Pub of Knowledge

2009 Oscars Live Blog

2009-02-22T19:01:00.036-05:00

7:10: Getting settled in and watching the Barbara Walters interviews. Tonight's Oscars should prove to be interesting: I found myself, for the first time in a while, genuinely torn between what I think will win and what I think should win. I'll come out and say it: I don't think Slumdog is the best picture of the year, not by a long shot. And some of the other races, like Best Supporting Actress, are so wide-open that predictions seem futile.

Mickey Rourke and Anne Hathaway are both just incredibly compelling individuals. I think something I really like about Oscars night is the sense I get that some of the most interesting lives and stories and characters are the real individuals, and not just what happens on-screen.

8:01: The red carpet spectacular has begun! Kate Winslet, unsurprisingly, is simply stunning. I was initially dubious of her dress selection, but she has such a classic, refined beauty to her that she just pulls it off.

I like Josh Brolin clean-shaven.

8:07: There seems to be a "wedding dress" theme going on: Sarah Jessica Parker, Penelope Cruz, Jessica Biel, and Taraji P. Henson are all wearing long ivory gowns: TPH nails it, SJP does not (yowza), and PC and JB are somewhere in the middle. But as I've said in prior years, Jessica Biel simply could not look unattractive. Seriously--she could wear a potato sack and not style her hair, and she would still be striking.

8:24: OMG, OMG, Marisa Tomei is soooooooo pretty. I didn't pick her in my Oscar poll, but I loved her performance in The Wrestler, and I think that she's such a lovely blend of sophistication and adorableness, and dealt well with being informed that "everyone loved seeing you naked!" I would be delighted to see her win.

8:30: And we're underway! I have avoided pulling out my Bingo cards until the Awards actually begin.

Nice that Hugh Jackman starts fawning over Kate Winslet before the ceremony is two minutes old. Granted, he follows it up with some love for Robert Downey, Jr., but does this indicate that Kate Winslet is the slam dunk of the night? (Other than, obviously, Heath Ledger?)

And... Hugh Jackman is singing. Let's check off Bingo Square #1!

And yes, he is right. Has anyone seen The Reader? With his homage to The Wrestler, I sensed he might be trying to parody Bruce Springsteen, but he just rode that off the rails. And, with a pimping of WOLVERINE, I have knocked off my second Bingo square. Goddamn, I love this night!

8:40: Earlier, E commented on Brangelina, and basically said, "there's no way to screw the two of them up." And it's true. They are so pretty.

8:46: And... it's a montage! For Best Supporting Actress this year, I went with Taraji P. Henson. I knew it was a long shot, but I figured Benjamin Button needed to get something, and this might be the place. E picked Amy Adams and Viola Davis in his two different polls. Doubt is one of the remaining big Oscar movies that we haven't seen yet (along with Milk and The Reader).

I'm also going to go out on a limb and claim my square for "Really, really, REALLY Ugly Dress." I'm not going to tell you which one I'm using as the kicker, but holy moly.

Predicted Winner: Taraji P. Henson
Desired Winner: TPH or Marisa Tomei
Actual Winner: Penelope Cruz!
Suz: 0/1
Evan: 0/1 and 0/1

8:52: I'm obviously partial to the Writing Awards, and this whole scripting on the big screen is pretty amusing.

Could anything be more redundant than "I'm Steve Martin..." "... and I'm Tina Fey!" Okay, Tina Fey: you are such an inspiration to us girls who must wear spectacles. Why, oh why, do you have to NOT wear them on Oscars night? As if to say, sure, glasses are fun in a whimsy and intellectual capacity, but when you really want to look hot? Forget it.

Best Original Screenplay:
Predicted Winner: Milk, by Dustin Lance Black. Word on the street was that this film was spectacularly written.
Desired Winner: In Bruges. This movie was just spectacularly funny, in a dark and nuanced way. I also hear that Wall-E is the best thing to happen to cinema since The Godfather, but I have no basis to judge.
Actual Winner: MILK! This guy is way younger than I thought he was. Uplifting. I think he's my new hero, and I am even more motivated to see this movie now.
Suz: 1/2
Evan: 1/2 and 1/2

Best Adapted Screenplay:
Predicted Winner: Slumdog, because that's the way of the night.
Desired Winner: I liked Benjamin Button. A lot. Though F/N was also good, but not necessarily the Nixon drunk-dial scene they're choosing to illustrate.
Actual Winner: Slumdog.
Suz: 2/3
Evan: 2/3 and 2/3

9:03: Jennifer Aniston seems a little awkward in this presentation. They have flashed to Brangelina (as my Oscar Bingo card requests) but no awkwardness was apparent.

Best Animated Movie:
Predicted Winner: Wall-E
Desired Winner: Wall-E
Actual Winner: Wall-E.
Suz: 3/4
Evan: 4/5 and 4/5

I love that this guy just thanked his high-school drama teacher! So cute!

Best Animated Short Film:
Predicted Winner: Presto
Desired Winner: Like I have a clue
Actual Winner: La Maison en Petit Cubes
Suz: 3/5
Evan: 4/5 (Bonnie) and 3/5 (work)

9:15: See previous comment about Sarah Jessica Parker. Daniel Craig, however, looking good.

Best Acheivement in Art Direction:
Predicted Winner: I picked Revolutionary Road because it was one of the only categories this spectacular film got nominated for, and I had to select it based on principle.
Desired Winner: Rev Road
Actual Winner: The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. Fair enough. But I still am bitter about the royal snubbing Revolutionary Road has received at the hands of the Academy.
Suz: 3/6 (I'm done trying to keep up with Evan's)

Costumes:
Predicted Winner: The Duchess. I didn't go for Rev Road here because all the polls said it was going to be Duchess. Should I add this movie to the Netflix queue? Anyone?
Desired Winner: Rev Road. Because I have issues, apparently.
Actual Winner: The Duchess
Suz: 4/7

This double-distribution of awards seems to be moving the evening along very quickly. On the downside, there seems to be less opportunity for jokes, screw-ups, and general celebrity ballyhoo. I guess it will be good to be in bed early....?

