Back in 1997 my beloved Apple Computers started a new advertising campaign with the unfortunate tag line, “Think Different.” Because of its abandonment of the adverbial case, the slogan’s meaning became completely absurd – were we, the users, really supposed to spend our time thinking of the word different? How would this move us ahead or lend us insight? And frankly, I get really bored thinking the same thing over, and over and over again.
Unfortunately, this wholesale rejection of the adverb is becoming comically common, and often in the hands of advertisers. Outback Steakhouse, the home of the nation’s least healthy appetizer, the Blooming Onion (787 glorious, deep-fried calories) recently unrolled its new and disturbing motto, “Live Adventurous.” Since live is a verb I just don’t know how to do it adjectivally. Does Outback want me to live adventurously, and if so, shouldn’t the advertisement have just said that? Or do the powers-that-be at the Steakhouse want me to move some place called Adventurous (much as Nancy Botwin of Weeds lived in Agrestic – which means rural and rustic).
Foolish me, I was under the impression that the purpose of language was communication, not utter confusion.
Of course in this age of anything-goes language, nouns -- the simplest type of word in the English language -- are suffering as well. Syfy -- which used to be the SciFi Network but wants to distant itself from its hopelessly geeky roots – now uses the phrase “Imagine Greater.” Greater what? Greater size? I am trying to lose weight, not gain it. Greater and more interesting programming than they currently air? Greater profits? Should I just stand around imagining the word greater? I am completely stymied. Similarly unable to link verb and noun is AT&T. The former baby Bells have banded together to come up with, "Rethink Possible." Possible what? Possible service that isn't overpriced and is efficient? Or a world in which the iPhone is universally available?
So much about modern language irks me. I have long been irritable at the creation of unnecessary verbs from perfectly clear nouns – like the word tasking -- assigning tasks apparently takes too long to say. But this complete misuse of verb modifications and the current disavowal of the noun is just going to lead to chaos. No doubt, if the preamble to the Constitution were written today it would read, "In order to form more perfect" -- without any punctuation.
But precision is no longer of interest in our great world of media. Friends and plebiscite writers keep saying that readers can figure out what such phrases mean, so using correct language is unnecessary, trivial and nitpicky. They further add that later, no one will care if such phrases and articles are written vaguely and incorrectly. Because in this day and age, with our plethora of communications portals, all writing and thought is transient and temporary. No one writes for the ages, for permanence and for a place in thought. We live in a universe where the written word comes with a complete lack of certitude, into a future of miasmic communication in which “like” and “you know” will precede every statement of conviction or coherence. So like, consider clear.
Monday, July 26, 2010
Monday, June 21, 2010
Toujours Tresses
In third grade I placed in the school-wide poetry contest with a haiku about how annoying hair is.
Long and difficult
Curly, messy and knotted
Hair makes me angry
Little has changed. As I tumble toward dilapidation, there is really only one thing that bothers me about aging, and that is my hair. But mine is a long history of hirsute frustration. At the time of my lyrical triumph, my locks were long and worn in pigtails that felt loose halfway through the day, so I would tighten them, ruin their look, and forever irritate my mother. A couple of years later, my mother hacked off my hair because she had short hair that always looked great. Can't say the same was true for me, but she cut it anyway.
For years I had issues with the waves, the mild frizz, the cowlicks. It never lay smoothly and calmly, and back in the dark ages of my youth, we didn't even have product. In fact, blow dryers as we know them today did not creep into the market until junior high, when we all had overloaded red guns that screeched enormous, early morning rackets on a daily basis. Naturally, there were always the girls who had the perfect Farrah Fawcett wings in their hair – as well as the requisite handle combs in the back pockets of their jeans -- but mine, alas, just curled and never behaved properly. Plus, I kept losing the comb.
By high school, hairstyles got completely out of control (think John Hughes films). The huge, rectangular beehives required a lot of equipment and hairspray and I never had the forbearance and aptitude to achieve them. So I gave up -- I cut all my hair off and left it that way until I was nearly 40. Over those two decades I would change it up a bit -- shave the back, shave the front, cutting it shorter and shorter until I looked like an exhausted, unmotivated cross-dresser. But once in brisk middle age, I figured I faced my last opportunity to grow it out. That's right, I took my destiny into my hands and peered at my hair after 20 years. And you know what I found? More curls. More frizz. More despondency.
