The Fine Line Between Comedy and Tragedy

Though not an avid reader of modern fiction, I am well aware of the types of books usually esteemed worthy of attention by those involved in the more cerebral publications such as The Atlantic, The New Yorker, and salon.com. Based on numerous reviews I have read in these publications, it appears that what makes a novel worth reading these days is how well it represents the inner despair of mundane, modern existence. For instance, the titles of two of the selections in The Atlantic's very short list of the "Books of the Year: 2009" speak for themselves: It's Beginning to Hurt by James Lasdun and Too Much Happiness by Alice Munro. Here is the brief synopsis of Lasdun's novel provided in the Atlantic article:

"This collection of short stories illuminates the everyday agonies of the mind, its anxieties, obsessions, doubts, and yearnings" (Benjamin Schwarz, The Atlantic, Dec. 2009).

And, according to an earlier review in the same publication of Munro's novel, what makes Munro's work worthy of esteem is that she is a "genius" at "evoking lives rich with secret horrors" (from the Nov. 2009 "Cover to Cover").

Sounds pretty depressing, doesn't it?

About a week ago, however, I stumbled upon this segment of Kevin James' stand up routine on Comedy Central and I couldn't help but notice that situations which would be considered sources of anxiety and "secret horrors" to the modern novelist were, to the comedian, sources of utter hilarity:




My conclusion is thus: The modern novelist and the comedian are both interested in the same depressing, mundane minutiae of daily existence. The only difference is that the novelist has no sense of humor.

Musings on Football

The masses converge at Bobby Dodd Stadium, Atlanta, GA.

Organized sports have never occupied a place of importance in my life. As a shy, nearsighted, and overweight child, I quickly developed a disliking for any activity involving exertion, coordination, and competition. My inability to perform athletically left me uninterested in watching other people perform feats of physical prowess, so I never learned the rules to anything - baseball, basketball, football - and any enjoyment I did glean from the observance thereof relied mostly on the festive atmosphere of sitting in a particular stadium and eating the related foods (Dodger dogs, peanuts in a shell, frozen lemonade, etc.).

Fast forward about 20 years and I find myself married to a very devoted college football fan. Due to favorable geographic and financial circumstances, we decided to purchase season tickets for the beloved team (Georgia Tech). I decided it was high time to learn the rules of the game (and also, those tickets weren't cheap, so I was determined to get as much out of the investment as possible). I purchased two books: Football for Dummies and the appealingly-titled Get Your Own Damn Beer, I'm Watching the Game!: A Woman's Guide to Loving Pro Football.

Five months later, the football season over, and the ACC Championship game next weekend (yes - we bought tickets!), I must admit that my appreciation for the sport has grown considerably. I still ask embarrassing questions at each game ("I know I have asked this before, but what, exactly, is a sack?" or "Why did they only get six points if they scored a touchdown?" (yes, I am an idiot)), but I am getting there. Who would have thought that football was really a more violent version of chess, where instead of little wooden figures, the coaches use big burly men to carry out their strategy against one another, and instead of a chess board, the action occurs on a gigantic field? While I admire the ability of players, coaches, and ardent sports fans to understand the seemingly obscene amount of intricacies to the game, I must confess I do still feel a twinge of moral indignation whenever I hear people comment, re-hash, and discuss the stuff that happened in one game for minutes to hours afterwards. As someone who grades college papers, I have read papers written by high school coaches, as well as former athletes, and I can't help but wish a bit more of the paper-writers' time was spent reading and, er, learning how to spell. But I leave off griping here, as this is a sore spot that is best not indulged at the moment.

When it comes down to it, college football games are thrilling; the athleticism truly impressive, and the fact that it is all being orchestrated by a particular coach is fascinating. It is fun to have a team to root for. From whence cometh this inherent desire for strife, for competition, and, in some fans' cases, for picking fights? One theory I have is that organized sports (college football in particular, and college football in the South, especially) fills the void left by the end of family feuds. If we can no longer challenge someone to a duel, the next best thing, I assume, is to trash talk the fans and players of the opposing team.

Go Jackets!

Wash With Like Colors

Just sorting the laundry today:

Whites, colors, Vizsla???

I guess I'll need to set that last cycle to "delicate."

Dusty Mirrors

Just wanted to share some thoughts from ol' Clive Staples that I read last night:

"When it comes to knowing God, the initiative lies on His side. If He does not show Himself, nothing you can do will enable you to find Him. And, in fact, He shows much more of Himself to some people than to others - not because He has favorites, but because it is impossible for Him to show Himself to a man whose whole mind and character are in the wrong condition. Just as sunlight, though it has no favorites, cannot be reflected in a dusty mirror as clearly as in a clean one . . . " (C.S. Lewis, Mere Christianity).


Interesting. If you are someone who believes in God but can't seem to "see" or "know" Him, I guess the question is, do you really want to? If so, are you willing to put in the necessary elbow grease to clean off all that "dust"?

Down By the River

Since I don't have any children, I will have to bombard you with photos of my dog doing cute things by the Chattahoochee River:


I have to keep him on a leash, but it's pretty long. He mainly just likes to splash around in the shallow areas.


I love fall weather in Georgia - three straight days of bright blue skies and air so clear and crisp that it makes you feel invigorated after being outside for only a minute or two.

Vlad investigates what we Georgia residents have been wondering for some time: what, exactly, is behind all that kudzu?

Alas - the prey is totally out of reach.

Probably worse than texting, but ...

I just had to get a photo of this bumper sticker I saw while driving to the riverwalk.

So true. So very, very true.

Let's Try This Again ...

Army life is disruptive. I noticed that my last blog entry was written almost four months ago. You would think that all the packing, travelling, and drama inherent in relocating to a new continent would motivate me to blog more freqently rather than less. However, my personality is such that the more "settled" I feel, the more I am able to accomplish. If there are boxes of stuff yet to be unpacked nearby, they will distract me. If said stuff is unpacked but strewn about in a disorderly manner, it will distract me. I often find myself standing in the middle of a room, gazing at one spot, organizing it in my mind.

Oh how I envy those fortunate souls who happily surround themselves with disorderly piles of papers and makeshift tables, who are content simply to put things somewhere with complete disregard for symmetry, or space, or color scheme. If I could just not care so much about orderliness, I might actually get some sort of writing career off the ground.

But thanks to the Army, we'll be moving again in about 6 months (to where, we still do not know yet).

So, this blog post marks the beginning of my attempt to become a writer (seriously!) despite the fact that there are three giant boxes leering at me from the corner of the dining room, with piles of Army gear, leftover Halloween candy, and half-empty Kleenex boxes sitting defiantly on top of them.