Holy moly, another award from these two?

Makeup:
Predicted Winner: The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
Desired Winner: Ben Button: Slam-dunk, in my opinion.
Actual Winner: Ben Button
Suz: 5/8

9:25: It's Lilly Kane!!! And Edward Cullen, who is so totally creepy. And I'm a big fan of Twilight, obvs, but this guy does not make me swoon. Maybe because I'm 29. (And Amanda Seyfried, no! You only have one dad, and it's Jake Kane!) Either way, this montage to romance has almost duped me into thinking that Slumdog actually was the Best Picture, and that I need to go see Twilight stat. I'm such a sucker for people making out.

9:32: I think it should be clear why I really don't have an issue with the fact that my husband has a mad crush on Natalie Portman. And "you look like you work in a Hasidic meth lab" is maybe the best line of the night.

Cinematography:
Predicted Winner: Slumdog, because again, I think that's how the night will be rolling
Desired Winner: Prob Ben Button, just because I'm feeling all kinds of affection for it right now.
Actual Winner: Slumdizzle
Suz: 6/9

9:36: Seriously: why even have a host?

9:38: Why does Jessica Biel always do the Sci/Tech awards? Is this a shout-out to the former presidents of the A/V clubs who were closeted 7th Heaven fans?

9:43: This comedy montage is fantastic, though I get the impression that the guys are making fun of me with their snarky "oh, I need to be intellectually stimulated while I watch a movie!" No, not need to. I like a good dance sequence as much as anyone. Though I stopped feeling made fun of now that Speilberg just got called out by the Cinematographer from Saving Private Ryan.

Best Live Action Short:
Predicted Winner: Can't find it?!
Desired Winner: Like I know
Actual Winner: Toyland
Suz: 6/10

9:52: Hugh Jackman, dude, I already got the Bingo square for you singing. Therefore, what are you doing? ...oh, that's why. Okay, it was worth it for Beyonce. And you know Hugh Jackman loves his life right now...

I think the inclusion of High School Musical just whored out this whole number. (Interestingly, I'm fine with the Abba.)

Overall, I like the salute to musicals. But I will say that it felt a little disjointed. I like having all the different movie musicals featured, but they felt a little smushed together... oh, hello Baz Luhrnmann. This really explains it all.

10:02: Best Supporting Actor montage. I am not, however, a fan of this "five presenters" tactic. Just one is fine. Really.

Best Supporting Actor: do we even need to go over this? As great as I'm sure the hirsute Josh Brolin and the skullcapped Philip Seymour Hoffman were, and as good as Michael Shannon and Robert Downey, Jr. were, this award is the biggest layup of the night.

Actual Winner: Heath Ledger, The Dark Knight
Suz: 7/11

Part of me wants to be snarky here, but there's no way to do it. His family seems legitimately wonderful. I feel very sad.

Bill Maher -- way to follow Heath Ledger with your own rather non-funny discussion of your own movie (which I heard was not as good as we all wanted it to be).

Best Documentary:
Predicted Winner: Man on Wire
Desired Winner: My parents saw and liked Man on Wire, though I also must say that Trouble the Water looks awfully good.
Actual Winner: Man on Wire
Suz: 8/12

(Note - the guy from The Garden was wearing a green ribbon, which gets me a Bingo square, and holy cow, can we count the guy balancing the statue on his chin as "kissing the statue"?

Short Subject Documentary:
Predicted Winner: Witness from the Balcony of Room 306
Desired Winner: Like I have a clue
actual Winner: Smile Pinki - is this an upset??
Suz: 8/13

10:25: With the Action Montage, there seems to be a little more of an effort tonight to recognize the popular, blockbuster, big budget movies, etc. Still , though, I'm not feeling that these Awards are doing a particularly great job of appealling to the masses. They're fast, which is okay, but as I said, a little dull.

Best Visual Effects:
Predicted Winner: Ben Button
Desired Winner: Same
Actual Winner: Benjamin Button
Suz: 9/14

Sound Editing:
Predicted Winner: Slumdog Millionaire
Desired Winner: Ben Button or Dark Knight
Actual Winner: The Dark Knight! Hot damn. I get a Bingo square for "Slumdog loses at anything," and I'm okay, I guess, with losing this point.
Suz: 9/15

Sound Mixing:
Predicted Winner: Wall-E. It seemed like the right thing to do.
Desired Winner: Whatever
Actual Winner: Slumdog Millionaire. Okay, I apparently inverted these awards. Fine.
Suz: 9/16

10:34: Wow, Will Smith is still talking.

Best Editing:
Predicted Winner: The Dark Knight, though I think this should be a slam dunk for Slumdog because this is usually the harbinger of the Best Picture Award.
Desired Winner: The Dark Knight
Actual Winner: Slumdog Millionaire.
Suz: 9/17

10:53: This is probably a really bad sign, but I literally power-napped during the Best Original Score montage. Lavendar is apparently the color to do this year.
Predicted Winner: Slumdog
Actual Winner: Slumdog
Suz: 10/18

Best Original Song: Wait, what? no throughout-the-night performances? Just this one, from the guy who just got the statue for best score? Fascinating.
Predicted Winner: The one from Wall-E
Desired Winner: None of them (whoa, I'm clearly getting grumpy!) -- okay, I am liking "Jai Ho," but it's only because I wish my life spontaneously burst into line dances (which of course, it never does), but I'm hesitant to support Slumdog in these endeavors.
Actual Winner: "Jai-Ho" from Slumdog. The Academy also apparently wishes their lives spontaneously burst into line dances.
Suz: 10/19. I think we're safely entering the "sucktastic" realm of the night.