So what did I do? I colored it, to make it all the more frizzy and dry. Having grown up with a perfectly coiffed mother who never had to watch her weight and whose hair always worked, I matured under the mistaken impression that my hair would gracefully turn gray as hers did – in an elegant and classy way (Why I have no idea as we share virtually no physical characteristics). Alas no. My hair didn’t turn gray, it simply lost all its highlights, got darker (as I got old and pale) and abandoned its luster. In other words, it got ugly. Really ugly.
So here I am, frizzy, colored and curly in midlife. The highlights that start out as subtle shadings quickly turn fluorescent and showy. Is this how I pictured aging -- pondering potentially life-threatening Brazilian relaxers and shaving my head? Not exactly, as relaxers weren’t well developed in my youth and I don’t think Sinead O’Connor produced her perfectly smooth cranium until I was in college.
I am going to try to skip the coloring for a few months and see what happens, but it will likely just lead to horror and fear (from both me and those around me). Then, in all probability, I will get fed up and hack it off again. But since I have a daughter with perfectly behaving hair that dries by itself into a stylish, graduated bob, I am apt to hear unending commentary from her as she embarks on adolescence. (And I can only imagine the fashion and makeup reviews I shall receive as well).
The question is, now that I have lived half my life, how do I see the future? Do I see myself as a lovely white-haired old lady, or will I simply be another wrinkled hag with a burnt-orange shag? I shudder as I admit, the latter is looking far more likely.
Long and difficult
Curly, messy and knotted
Hair makes me angry
Little has changed. As I tumble toward dilapidation, there is really only one thing that bothers me about aging, and that is my hair. But mine is a long history of hirsute frustration. At the time of my lyrical triumph, my locks were long and worn in pigtails that felt loose halfway through the day, so I would tighten them, ruin their look, and forever irritate my mother. A couple of years later, my mother hacked off my hair because she had short hair that always looked great. Can't say the same was true for me, but she cut it anyway.
For years I had issues with the waves, the mild frizz, the cowlicks. It never lay smoothly and calmly, and back in the dark ages of my youth, we didn't even have product. In fact, blow dryers as we know them today did not creep into the market until junior high, when we all had overloaded red guns that screeched enormous, early morning rackets on a daily basis. Naturally, there were always the girls who had the perfect Farrah Fawcett wings in their hair – as well as the requisite handle combs in the back pockets of their jeans -- but mine, alas, just curled and never behaved properly. Plus, I kept losing the comb.
By high school, hairstyles got completely out of control (think John Hughes films). The huge, rectangular beehives required a lot of equipment and hairspray and I never had the forbearance and aptitude to achieve them. So I gave up -- I cut all my hair off and left it that way until I was nearly 40. Over those two decades I would change it up a bit -- shave the back, shave the front, cutting it shorter and shorter until I looked like an exhausted, unmotivated cross-dresser. But once in brisk middle age, I figured I faced my last opportunity to grow it out. That's right, I took my destiny into my hands and peered at my hair after 20 years. And you know what I found? More curls. More frizz. More despondency.
So what did I do? I colored it, to make it all the more frizzy and dry. Having grown up with a perfectly coiffed mother who never had to watch her weight and whose hair always worked, I matured under the mistaken impression that my hair would gracefully turn gray as hers did – in an elegant and classy way (Why I have no idea as we share virtually no physical characteristics). Alas no. My hair didn’t turn gray, it simply lost all its highlights, got darker (as I got old and pale) and abandoned its luster. In other words, it got ugly. Really ugly.
So here I am, frizzy, colored and curly in midlife. The highlights that start out as subtle shadings quickly turn fluorescent and showy. Is this how I pictured aging -- pondering potentially life-threatening Brazilian relaxers and shaving my head? Not exactly, as relaxers weren’t well developed in my youth and I don’t think Sinead O’Connor produced her perfectly smooth cranium until I was in college.
I am going to try to skip the coloring for a few months and see what happens, but it will likely just lead to horror and fear (from both me and those around me). Then, in all probability, I will get fed up and hack it off again. But since I have a daughter with perfectly behaving hair that dries by itself into a stylish, graduated bob, I am apt to hear unending commentary from her as she embarks on adolescence. (And I can only imagine the fashion and makeup reviews I shall receive as well).
