Fascinating. Just Fascinating.

Reading for the day is an Op-Ed article in The New York Times of Sunday, 2 September 07.

A group of artists (who go by the name Illegal Art) conceived a project whereby they blanketed New York city with 6,000 post-it notes spelling out the words “To Do.” Then they invited ordinary people to fill out the blank post-its with their lost plans for the summer now ending. Result: Fascination. Also, the feeling that you are not alone. Below, a few dozen of the “To Do” pieces, from a collage photograph that appeared in the Times under heading “The Lost Summer”. Followed by my own “To Do” list of failed summer plans:

From The New York Times article on “The Lost Summer”, Sunday, 2 September 2007:

Be nice to George.
Learn to swim so I can go to Cuba.
Call Mike!
Spend more time with my mom.
Kick my habit.
Fall over.
Learn to throw a curve ball.
E-mail Vinny.
Be cool. Be cool. Be cool. Be cool.
Get my suitcase back!!!
Call Dad. Find soulmate. Buy milk.
Teach the dog manners.
Land.
Make my film.
End affair.
Sue landlord (again)
Take another leap of faith
Divorce Frank
Befriend my parents.
To find the yellow rainboots
LEAVE DUMBO
Wake up high up above the Williamsburg bridge
Tell her I lover her boyfriend.
Rebecca Rebecca Rebecca
Move out of Bashwick.
Break up with Kevin!
Reconcile with Tolstoy
MEET THAT DAD
Pay tickets
Get rid of my beer-and-curry belly.
Make ripples!
Renew my passport
Have this baby.
Therapy, then Six Flags!
Be confident
Make Harry laugh.
Invade Canada
Spoon

* * * *

My Own “To Do” List of Summer Plans Never Completed:

Read the rest of this entry »

The Assignment: To See if Self Can Write A Lovely Piece Revolving Around the Subject of “Food”

My grandmother came from a village called C______. Her name was Disgracia/Flordeluna/Esperanza (pick one, dear reader), and she loved to eat. She and my grandfather, Salvador/Enrique/Arturo (pick one, dear reader) emigrated to the United States in 1940/1945/1950 (pick one, dear reader). During the next 40/50/60 years (pick one, dear reader), they dined out at most 10/15/20 times (pick one, dear reader), usually after baptisms/weddings/funerals (pick one, dear reader). It was only when they had reached their 70s/80s/90s (pick one, dear reader) that my father/mother/uncle (pick one, dear reader), their son/daughter/nephew (pick one, dear reader) and I convinced them that they had worked hard all their lives and now deserved to eat out with some regularity. Thus began a culinary adventure that lasted for the last few years/the last decade (pick one, dear reader) of their lives.

Right? Has self succeeded in writing an enchanting opening to a story?

Not!

Self’s grandmother hated cooking. She wouldn’t have spent five minutes in the kitchen if she could help it. She came from La Paz, Iloilo but wanted to forget that fact. She and my grandfather emigrated to the States as soon as they could escape the country. They never ate out because it would have been an unimaginable luxury.  When she was 74, my grandmother died, felled by a stroke in the parking lot of Sam’s Restaurant in Placerville, while my grandparents were on their way to spend a weekend in Lake Tahoe. That marked the end of the adventure.

The above are the facts. Now, self has to think of a story. * * * ## @@ !! ## ## @@ !!

Stay tuned, dear blog reader, stay tuned.

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