11:03: My Bingo card is woefully empty. No one is doing anything shocking or even overly emotional, and seriously?? Did Jack Nicholson not show up? Say it ain't so.

Best Foreign Film:
Predicted Winner: Waltz with Bashir
Desired Winner: Waltz or The Class, which I hear is spectacular. And I'm always a fan of films that take a nuanced look at the classroom.
Actual Winner: Departures (Japan)
Suz: 10/20. Nice. I'd reflect on my bitterness, but MORE THAN FOUR PEOPLE CLAIM THE AWARD! BINGO SQUARE, BABY!

11:11: I admit, I was only looking forward toward to the "In Memorian" montage for what it would mean for my Bingo card, but a few observations:
a) I like Queen Latifah singing. It's non-obtrusive and sets the whole scene well.
b) Paul Scofield is awesome. Personally, I thought he was one of the best parts of the 1990 version of Hamlet, not to mention, his thorough awesomeness in A Man for All Seasons, which is one of the greates movies ever, in my opinion. Everyone should go rent this movie and reflect and what it meant when life rocked to a different drummer and people like Sir Thomas More stood up to people as threatening as Henry VIII.
c) How did I forget that Charlton Heston died this year?
d) End on Paul Newman. Square checked off.

11:18: Hello, Academy President. While I'm grateful you made no boring speech, that leaves a Bingo square vacant.

11:19: Hello, Reese Witherspoon. Not sure how I feel about your overall look tonight. The applause for this whole Best Director moment is long and overwhelming and feels too rushed. I am not appreciating the pacing of this evening's award show.

Predicted Winner: Danny Boyle, Slumdog
Desired Winner: David Fincher, Ben Button. Legitimately, I thought TCCOBB was a daring film, an interesting film, a nuanced and captivating film.
Actual Winner: Boyle, Slumdog. Big surprise.
Suz: 11/21

Are you seriously giving a shout-out to the guy who coreographed the line dance? Really? I guess if he got left out of the credits, that's nice of Mr. Boyle. But, argh. I'm done with Slumdog.

Best Actress:
Marion Cotillard talking about Kate Winslet? Yes, a delightful degree of foreshadowing going on there.

Predicted Winner: Kate Winslet, The Reader
Desired Winner: I haven't seen The Reader, but I love Kate Winslet and I agree that she's due for some recognition. While I thought Anne Hathaway threw down in Rachel Getting Married--seriously, a career-defining, artful, sophisticated, captivating role for her--I don't think this is her year.
HOLY CRAP, SOPHIA LOREN.
Also, who saw The Changeling? Really, who? The same people who saw The Reader?
Actual Winner: Kate Winslet.
Suz: 12/22

For all my cynical comments of the night, I just about cried when I thought about little Kate Winslet dreaming about getting the Oscar in front of her bathroom mirror. And when her dad whistled and she got all excited?! And the fact that she almost checked off the "emotional breakdown at the podium" square, but not really? And Sam Mendes, totally sitting there with the "that's my baby!!" look on his face? I love Kate Winslet. Love her love her love her. I'm going to see The Reader. Done and done.

11:37: Best Actor Salute.

Predicted Winner: Mickey Rourke, The Wrestler
Desired Winner: Same.

For those who haven't seen The Wrestler, I thought it was one of the best movies of the year (not as good as Revolutionary Road, but as legit as good as Slumdog, in very different ways). As someone who's watched quite a lot of professional wrestling in my time, seeing the characterization of a washed-up, formerly-glorious, emotionally-shut-down man was nothing short of heartbreaking. A block away from the theater, I was still hearing Bruce Springsteen's song in my head and had tears in my eyes. As was just stated, though, this movie doesn't matter without an incredible portrayal. Mickey Rourke owned every second of this movie.

Actual Winner: Sean Penn, Milk.
Suz: 12/23

So much for that, apparently. And I'm taking Sean Penn's Prop 8 SHAME IN YOUR GRANDCHILDREN'S EYES speech as the awkward political statement of the night. I mean, he's right, but he still sounded awkward while doing it.

11:47: Everyone loves Stephen Speilberg. But seriously, we're already at Best Picture? We're really wrapping this up by midnight? Really? And no one has been cut off by the orchestra?

I thought the Best Picture Montage was striking. Really.

Predicted Winner: Slumdog Millionaire
Desired Winner: Write-in for Revolutionary Road
Actual Winner: Slumdog Millionaire

Oh! Oh! It's the kids from the movie! Oh, they're so cute! (Really -- I'm not being sarcastic here. They really are the definition of huggable.) And there are about 25 people on stage, which is kind of exciting.

One thing about Slumdog: I do love the idea of a story and a script that inspires "mad love" in people, actors, directors, producers, etc. Not all movies inspire everyone in the same way, but this one clearly jolted a lot of people from complacency and made people excited. And I'm okay with that. Granted, it means I now wholeheartedly believe that The Cutting Edge should have won for Best Original Screenplay in 1992. But I'm moving on.

11:56: Again, Hugh Jackman-- why were you host? Did you do anything hosty? Did you and Dev Patel take a picture for your Facebook page? Did you throw down a slightly off-color monologue which will be referenced at dinner parties for years to come? Did you... do much of anything? Other than drag Anne Hathaway up for an "awkward-but-still-staged" moment? I think not.

The ceremony is over at 11:59. Good night, and good luck.

ALSO: Evan also liveblogged the Oscars over at Orotundity. Go read. We're quite similar, but differ in a few areas. Go read.