The question is, now that I have lived half my life, how do I see the future? Do I see myself as a lovely white-haired old lady, or will I simply be another wrinkled hag with a burnt-orange shag? I shudder as I admit, the latter is looking far more likely.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Don’t Worry About It
Has anyone else noticed that all discussions of guilt – except those applying to defendants in our court system – are now reflexive? For some reason, no one ever gets up and expresses feelings of guilt over bad behavior toward others. For example, Tiger Woods noted at his pre-Masters press conference, that what he had done was wrong, that he had lied to himself and that “I need to be a better man going forward.” But he didn’t say he felt guilty about sleeping with approximately three-percent of the American, female population during his marriage.
Similarly, neither Jesse James nor Senator John Edwards has expressed feelings of guilt. Of course, many of you will point out that several of Woods’ and James’ mistresses have gone to the press to express their feelings of guilt toward the cuckolded spouses. But I believe that these pleas can be dismissed because the press only showed an interest if the mistresses were either palpably repentant or glaringly brazen.
Because the word ‘guilt’ does have legal implications, those in the media usually avoid its use in order to evade consequences. But with its common use has gone all feelings of remorse. Some, like Woods and Sarah Ferguson, admit to wrongdoing, but very few express sorrow at their actions. As if all of life is a spelling test and errors are not things to be mulled over in an emotional manner, but merely items that need to be relearned differently, regardless of their consequences for others.
Yet, in day-to-day life, we hear about guilt more than ever -- and not because so many of us have Jewish and Catholic mothers. On television, in magazines and in daily conversation with women, all I hear is that they feel guilty for eating this or eating that, for not exercising, for not taking proper care of themselves. Notice, they don’t express guilt over yelling at their children, or more importantly for not disciplining their children, for wasting money or not giving to charity. No, these days, all expressed guilt is related to personal wellbeing.
No longer is it popular in American culture to express regret over behavior toward others. No, we all have such difficult and complicated lives that our bad acts are simply things to be accepted, or perhaps improved upon, but not things that require regret. Apparently, guilt and regret are passé, old-fashioned, not cool. Man’s relationship to man, on a personal level, is no longer a priority. While White Guilt, Jewish Guilt, European Guilt and Christian Guilt are all still popular concepts, all traces of personal responsibility have disappeared. Being the descendant of a group of misbehaving troglodytes is cool. You can regret collective past decisions, mourn poor judgment and atrocious actions, but your own exploits remain immune provided you don’t start the Spanish Inquisition or begin your own slave trade.
According to the American Heritage Dictionary, guilty is defined as “having committed an offense, crime, violation or wrong, especially against moral or penal code.” Also, “showing or having a sense of guilt.” Therefore, saying one feels guilty means that person feels that he or she has committed an offense against, in most but not all of these cases, the moral code. So the fact that none of the erring husbands, nor Bernie Madoff, the greatest Ponzi scheme operator in history, have expressed guilt, possibly means that they do not feel they have committed a moral wrong.
On the other hand, women who eat bread and butter, ice cream and don’t jog -- they walk around talking about their feelings of having violated the moral code. Could this mean that the only moral code that our society explicitly articulates is that women must be thin, and that sleeping around, stealing money, abusing children and just being nasty, are all problems, but nothing to feel guilty about?
To be honest, I did hear a woman recently say that she felt guilty that because her husband’s hours had been cut back, she would have to return to work, thus necessitating the placement of her 10-month-old son in daycare. “I am so worried that he will resent me later for this,” she added. Again, she was not feeling as if she were violating a moral code, she was worried about how her son’s feeling would affect her. In our solution-centered society are these merely issues that, perhaps, we need to work on, but don’t have to feel bad about?
Perhaps. But what it really means it that we have sunk so far into self-centeredness that the only real guilt we express is in how we treat ourselves. So, I guess we better work on that. When we get to it. Until then, don’t feel bad about it.
Similarly, neither Jesse James nor Senator John Edwards has expressed feelings of guilt. Of course, many of you will point out that several of Woods’ and James’ mistresses have gone to the press to express their feelings of guilt toward the cuckolded spouses. But I believe that these pleas can be dismissed because the press only showed an interest if the mistresses were either palpably repentant or glaringly brazen.
Because the word ‘guilt’ does have legal implications, those in the media usually avoid its use in order to evade consequences. But with its common use has gone all feelings of remorse. Some, like Woods and Sarah Ferguson, admit to wrongdoing, but very few express sorrow at their actions. As if all of life is a spelling test and errors are not things to be mulled over in an emotional manner, but merely items that need to be relearned differently, regardless of their consequences for others.
