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Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Saturday, February 28, 2009
The Art of the As Told To: DIY
In the March issue of Outside, a series of interviews I did with do-it-yourself innovators. It's a five-page spread that explores the mentality of people who just did it, from an urban farmer to treehouse makers to a bike-frame-builder who specializes in women.
One thing they all had in common: sticking with it. I hope this comes through in the interviews. At first, they are just people doing their own thing. Like, "I don't know, this is what I love to do, so I do it." And eventually everyone else realizes that they aren't going to stop doing what they're doing. So, gradually, somehow, people start to take them seriously. And they eventually win MacArthur grants and show up in the pages of glossy magazines.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Friday, January 23, 2009
Yes, it is too bad, really.
SONIA. You love no one?Austin Pendleton, your theater license is revoked. Keep your grubby paws off of Chekhov. Man is forgetful, but God remembers... a really badly-directed play.
ASTROFF. Not a soul. I only feel a sort of tenderness for your old nurse
for old-times' sake. The peasants are all alike; they are stupid and
live in dirt, and the educated people are hard to get along with. One
gets tired of them. All our good friends are petty and shallow and see
no farther than their own noses; in one word, they are dull. Those that
have brains are hysterical, devoured with a mania for self-analysis.
They whine, they hate, they pick faults everywhere with unhealthy
sharpness. They sneak up to me sideways, look at me out of a corner of
the eye, and say: "That man is a lunatic," "That man is a wind-bag." Or,
if they don't know what else to label me with, they say I am strange. I
like the woods; that is strange. I don't eat meat; that is strange, too.
Simple, natural relations between man and man or man and nature do not
exist.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
There's ya problem right the-ah
New Jersey Turnpike. Going 65. Snowing. Someone cut me off. I took evasive action. Lost control. Rammed into the rail. Spun around. Hit a guy in the next lane. Sat trembling for a while, out of cold and out of fear. Cops came, wearing baby blue. Asked me if I'd fallen asleep. "No," I said. "I lost control." Got a summons for careless driving. Tow truck arrived. Hauled me and my car off the Turnpike. Said he'd had another dead guy just yesterday. Uncle came to pick me up. Took a bath. Popped a vicodin. Pled not guilty. Rode in to the city for the title. Rode back out. Signed the title over to the wrecker. Checked the box saying "has been wrecked." Took the plates and one last look. And walked away.
Monday, January 12, 2009
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