ALSO ALSO: I did win Oscar Bingo, but E wasn't really playing, so I sort of just won against myself. Categories nailed:
- uncomfortable political statement
- It's a montage!
- People's Choice Award (free space)
- Dead person montage ends on Paul Newman
- Angelina Jolie's outfit leaves at least one tattoo exposed.

Giving your baby Botox

2009-02-18T17:20:00.004-05:00

STATUS: Delighted that it is only drizzling, not snowing. I'm over winter.

IMBIBING: Saison Dupont. Best. Beer. Ever. (Or at least one of the Top 3)

I mentioned in my last post that I was doing some serious, serious rewriting of the beginning of BRILLIANT DISGUISE. (Which is the name of my manuscript--I should stop being cryptic and start saying it out loud. Yes, it's from Springsteen. Yes, I'm marketing this as YA. Yes, I'm aware that those two things may be a little, um, contradictory, but I'm not giving up on it quite yet.)

Anyway, rewrites. There's proofreading, there's revising, and then there's knock-down-drag-out rewriting.

I'm doing the latter, and it is tough, way tougher than I expected it to be. After all, I'm mostly re-ordering a lot of the initial scenes so that the major hooks of the story are all on the table in the first 15 pages. I'm not changing anything per se.

But it's not like I can just cut and paste and call it a day. If an event that originally occurred on page 35 now occurs on page 1, then the reader faces it without having all the intricate, nuanced character development of those first 35 pages. So I have to consider what information is most crucial for the reader to know and figure out how to incorporate that into the new opening. Similarly, I need to be careful of characters talking about people or events that happened in that original 35 pages. Do I need to add non-obtrusive descriptors to flesh out what they're referring to, or just get rid of the reference altogether? Some chunks, especially dialogue, can stay relatively intact. But it really becomes a whole new scene.

A consequence of this focused rewriting is that big pieces--huge pieces--get sliced out. And this is painful.

I know that sounds egotistical. Last year, I was helping a guy revise an essay and told him it was just too long, that he was taking 7 pages to say something that could be communicated in 3. "I sort of get that," he said, "but I couldn't bring myself to cut out any of those lines. I just like them too much." Now, this guy is a good writer, a very good writer. These lines he was referring to were funny, descriptive, awfully easy on the ears. He was also taking 7 pages to say something that could be communicated in 3. I basically told him to get over himself and edit, and I'm telling myself the same thing now.

There was, for instance, a description on page 50 of the original manuscript that I just loved. I spent hours perfecting and polishing each word, each delicious image. I worked so hard to craft a scene that made the reader see, hear, and feel exactly what my protagonist did at that moment. I really thought that it was some of the best writing in the whole damn book.

However, all that is really happening in the scene is that my protagonist is talking to this guy she really likes and thinking about the pros and cons of having an un-air-conditioned house in the summer. Really. That's what's happening. And in the original manuscript, that was okay. But in this new draft, it feels burdensome. All the information that the reader cares about has been already established, so the extra scene slows down the pace. So it's gone. Owwwwwww.

Writers seeing their work as "their baby" is a pretty overused metaphor, and not being a mom myself, I'm not going to try to validate or disprove that feeling. But I know this: you can't treat your writing like your baby. You can't think it's perfect and beautiful just the way it is. Because 99.9% of the time, it's just not.

On Nip/Tuck last week, Kimber asked Christian to give Jenna lip injections. For people who (to their credit) don't watch this show, Jenna is Kimber's daughter. Jenna is 2. Kimber wants Jenna to get this modelling gig and the director told Kimber that Jenna's lips were too "thin and villainous." Of course Christian, who is a skeez but an ethical skeez, tells Kimber she's insane. And anyone watching the show also thinks Kimber is insane, because you don't enhance babies like that. You create them and love them and that's that. (Jenna, however, ends the episode with plump lips and a gig with Burburry, which kind of awkwardly transitions to my next point.)

We don't give babies plastic surgery. But writing? Inject. Slice. Suck. Tear apart and rebuild. Maybe use something from the back to make the front look more appealing. Make things bigger than you thought they needed to be. Liposuction the hell out of particular sections if they need it. That which don't kill me, as Kanye would say. And don't for a second get caught up in this idea of your writing's inherent worth and natural beauty.

I'm confident that my story will be even stronger and more compelling if I get it structured the way it needs to be. It's both painful and a gigantic pain in the ass, but it's necessary.

Gooooaaal!!!!

2009-01-27T19:54:00.004-05:00

STATUS: Just took the online eligibility test for Jeopardy! If I answered 35/50 questions right, I'm now one step closer to being snidely dismissed by Alex Trebek on national television. However, they don't give you your score, so you have to just wait to see if they invite you to an audition to see if you passed. Hrrumph.

IMBIBING: Earlier, E asked "would you like wine or a cocktail tonight?" and I replied by asking "which beverage suggests better success on the Jeopardy! online eligibility test?" He confirmed wine, thus we have been enjoying a 2005 Bordeaux: Chateau Clos l'Eglise.

Last August, our Head of School asked all of us to fill out a sheet describing our goals for the year, both in class and in our personal lives. My class goals were pretty straightforward--I have a good sense of what I need to do to be a better teacher, and I think I'm reasonably successful at working toward those goals daily. My personal goals, however, were sort of funny to see:

1. Get an agent
2. Make serious headway on work-in-progress. Identify the heart of the story and get it told.
3. Run a half and/or full marathon before year's end
4. Be content, even if you don't get an agent

For a while, I reached an unsettling plateau with regard to my writing, mostly due to a steady steam of "We're-Just-Not-That-Into-You" responses to my requested partials. Maybe, I started thinking, maybe this book just isn't publishable. Maybe the story sucks. Maybe I'm just not going to be the writer I dream of being. Maybe I'm a loser.

I did make good headway on my work-in-progress, and I remain confident that if I nail it, it will be the best thing I've ever written.