Yet, in day-to-day life, we hear about guilt more than ever -- and not because so many of us have Jewish and Catholic mothers. On television, in magazines and in daily conversation with women, all I hear is that they feel guilty for eating this or eating that, for not exercising, for not taking proper care of themselves. Notice, they don’t express guilt over yelling at their children, or more importantly for not disciplining their children, for wasting money or not giving to charity. No, these days, all expressed guilt is related to personal wellbeing.
No longer is it popular in American culture to express regret over behavior toward others. No, we all have such difficult and complicated lives that our bad acts are simply things to be accepted, or perhaps improved upon, but not things that require regret. Apparently, guilt and regret are passé, old-fashioned, not cool. Man’s relationship to man, on a personal level, is no longer a priority. While White Guilt, Jewish Guilt, European Guilt and Christian Guilt are all still popular concepts, all traces of personal responsibility have disappeared. Being the descendant of a group of misbehaving troglodytes is cool. You can regret collective past decisions, mourn poor judgment and atrocious actions, but your own exploits remain immune provided you don’t start the Spanish Inquisition or begin your own slave trade.
According to the American Heritage Dictionary, guilty is defined as “having committed an offense, crime, violation or wrong, especially against moral or penal code.” Also, “showing or having a sense of guilt.” Therefore, saying one feels guilty means that person feels that he or she has committed an offense against, in most but not all of these cases, the moral code. So the fact that none of the erring husbands, nor Bernie Madoff, the greatest Ponzi scheme operator in history, have expressed guilt, possibly means that they do not feel they have committed a moral wrong.
On the other hand, women who eat bread and butter, ice cream and don’t jog -- they walk around talking about their feelings of having violated the moral code. Could this mean that the only moral code that our society explicitly articulates is that women must be thin, and that sleeping around, stealing money, abusing children and just being nasty, are all problems, but nothing to feel guilty about?
To be honest, I did hear a woman recently say that she felt guilty that because her husband’s hours had been cut back, she would have to return to work, thus necessitating the placement of her 10-month-old son in daycare. “I am so worried that he will resent me later for this,” she added. Again, she was not feeling as if she were violating a moral code, she was worried about how her son’s feeling would affect her. In our solution-centered society are these merely issues that, perhaps, we need to work on, but don’t have to feel bad about?
Perhaps. But what it really means it that we have sunk so far into self-centeredness that the only real guilt we express is in how we treat ourselves. So, I guess we better work on that. When we get to it. Until then, don’t feel bad about it.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Martyrdom in the Sandwich Generation
Just to clarify, I think all children should look after their parents in old age. I certainly do. Weekly I call up my parents -- who live a safe six or seven states away -- and I yell at them about the various health and welfare things to which I think they should attend. Believe me, I am an attentive daughter. But you don't see me spending every moment of my life taking care of others. Granted, I do feed and clothe my daughter on a reasonably regular basis, and I sometimes even feed my husband, but there is plenty of me time -- for my important activities. Like watching really bad, really old films. And baking cheesecakes.
Yet in this modern age of feminism I still seem to have friends who define being women as being complete martyrs to all those around them. Even when those around them are telling them to knock it off. These are women who have careers, run their households down to the smallest detail, take care of children, and parents, and Christmas. And they don't ask for help -- even from their husbands, who are willing to help. With them, the real meaning of feminism is: If you sacrifice enough, when you die, you will have the most points in your Cosmic Credit Card Rewards Account.
I've got two friends with parents in decline who also have children living at home. Both of these women have always gone out of their ways to find completely unnecessary ways to busy themselves -- like ironing their husbands shirts rather than sending them to cleaners in order to save $5, even though these women could make $100 in the same amount of time. Or hosting bridal showers for women who don't need a single thing for their households. Or laying out clothes for their 14-year-old sons.
At the same time, they also allow their mothers-in-law to pressure them into idiotic family situations, despite their husbands' vociferous protestations. I can only assume this is another part of their martyrdom -- that they care about family so much that they are willing to allow completely unreasonable women to abuse them for a few decades -- that can stand as a shining example of suffering for those around them.
