I’m Amanda. I’ve got wide eyes, a smart mouth, and a MetroCard. And I’m not afraid to use them.
You know something good has happened when someone other than your mom is reaching out to see if you’re dead, survived only by one neglected blog.
Here’s a question from Kazzy in Australia, whom I’m imagining is like a more Crocodile Dundee version of The Fonz:
Six days and no blog, just wondering if you are on holidays or something big is happening for you? I’m not a Tweeter, so don’t keep up with you there. I await a post.
My response:
Alright, this is the last tribute to “Play Me, I’m Yours.” I still had extra footage from when I met Paul Sahner last week. If nothing else, he now has more proof of his talent. Paul’s mom, you’re very welcome.
Also, would you just look at those New Yorkers all being so nice? We’re really not so bad.
In Tune with Paul Sahner from Amanda Green on Vimeo.
(from a Russian book called Princess Rosa and Her Friend, Poop from the Toilet)
Yes, I think poop is funny. Don’t you?
Here’s my #2 excerpt from Sarah Silverman’s memoir The Bedwetter: Stories of Courage, Redemption, and Pee:
Today’s the last day of the “Play Me, I’m Yours” installation in NYC. For the last two weeks, 60 public pianos have been open from 9 a.m. to 10 p.m. throughout the five boroughs. The musical instruments are stationed in parks, on streets, and even on the Coney Island boardwalk.
It’s magical.
Last week, I met up with Paul Sahner in Central Park. He and I had been following each other online for awhile. A piano near Cleopatra’s Needle finally brought us together. Well, us and a handful of other New York strangers who may not have met otherwise.
People were really polite about taking turns at the community piano. The most Paul’s ever played at once was an indulgent half-hour. That day, he kept looking around to make sure no one was getting impatient.
I recently read Sarah Silverman’s memoir The Bedwetter: Stories of Courage, Redemption, and Pee. The controversial comedian (I don’t use comedienne, and I never will) was a bedwetter until high school. She’s one of four sisters. She struggled with crippling depression as a teenager.
The book never gets weepy or self-indulgent, and I like that Silverman actually spent a few chapters just talking about her life and not trying to be funny. My critique of the book’s ending is that she was so focused on being funny that she bombed. I wanted to learn more about her, not read what could pass for the script of her TV show.
Anyway, I appreciate Silverman’s work a lot more now. Also, the book is still pretty funny in some parts:
Not sure if you know, but I was once a big Shakespeare nerd. My degree required it. Every English major had to take an in-depth Shakespeare class, and I took mine with this incredible British scholar who lived for the Bard. She was Bard to the bone.
I read a lot of Shakespeare. Then I wrote a lot of papers - at least one a week. Lemme tell you, it feels really good to get Shakespeare, and anyone can if they read closely. After that class, I overcame the doubt that sometimes told me my analysis of literature would never be smart or interesting or unique enough.
Then I took a class that required reading a lot of Gertrude Stein and I was back to where I started. I hated reading Gertrude Stein.
Anyway, what if Shakespeare’s doomed heroines had a sassy gay friend? My kingdom for a hilarious stereotype!
And there’s Moor, err more!
I love when Google changes its logo for holidays.
Like this from Father’s Day:
Pretty unreadable, but it’s Google! You know how they do! And people always give ties for Father’s Day! Get it?
I’ve been asked by at least five people now about my Queen Helene hookup.
Here’s a question from another Amanda:
I live on the UWS and am desperately searching for Queen Helene’s stuff! Where is this magical store?
I’ve had similar questions from various pore-conscious men and women in NYC.
My response:
When I was a kid, I’d sometimes explore the woods behind my house - they belonged to my uncle and were roamed by his four horses. There was a point where the mesquite trees and brush got so thick that the house disappeared. It didn’t take much; it was a small house.
I’d gaze into my backyard from afar and try to really look. The dog shuffled to her water bowl under the outdoor spigot. Our Siamese cat stretched in a tree. My sister carried glasses of iced tea from our kitchen to my dad’s office attached to the garage.
Looking at my home this way made me feel objective and appreciative and rich.
Raymond Carver’s poem “Locking Yourself Out, Then Trying to Get Back In” reminds me of those times:
Someone asked me the question in the title on Formspring in the middle of the I Am A Super Woman head blogger search. I didn’t answer it until last night.
I have mixed feelings sometimes about my career of choice. I say career of choice, because I know I can do a lot of things. In the nearly five years since I graduated college, I’ve held a few jobs in different sectors and industries.
I hate the idea of choosing a college major or dream merely because it’s realistic. It’s like always wearing a helmet or waiting until you have something in writing - it disrupts the rhythm of just doing. Sometimes when you have too much to fall back on, you fall back too easily.