However, I wasn't doing too well on #1 or #4, given my nightmarish descent into self-inflicted loser-dom. Then, last week, I met with a friend who is similar to me in a lot of ways, but further along on the writer's journey (her book comes out in August!). She gave me great advice on my partial that has been circulating among agents, suggested books, and in short, inspired me to get my ass in gear.

Since then, I haven't just been revising. I've been hard-core rewriting. I thought I'd done reconstructive surgery on my first 30 pages before, but that was Oil-of-Olay "surgery." This is Nip/Tuck surgery. And it feels right. I'm getting it where it needs to be. Plus, I'm reading more. I just grabbed the latest by John Green and Sarah Dessen (both of whom I adore), Dairy Queen by Catherine Gilbert Mudock (whose sister wrote Eat Pray Love), and The Graveyard Book, which just won the Newberry. I'm back in the game. Focused on the goal. And ready to score.

I'm well aware that another year might go by and I won't have representation. But I know I'm closer to that objective, and I'm feeling good enough that I know #4 won't be a problem. Life, after all, is a journey, not a destination.

And let's be clear--I don't really have time for any of this. I probably should be reading more literary criticism on Russian Novelists or Dante, or outlining goals for the English Department, or sleeping. But when I get in grooves like this, I know everything will get done, and I'll still have time for what I really want to do.

And when I do score, you can bet your ass I'll be as excited as a commentator at a hard-fought futbol match. Goooooooooaaaaaaaaaaaalll!

Cinematic Adventure - Revolutionary Road

2009-01-25T21:49:00.006-05:00

STATUS: So cold in the D.

IMBIBING: H20.

Despite what the Academy says, I believe that Revolutionary Road is the best movie to emerge from 2008. It is a tragic film--a heartrending look at lives that seeped into mediocrity--but one that is truly the whole package: breathtaking cinematography, crisp writing, striking performances, and a story that leaves its audience jolted.

Revolutionary Road achieves all that and more. While it contains some of the same elements as American Beauty, RR demands more of its audience. There are no moments of black humor delivered by a deadpan Kevin Spacey, no wacky characters or Smiley Fries, and no potential escape hatches at the movie's end. Rather, RR pares it all down to the quiet desperation that Lester Burnham embodied, and this time, there's no Mena Suvari, but only another martini.

Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet are perfectly cast as Frank and April Wheeler, a couple who once believed they were "special" and destined for a life of adventure and vibrant experience, and end up trapped in a mind-numbing and unsatisfying existence. They both bring a raw power and honesty to their performances, but in pairing this couple on the screen, Sam Mendes has also targeted his audience in a deeply unsettling way.

Leo and Kate. They go together because of Titanic. And while Titanic may have not been the cinematic tour de force that James Cameron wanted us to believe, there's no doubt that it was one of the seminal love stories of the late 20th-century, and that story is based on the connection that DiCaprio and Winslet brought to the screen. It's hard to think of their names together without seeing them as Jack and Rose, smiling giddily against a sunset backdrop, their arms outspread as they sailed into what viewers believed--perhaps against their better judgment--was true love.

Of course, we know the moment doesn't last. But even as Leo's face slips away under the North Atlantic, their love isn't supposed to sink. Even a disaster of epic proportions couldn't stymie their connection. If that boat didn't sink, their lives would have been perfect. Extraordinary. Special. Right?

In Revolutionary Road, it's not their boat that hits the iceberg, it's them. We meet Frank and April at a dismal point in their marriage, but Mendes shows, via a few well-placed flashbacks, that they weren't one of those couples who everyone knows is headed for disaster. They weren't always bitter and mean. When they met, they were fascinated with each other. They were beautiful and inspired and dreamed of doing great things and living adventurous and vibrant lives on their own terms. They were an awful lot like Jack and Rose, plucked off the A deck and dropped in 1950s New York. But as they grew and lived, they changed. They found themselves paralyzed by their own fears of change and mediocrity. They hide their true selves from each other. They're cruel and evasive and deceptive. But they used to be in love.

One of the saddest moment of RR, for me, is when the camera takes an unsettling close-up on DiCaprio. In that frame, he's not Leonardo DiCaprio. He's old. He's pockmarked. He's bloated and sad and utterly defeated. I watched him, and I couldn't help but be startled at how much time had passed since he grinned at Claire Danes through the fish tank in Romeo + Juliet and danced with Kate in the lower decks of Titanic. I can't deny that part of the shock was processing that if DiCaprio had aged that much, I had too. But it wasn't really the aging. It was how things fall apart, even for men who share a face with some of storytelling's greatest romantic heroes.

"I thought I was special," April says meekly, late in the movie. And so we thought--maybe not that we are special ourselves, but that such specialness existed. Such love existed. No, Kate Winslet seems to tell us. None of us are special. Not even me.

If the boat hadn't sunk, RR forces us to wonder, would that relationship have worked? Really? Or would we simply find them ten years later, with Rose telling Jack that she doesn't love him, she never loved him, he was just a guy who made her laugh at a party years ago?

Movies can work in two ways: they can be escapist, pulling their viewers out of their lives and allowing them to delight or emote in the inaccessible or unbelievable. Or they can push viewers back into their lives--tell a good story, but never let their viewers forget This is the way the world is. This is the world you live in.

Of course, I'm not jaded enough to believe that life in general is as much of a wasteland as RR suggests, nor that every relationship will eventually pass its expiration date and become sour. But Mendes does something powerful in reminding us that it's not always icebergs or warring families that determine fate--sometimes people themselves must seize responsibility and chart new destinies for themselves. Frank and April can't. But maybe others can.

The Return of Good Television

2009-01-19T22:15:00.007-05:00

STATUS: I just watched Obama walk around a high-school gymnasium and schmooze with people for 35 minutes on C-SPAN. Clearly, I'm excited for the Inauguration.