Giving everything up for their children and husbands has been the norm, but now their parents are old and can no longer live completely independently. Naturally, these ladies have thrown themselves into helping their parents, as they should. And yet they cannot seem to delegate a single task to a sibling. No, every single item that needs caring for -- even those that others are better qualified to complete -- must be done, and done perfectly. And if delegation is suggested, they explain that others can't handle it and it is just easier for them to do these things themselves.
All their friends worry they are overdoing, and they talk about how devoted these sufferers are. Further, in the midst of this, these ladies are giving up activities they love because they take too much time, and this way, they can sacrifice more. In fact, they are so busy, they often don't have time to talk on the phone. Yet I notice that they appear to bask in delight when they hear new stories about how others are clucking over them.
Because this behavior is so alien to my own selfish nature, I set out to find some answers. I have discovered that there really is such a thing as a martyr complex, and that a lot of women really enjoy the feeling of doing too much, of not looking after themselves, and of being labeled as selfless givers. My own grandmother used to sit only on the edge of the chair, as an apparent sacrifice, because using the entire chair was just too much materialistic enjoyment for her. Endless sacrifice is a high, a sensation martyred women pursue as a way of feeling good about themselves. Every time they don't do for themselves, they feel fulfilled.
But in these particular cases I think that they want more than to live like martyrs, they want to look good while doing it. Both of these women are very thin, very interested in their appearances and always have to look just so. Yet martyrdom is the image they project. I can only assume that endless sacrifice is part of the look they want. Why being nailed to a cross is part of their ideal look is beyond me, but then again, so is mascara. But they want everyone to know that they are so considerate of other peoples' aesthetics that they look smooth while suffering.
Personally, I find this behavior really irritating, and rather than cooing and commiserating with these friends, I just treat them like my parents -- I yell at them about the various health and welfare things they should be doing. I am not sure it helps, but it does show that I am a true and devoted friend. Until that Spencer Tracy film festival starts on TCM, and then it is all about me.
Yet in this modern age of feminism I still seem to have friends who define being women as being complete martyrs to all those around them. Even when those around them are telling them to knock it off. These are women who have careers, run their households down to the smallest detail, take care of children, and parents, and Christmas. And they don't ask for help -- even from their husbands, who are willing to help. With them, the real meaning of feminism is: If you sacrifice enough, when you die, you will have the most points in your Cosmic Credit Card Rewards Account.
I've got two friends with parents in decline who also have children living at home. Both of these women have always gone out of their ways to find completely unnecessary ways to busy themselves -- like ironing their husbands shirts rather than sending them to cleaners in order to save $5, even though these women could make $100 in the same amount of time. Or hosting bridal showers for women who don't need a single thing for their households. Or laying out clothes for their 14-year-old sons.
At the same time, they also allow their mothers-in-law to pressure them into idiotic family situations, despite their husbands' vociferous protestations. I can only assume this is another part of their martyrdom -- that they care about family so much that they are willing to allow completely unreasonable women to abuse them for a few decades -- that can stand as a shining example of suffering for those around them.
Giving everything up for their children and husbands has been the norm, but now their parents are old and can no longer live completely independently. Naturally, these ladies have thrown themselves into helping their parents, as they should. And yet they cannot seem to delegate a single task to a sibling. No, every single item that needs caring for -- even those that others are better qualified to complete -- must be done, and done perfectly. And if delegation is suggested, they explain that others can't handle it and it is just easier for them to do these things themselves.
All their friends worry they are overdoing, and they talk about how devoted these sufferers are. Further, in the midst of this, these ladies are giving up activities they love because they take too much time, and this way, they can sacrifice more. In fact, they are so busy, they often don't have time to talk on the phone. Yet I notice that they appear to bask in delight when they hear new stories about how others are clucking over them.
Because this behavior is so alien to my own selfish nature, I set out to find some answers. I have discovered that there really is such a thing as a martyr complex, and that a lot of women really enjoy the feeling of doing too much, of not looking after themselves, and of being labeled as selfless givers. My own grandmother used to sit only on the edge of the chair, as an apparent sacrifice, because using the entire chair was just too much materialistic enjoyment for her. Endless sacrifice is a high, a sensation martyred women pursue as a way of feeling good about themselves. Every time they don't do for themselves, they feel fulfilled.
But in these particular cases I think that they want more than to live like martyrs, they want to look good while doing it. Both of these women are very thin, very interested in their appearances and always have to look just so. Yet martyrdom is the image they project. I can only assume that endless sacrifice is part of the look they want. Why being nailed to a cross is part of their ideal look is beyond me, but then again, so is mascara. But they want everyone to know that they are so considerate of other peoples' aesthetics that they look smooth while suffering.
