seems to be leading into some murky waters
The quote of the day:
The Chronicle today has learned exclusively that, contrary to published reports, precisely 45 angels can dance on the head of a pin. You read it here first.
Running news:
5.3 miles. It's overcast today, which was good, considering I woke up late.
A moment of cognitive dissonance: I'm used to being called "Diane" and nothing else, because the writer (Simon Firth) refers to me as "Patterson" throughout. I kept wondering who "Patterson" was.
Women have historically been referred to by their first names, as have children, whereas men have usually been referred to by their last names. (Which are, of course, the important names, since those live on forever.) There was just a discussion about this on one of the mailing lists I'm on: how characters in screenplays should be referred to--one writer realized that he always referred to male characters by their last names, but female characters by their first names. Women are expected to change their names throughout their lives, whereas men aren't. I'm sure someone out there (not Todd Napolitano, but someone) has done a doctoral dissertation on this particular social development.
Anyhow, this digression has allowed me to completely slide past the fact that I am way pleased with this article and with having been interviewed for it and featured so much. When I saw it was up I sent a message to my notify list. Then I sent a message to the diary-l list. And I tried to think about to whom else I should send a head's-up, so that they could see that I was mentioned in print.
I feel as though I've broken the well-known rule of cool--I should be acting like, "Yeah, it's no big deal, happens to me every day." I'm not being blasé, though, I'm actually more into the puppyish range of emotions: See! See! Look! This is me! No one's patted me on the head yet, although Darin has laid down paper around the house.
Considering how infrequently I get excited about anything--accomplishments, money, earthquakes--I'm in a pretty remarkable state.
(Must remember to update the link with the longterm URL for that article, because it won't be the cover story forever. The fact that it's going to be the cover story over the weekend is really, really cool.)
Tangential thought while writing the above: Do you think movie stars get bored with appearing on the covers of magazines?
This morning it suddenly dawned on me that critics walk a fine line when reviewing something, whether it be a movie or a restaurant. Oftentimes people remember that the movie or restaurant was reviewed, but not what was said, and the fact that the object of review was mentioned in print lends to it a certain cachet. So the reviewer must be very clear as to the upshot of the review, so no reader can possibly mistake what the meaning is.
The restaurant Darin and I went to for breakfast this morning SUCKED. The only upside is that neither of us think it will be around long enough to cause future problems.
We wanted to go to breakfast this morning and decided that all the usual suspects were not appealing--DuPar's, Paty's, the Marmalade Cafe--and the Daily Grill wouldn't be open until 11:30. So I mentioned this new place that I'd seen down on Ventura, the Brooklyn Diner, but I didn't know anything about it.
"Let's give it a try."
Famous last words.
We didn't get our orders taken for at least 20 minutes--one guy was servicing the entire restaurant, both taking orders and delivering food. After they took the orders, the busboy came by with one cup of coffee, for Darin; we had to wait a while for my cup of coffee. I asked twice for glasses of water. When we finally got our food--and it took a while--we had to ask repeatedly for syrup for the pancakes. "You didn't get it yet?" the waiter said to us, as if he were incredulous. No, we didn't get it yet.
And to top it all off, the food was mediocre. Which was a plus, I guess, because neither Darin nor I overate. Or ate very much at all.
"We can't win them all," Darin said to me. Yeah, but I didn't expect to be shot at first light, either.
I can tell that Darin was rather upset about the experience. I always allow Darin to figure the tip for our meals, because he is far more generous than I am, and I don't want him to think I'm a cheapskate (even though I am). Darin's average tip is 20 percent. Waiters really, really like Darin; they remember him and treat him very well.
The bill came to $18.27. Darin put down a $20 and said, "Let's go."
By far and away the worst restaurant experience I've had in recent memory. Or any kind of memory at all.
So, I got a lot of feedback on yesterday's entry. Much more than usual, and the mail I got (thanks) recognized that that was a more emotionally open entry than most of them.
I found myself thinking, If I did more entries like that, I'd get a lot more feedback. So if getting lots of feedback was enough incentive, what would I be willing to say or to do (so that I could write about it later)?
Which made me wonder if that's one of the incentives for some journalers to be so outrageously open about what they're doing or feeling. To get that kind of response on a daily basis.
(I just wonder about these things, okay? You should hear some of the questions that go through my mind on a hourly basis. On second thought, maybe you don't want to.)
I find getting mail out of the blue from people who've read my page to be a rush: they thought enough of what I wrote to take the time to drop me a line. Even if it's critical, which it usually isn't--generally it's laudatory. I don't know if I'm breaking some kind of rule saying that either; some journalers rant about how all they receive is criticism. I don't think that not getting criticized a lot makes me better than thou, by the way; it makes me think that everybody else is getting more feedback than I am.
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