IMBIBING: Rose

For a while, I was lamenting the lack of quality programming on TV. Or rather, programming that I connected to. While I delight in the snarkiness of What Not to Wear, indulge in the ghostly antics (and hotness) of Supernatural, and participate in the Thursday-night-10-PM ritual of ER because I'm a creature of habit, I was seriously wondering if Heroes would be the only show I genuinely looked forward to.

However, last Friday brought the return of two shoes which give me reason to love television: Friday Night Lights and Battlestar Galactica.

For a long time, I outwardly dismissed BSG as sci-fi weirdness that I wanted no part of. I shouldn't have been so judgmental--after all, due to marrying a a self-described geek, I've become a devoted fan of several Star Trek series. And Firefly was also incredible. So I don't know why I had such a block against BSG, except that its title is a little off-putting, perhaps in the same way Xena: Warrior Princess is. Anyway, BSG came highly recommended from friends with good taste, and we started the journey last spring. We were instantly hooked, and by summer, we'd blown through the whole series and were slyly humming "All Along the Watchtower" as we anticipated the final episodes.

The premise of BSG is apocalyptic--Cylons, essentially robots who became smarter than their creators (and have evolved to the point that they look and act like their creators--and some don't even realize they are Cylons), waged war on humans. About 40,000 souls fled their ravaged planets in hope of finding a mythical land that could become their new home--Earth. Under the leadership of the gruff Admiral Adama and President Roslin, who had greatness thrust upon her by way of being the only government official still alive, a hearty crew try to literally save civilization while dealing with their own issues and demons. There's Starbuck, the sassy pilot with a cocky exterior and bruised heart; Apollo, the son of Adama whose search for identity and security helps shape a true hero; Athena, a Cylon who's managed to break the confines of her program and live as member of Adama's crew. And many others.

NB: I still don't say "frack."

I similarly came late to the Friday Night Lights (pictured, left) party. I was hesitant to watch this for two reasons. One, I loved the Buzz Bissinger book dearly. It was sportswriting at its finest: a crisp, nuanced, and honest look at football in west Texas. When the movie version was released in 2004, I braced myself for mediocrity, but found the bristly cinematography and the quiet passion of Billy Bob Thornton in the leading role truly captivating. When word came down that the concept was going to spawn a TV series, I was sure it would, to put it bluntly, blow. We've gone to this well too many times, I thought. Two, the initial ads for the series seemed to play up the OMG drama: QB gets paralyzed! His girlfriend cheats on him! There's a bad boy who shows up to practice drunk! There's a slutty blond girl! I was sure this was all a bad idea.

I was wrong. I had heard enough good buzz by season 2 that I DVR'd a few episodes, and finally got around to watching them last summer. I liked the writing and characters enough that I went to the streaming episodes on NBC and started with the pilot. I was instantly hooked and became an FNL evangelical. It is everything that made the book and movie spectacular. The writers and directors nailed it. (Now, truth be told, the first season was a thing of near-perfection. The second season was not. Certain plot elements can easily be filed under L for lame. But not to a shark-jumping degree, and I have high hopes for season 3.)

BSG and FNL are set in disparate locales and may target different audiences, but they share several qualities, and have both reaffirmed my faith that the TV is not just a squawk-box, but rather a genuine vehicle for storytelling.

1) They transport me. Be it the desolate loneliness of space or the scorched fields of Dillon, Texas, these shows put me in their locations. For the hour each week that I indulge, I'm gone from Detroit. One of the wonders of good entertainment is that it makes you forget yourself and your life, and yet simultaneously makes you ponder your own existence and the decisions and relationships of your world. It's a paradox, a hard line to walk, but the best shows do it.

2) Characters are heroic and yet flawed. Early on, I feared that FNL would be like an episodic remix of Varsity Blues (superstar QB goes down and naive backup is thrust unexpectedly into the limelight?). However, where Coach Bud Kilmer was simply an archetype villain, and QB Lance a rather one-dimensional golden hero, FNL has no easy characters. Coach Eric Taylor is a man of integrity, but one who still makes mistakes. The paralyzed Jason Street is a golden boy, but doesn't shy away from the hostility he feels at the world after his injury. Similarly, the crew of Galactica are well-meaning defenders of their civilization-- but some are assholes, some are indecisive, some are fighting against inner demons they'd give anything to exorcise.

3) Character development comes slowly. In the first half of BSG's maiden season, we get to know Kara "Starbuck" Thrace (pictured, right) as a take-no-prisoners smartass, a beautiful fighter pilot who can defeat any opponent with words or weapons. But we slowly learn that Starbuck possesses deep secrets, bruised insecutiry, and reckless passion. She's a heroine and a train wreck, but we only know that after weeks of gradually-revealed info. Similarly, Tyra Collette, the aforementioned "blonde slut" of FNL initially seems just like that. By now, viewers know her as more--but her stereotype is cemented, rather than questioned, in the first three or four episodes of the show. It's not till midway through the first season that we see shades of her desire to reach beyond the parameters of her town, of her sweet earnestness, of her capacity for love and genuine friendship. But while she evolves, she never loses the gritty sensuality she exudes in the early episodes. Perhaps this is a sign I need to get out more, but as a viewer, I come to see the characters on the shows I love best as friends--ones I truly feel get to know honestly, over time, discovering their latent bravery and compassion as well as their flaws and fears.

At its best, art and entertainment can be uplifting, cathartic, and inspirational. And while I can't be glad that both of these shows are on Friday night (the graveyard of television?), I'm simply glad they're back. My DVR is set.

2008: Year in Review

2009-01-14T22:33:00.005-05:00

STATUS: Thoroughly enjoying 2009 thus far. Despite the fact that Michigan is basically a post-apocalyptic Ice World. Also pondering the irony of the Motor City being located in a place where it sucks to drive for at least three months out of the year.

