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My Profile
Fairytales for a Practical Princess - 2008-11-30
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7:32 p.m. - 2003-07-15
I'm in the mood for one of those deep conversations about the craft of storytelling and the levels of emotional honesty in the various books and movies we'd discuss. You know the kind. The kind that if you overheard it in a coffee bar you'd snort and think, "Oh blow it out your beret, you pretentious poser!” At least I would. I have this odd personality glitch, it’s okay that I’m smart, but I don’t want to be obnoxious about it. I can’t be arty in public, it feels like showing off. And I HATE those that do. I save my analysis of the nuances in John Huston’s noir period for sharing with certain people in the privacy of my own home. It’s no ego stroke to pretend to be tres` hip with some Sartre wanna-be nodding sagely at me in the Border’s Cafe. Trust me, I have never spoken the words “paradigm” or “albeit” aloud. Plus I never want to make anyone feel uncomfortable. I’d hate it if I made someone have that “Oh crud, I’m a dumb ass” feeling. Because really, I don’t know if I’m all that smart. I know a lot of stuff...A LOT of stuff, but is just knowing stuff the crux of intelligence? A parrot could have a 2,000 word vocabulary, but does that make it a smart bird or merely a good memorizer? I believe I’m the latter. Being a memorizer is a small gift. Something along the lines of having a good eye for a curveball or maybe a green thumb. A knack. An erratic spike in the Smartness Scale. It certainly doesn’t spill over into the rest of the way I go on, that’s for sure. My friend Lisa has made no secret of her admiration, almost wonder, for my colossal cache of trivia and archive of intensely textural childhood memories. We were at lunch a couple months ago at an Italian place and there was a meat she didn’t recognize listed among the ingredients of this one dish. I didn’t know what it was either, and told her so when she asked. She gawped at me and said, “Holy Crap! That’s the first time in 30 years you’ve ever NOT KNOWN something!” We both cracked up. But you know, I think she was actually a bit disappointed with me? To her, I’m The Smart One. And she persists in believing this though I’ve told her a hundred times that SHE’S the one I’d most want to be with in a crisis. She is! Lisa’s one of those amazing people whose shit is always together. I don’t mean she’s like Polly Perfect. She’s just the most level headed and practical person I’ve ever known. If the house were burning down she’d do all the correct things. Get the kids safe. Call 911. Know the directions to her house and communicate them coherently to the dispatcher. She’d know where the lockbox with all the important papers was and would have grabbed it on the way out to be with the kids. Me? I’d get the kids safe in all likelihood and then I’d simply spaz out. I’d be running around keening and wailing and doing nothing useful. AT ALL. I tell her that while she may think she doesn’t know as much as I do, WHAT she knows is a hell of a lot more useful than crap like Leif Garrett’s middle name (Per) or the length of the maturation cycle of Siberian Silk Moths (2 years). And she’s definitely the one I’d call first if I were in the pokey in Singapore or woke up bleeding from both eyes. Lisa’s smart in a way I’ll never be. Like I understand theory, but can’t apply it. A light bulb went off in my head when I read Niels Bohr’s principle of complementarity but I can’t even make palatable strawberry daiquiris, let alone an A-Bomb. (Ha! That’ll pop during a Homeland Security web trawl.) Hey Ridgie Baby! How’s it going? Sorry, no bad guy here. I’m not a terrorist, I’m a PTA Mom. NONE of my shit is practical or even minimally profitable. All my knowledge doesn’t bring me the big bucks. If only I could make a living as a professional game show contestant life would be ducky. (It’s okay to be smart on “Lingo”.) Anyhow, back to my neurosis. So I’ve got this hankering for a really intense one-on-one with another person about sub-texts and metaphor and the validity of finding depth in “popular” fiction. Any takers? I can’t meet you at a Starbucks or anything, but if you come over I’ll mix you a spectacularly awful strawberry daiquiri! SQUAWK! ~LA the Parrot ‘Man is condemned to be free; because once thrown into the world, he is responsible for everything he does.’- Jean-Paul Sartre
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