Personally, I find this behavior really irritating, and rather than cooing and commiserating with these friends, I just treat them like my parents -- I yell at them about the various health and welfare things they should be doing. I am not sure it helps, but it does show that I am a true and devoted friend. Until that Spencer Tracy film festival starts on TCM, and then it is all about me.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Of Wrongdoings and Writing
I have decided to become a criminal. Not a violent one, not one who truly ruins other people's lives, but an entertaining criminal, like Frank Abagnale, the charming con artist/forger from Catch Me if You Can. Granted, I lack the artistic skills and overweening charm Mr. Abagnale clearly possesses, so this may be a bit unrealistic on my part. But I simply have to find some kind of criminality in which to become involved because, at my age, I think this might be the best way to get a literary agent.
As so many writers know, the key to getting that novel or memoir published is to find an agent. Not just any agent, but one who can secure that seven-figure deal. Were I young and uncomplicated, I could simply become a drug addict and a prostitute while attending an Ivy League university, and boom, I would be smothered by outpourings of affection from greedy manuscript sellers. But I did not come up with a book idea until I was middle aged, and a middle-aged, drug-addict prostitute is, well, redundant in so many circles.
For those of us in midlife who want that book deal, our crimes have to be more spectacular to secure that agent. Nicky Cruz, a New York street gang leader in his youth, found religion in middle age and has now published a dozen books that include lurid descriptions of street shootings and tortures along with his revelations. Of course, I already have religion, so this route may not be open to me.
Willie Sutton, a world-famous bank robber who heisted more than $2 million and spent years in federal prison, made a tidy sum off of his memoir, Where the Money Was and even made a credit-card commercial. But his plunders are nothing compared with those of Bill Mason, who claims to have stolen more then $35 million in his illustrious jewel-thieving career. In 2005 he published Confessions of a Master Jewel Thief.
Naturally, some of the most intriguing wrongdoing memoirs have been penned by politicians -- Bill Clinton and Richard Nixon come to mind -- but they likely would have gotten book deals anyway. Although I am certain the lurid details of their lives raised the price of their advances. Still, one has to wonder how much Rod Blagojevich will eventually receive for penning the unsavory tale of his slimy existence.
So, while I am an intermittently violent person (when the pop-top comes off the can without actually opening it, for example) I don't really have the gumption for a bloody sort of career. I need something clean, organized and not too unpleasant that can use my skills -- baking, talking, watching movies -- to a not-too-unpleasant illegal end. And then I can get that agent.
As so many writers know, the key to getting that novel or memoir published is to find an agent. Not just any agent, but one who can secure that seven-figure deal. Were I young and uncomplicated, I could simply become a drug addict and a prostitute while attending an Ivy League university, and boom, I would be smothered by outpourings of affection from greedy manuscript sellers. But I did not come up with a book idea until I was middle aged, and a middle-aged, drug-addict prostitute is, well, redundant in so many circles.
For those of us in midlife who want that book deal, our crimes have to be more spectacular to secure that agent. Nicky Cruz, a New York street gang leader in his youth, found religion in middle age and has now published a dozen books that include lurid descriptions of street shootings and tortures along with his revelations. Of course, I already have religion, so this route may not be open to me.
Willie Sutton, a world-famous bank robber who heisted more than $2 million and spent years in federal prison, made a tidy sum off of his memoir, Where the Money Was and even made a credit-card commercial. But his plunders are nothing compared with those of Bill Mason, who claims to have stolen more then $35 million in his illustrious jewel-thieving career. In 2005 he published Confessions of a Master Jewel Thief.
Naturally, some of the most intriguing wrongdoing memoirs have been penned by politicians -- Bill Clinton and Richard Nixon come to mind -- but they likely would have gotten book deals anyway. Although I am certain the lurid details of their lives raised the price of their advances. Still, one has to wonder how much Rod Blagojevich will eventually receive for penning the unsavory tale of his slimy existence.
So, while I am an intermittently violent person (when the pop-top comes off the can without actually opening it, for example) I don't really have the gumption for a bloody sort of career. I need something clean, organized and not too unpleasant that can use my skills -- baking, talking, watching movies -- to a not-too-unpleasant illegal end. And then I can get that agent.
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