucky. And grateful.
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