For the first part of this two-part series on the merits of carrying a notebook see my last post, “Little Blue Book.”
Unfortunately I spilled a Starbucks “frappuccino coffee drink” on my dining room table this morning and the expanding brown puddle touched the pages of my blue diary. (Indeed it was this event that inspired me to write about my little blue book.) Now some of the pages wear coffee-colored borders, and the first time I opened the diary after the spill it crackled as bonds of caked coffee broke. But now my blue book has more character, I think. It looks like I actually use it.
After crackling it open, I started to review some of the things I’d written over the past few weeks, following my conversation with Jon. They included such profound and un-profound observations as, “I’ve got no principals but plenty of vices” (a vice-principal joke!), “all the great presidents wore glasses, like Benjamin Franklin,” and “even the ugly people on TV are good-looking.” I found questions like, “What kind of wine did Jesus turn the water into at Cana? A 1979 Napa Valley Cabernet? A 1612 Sicilian Bianco?” I found a number of hastily-jotted ideas for films and TV shows. I found pages I’d used to write character sketches and outline scripts. The bits that turned up in my search varied in terms of insightfulness and usefulness. But one nugget of gold stood out above the rest, immediately erasing any ambivalence I still maintained, making it clear that this practice of writing down the things I see and/or overhear is absolutely worthwhile.
The following conversation took place at a dinner party between my girlfriend’s grandparents, two wonderful people who come from a generation that’s not nearly as concerned with political correctness as ours. The dialogue has not been embellished.
PHYLLIS: (talking about Turkish neighbor) He’s the nicest man you’ve ever met.
JACK: He’s a Muslim.
PHYLLIS: He loves Honey (their dog). He’ll just pick her up and take her for a walk when we’re not home.
JACK: That’s what Muslims will do for you. They’ll walk your dog.
PHYLLIS: But his wife’s not a Muslim.
JACK: What? (didn’t hear)
PHYLLIS: I said his wife. She’s not a Muslim.
JACK: I know. She doesn’t walk my dog! She’s a Lutheran.
I will use that in a script one day, probably verbatim.