IMBIBING: Had a Martinez earlier this evening (basically a gin Manhattan) and have had an unquenchable thirst ever since. Glass after glass of water.

So, I realized that my lack of writing a 2008 Year in Review probably had less to do with my pulling a J.D. Salinger in the blogosphere, and more to do with the fact that I had an idealized 2008 Year in Review I wanted to write. A 2008 YiR about a successful foray into publishing, a triumphant return to marathoning, and perhaps even the mastering of a foreign language. None of that happened. Still, 2008 can go in the "W" column. (Really, can any year, overall, not go in the W column? Perhaps 1993. 7th grade is generally speaking a pretty loser year.)

No guided questions, but rather an overview:

1. Took my first trip to the great state of California and loved every second of it. Chinatown! Russian River! City Lights! The sea lions!

2. Rode an overnight bus to North Carolina with 30 high-school seniors. An experience I once would have anticipated to be a brutal punishment the likes of which Dante himself couldn't envision, the bus ride was bearable (aside from Talladega Nights and Superbad playing at extraordinarily high volume at 4 AM), and the subsequent trip, to the Nantahala River and then to Charleston, was wonderful. There were marshmallows and inappropriate jokes. There was rafting... in the snow. There was amazing food in Charleston. There was a run to the Citadel. There was another long-ass bus ride home.

3. Taught Russian Novelists for the first time. As a result, work was hectic, but rewarding and exciting.

4. Spent the summer doing almost nothing but reading and writing. I immersed myself in YA, Pulitzer winners, NY Times Bestsellers, and back issues of the New Yorker. I loved every second of it. Some days, I did nothing but sit on the porch and drink lemonade and read. Some days, I went to downtown Royal Oak. Some days, I went to the WAB. Some days, I read in bed until 9 AM.

5. Kept freelancing and wrote some great articles, including one article for Inside Lacrosse, which was a major writing step forward. I mean, it's a glossy magazine and everything.

6. Headed to West Point, by way of Brooklyn, for the wedding of my beloved cousin. Headed back to New York a few months later for one of my dearest friend's weddings in the Hamptons. In between, headed to wedding in Wilmington, NC. I laughed, I toasted, I reminisced, I caught trains. And my dress rocked.

7. With joy always comes sorrow, but with sorrow comes the opportunity to renew, reconnect, reassess, and remember.

8. Watched 44 new movies--not a record, but respectable. Some favorites: Persepolis, Nausicaa, The Dark Knight, Pan's Labyrinth, etc.

9. Stayed in love.

10. Capped off the year with a rollicking family holiday and a festive New Years with friends not see in far too long.

Definitely a win.

Are You There, Protagonist? It's Me, Suz

2008-10-28T21:18:00.004-04:00

STATUS: Staying alive. And awake.

IMBIBING: An authentic, homemade Mojito. Fresh limes, simple syrup, crushed mint. My husband rules.

My BFF was in town this weekend, and we were talking about my latest writing project--a work-in-progress that's more of a work-in-incubation. I was telling her that with my finished project, it started small, with a nuanced idea about a relationship between two people. The job was to build the world and the plot around the two of them. This story, however, has started large, with big ideas and a sense of the town and the broad strokes of the plot and the characters. I'm still trying to figure out what's important to the central story and what secrets about the characters I don't yet know.

"Do you ever feel like you're holding a seance?" she asked, while we were discussing how I figured out names for the main characters. I realized that was exactly what this process has been like. I never feel like I pick my characters' names, but rather that they're revealed to me. And similarly, as I hash out this book, I have a keen sense of waiting. Rather than being able to sketch out an outline or write scenes that are advancing a cohesive plot, I've just been writing--trying to get into the characters' heads, trying to get them to tell me what I need to know. I have pages and pages of random thoughts and slices of life, but I'm still trying to make it all fit together. I have a sense that when it falls in to place, it's going to be great. But until then, I feel a little like a tool with my fingers on a Ouija board.

Checking in with myself

2008-10-19T19:18:00.005-04:00

STATUS: I've stopped watching 90210 and you should too, if you even started to begin with, which I apparently always knew was a bad idea for both of us. Details to come, in the form of a "what defines genuine character and tension?" post. Short answer: nothing in the new series. Though let's face it, if they bring back Luke Perry, they'll probably get me back too.

IMBIBING: Oriental Beauty Oolong

In the past two weeks, I've spent my weekends attending the wedding of one of my closest friends and the funeral of one of my most beloved relatives. Both have been celebrations of life in very different ways, and both have left me exhausted. Both have also sharply reminded me of the importance of cultivating and strengthening the important relationships in our life.

At the wedding, the groom commented on his and Ann's decision to have so many toasts at their reception, and he said "we figured there are only two times in your life when everyone you love stands up and says nice things about you, and the other time you're not around to hear it." He meant it tongue-in-cheek, but I realized this past weekend how sadly true it is.

We loved my grandmother when she was alive, and this weekend we celebrated her life in a way that certainly paid her tribute, but I'll always wish there could have been more weekends like that while she was still with us.

But she lived a long and full life, one full of weddings and love and friendship, of beauty and sass and opinions and adventure. This weekend was certainly sad, but it also compelled me, as trite as it sounds, to make sure that I never stop making every day, every weekend, every opportunity count. And to make sure that I don't let the relationships I care about and cherish wane.

I'm going to try to be better about posting because it is, if nothing else, a way to stay in touch with people. And yeah, I'll keep updating about the writing and the agents as needed, but I'll also try to keep it a little more real. :)

I Watch 90210 So You Don't Have To: Week 1

2008-09-04T18:31:00.001-04:00

STATUS: Back in the routine. Yawn.

IMBIBING: Eku Pils

Finally have finished watching the pilot of the new 90210 (two-hour episodes are a lot to slog through...). 90210 reruns are one of my only vices, and I'm really not sure why. Do I have a secret crush on Shannen Doherty? Am I a glutton now because my parents wouldn't let me watch TV on school nights when I was like, nine, and the show was originally airing (but all my girl friends watched and talked about it ALL the time)? Do I live vicariously through fictionalized cool people?

Therapy later, recap now. A few BH 90210 reruns have recently struck me as just horrible in terms of writing and acting, so I admit that when I heard Rob Thomas was associated with this project, I had high hopes that the new show would be a frivolous, frothy, indulgent treat with a little more searing wit than the original. Jury's still out, but I'm leaning toward bleh.

For some background, the new Brenda and Brandon are Annie and Dixon Wilson, who move to 90210 from Wichita, Kansas with their parents: former WBH'er Harry Wilson, now back to be the new principal, and Kansas-born Debbie Wilson. They move in with Harry's pornstar mom (really not that funny) and Annie and Dixon start school.

Insight #1: Annie and Dixon are way too socially adept to work the new kid angle. Yes, Brenda and Kelly were trying to sneak into clubs together before the end of the original pilot, but there was tension in their friendship for a while, and Brandon didn't really shore up his guy friendships until later. And certainly the idea of Brenda crushing on and getting with the California guy went through all sorts of awkwardness and realistic false starts -- but Annie's already embroiled in a love triangle between the lacrosse stud/reformed bad boy and the smooth theater hottie with his own plane? As Lori Loughlin remarks, "that was fast." Plus, Brenda always looked distinctly different than her Cali friends -- Annie blends seamlessly.

Also, could Dixon really be that good of a lacrosse player coming from Kansas? Suspect.

Insight #2: The in-jokes were okay, but not as funny as I hoped. Why, oh why, did Nat have to look like a buffoon operating the espresso machine? Nat was so nice -- everyone loved him. Why mock? Turn the Peach Pit into a swank lounge, fine, but keep Nat respectable. And Hannah Zuckerman-Vasquez has potential to be awesome, if they draw out her character a bit more.(however, ahem, if they're passing the main crew off as sophomores, Hannah ZV would be a little younger--Erin Silver was born two years before Hannah, no? And I have to sort of wonder how Hannah got back to California...)

However, I love the general idea of including the backstory. Silver is by far my favorite new character, and I love Kelly and Brenda. Love them. I'll keep watching if only to see WHO the father of Kelly's kid is. (Not to be snarky, but seriously, what's Luke Perry doing with his career these days? Why couldn't he return? Could the infamous love triangle rise again? OMG!) And Jackie Taylor in the next week scenes--crazy. Though Silver admits to Annie: "My dad cheated on my mom with her best friend and they got divorced and she started drinking again." I kind of stopped watching during the last few seasons of the original, but did Jackie and Mel really get remarried? And if so, Jackie, seriously. How many times did Mel Silver say, "Honey, I have a problem with monogamy?" And you married him AGAIN? And, where, pray tell, are the other Silvers?! Will they at least be mentioned?

Insight #3: Too much got revealed too soon. Not just the fact that the relationship between Naomi and Ethan already imploded twice, and Annie's already swooping into the play and Dixon's on the lacrosse team. I know they want to establish a lot in the pilot and flesh out the characters, but I just wanted to tell the episode to chill. Like this whole Harry secret child thing--is this going to be an season long arc, or will we soon find out Naomi's mom is a psycho liar? And the secret conflict between former BFFs Silver and Naomi, already on the table? Not only do I find it dubious that Silver would confess everything to Annie, who she barely knows and has been seen being all cozy with Naomi, but I figured that would get milked for a few episodes. Granted, the original had a tendency to move at a somewhat glacial pace, but a series can handle only so many plot twists before shark jumping is inevitable.

We'll see if this becomes a regular blog feature... I kind of hope so.

Literary Adventure: There were PANTS! And they TRAVELLED!

2008-08-08T15:42:00.008-04:00

STATUS: The great thing about having your mechanic literally around the corner is that you can drop off your car, walk home, blog, and go back to get it. The easiness of life is just delightful sometimes.

IMBIBING: Lemonade. But eagerly anticipating the Peche Mortel (apparently the best coffee stout known to man) which my superb spouse recently acquired... an Opening Ceremonies treat perhaps?

Yesterday I mentioned that I'd be blogging today about the young adult literature I've been reading lately, and I referred to a lot of rather lame books I read back in the day. It pains me to admit it, but I read a lot of Baby-sitters Club. And a lot of Sweet Valley High. Now, I remember that particularly as I neared my actual teenage years, these books started to get mind-numbingly awful, but I did consume them at a gluttonous rate.

I forgot about this phase in my life until I discovered two amazing sites: BSC Headquarters and The Dairi Burger, both which feature totally snarky twenty-somethings re-reading and commenting on the books. The BSC blog is done, but the archives are completely hilarious, and remind me of the ridiculousness of these books, not the least of which was that the characters never aged, at least not past something like book #10 of the BSC. I was 8, then 12, and they were all still 13. And Jessica and Elizabeth were still size 6 and juniors in high school. (I also recently learned that SVH is being reissued--why, God, why--and J and E will now be "perfect" size 4s. Great -- like it's not enough that every makeover in these books involves characters shedding their glasses. No wonder I have long standing vanity issues.)

Anyway, another thing these blogs reminded me of was that these books just weren't very real. Not only did everyone magically get to go on trips all the time, not to mention that their parents let them do totally ridiculous stuff all the time, but the depictions of romance and friendship were fairly one-dimensional. I won't continue to rail on the works of Ann M. Martin and Francine Pascal; I'll only say that a) there's much better stuff on the shelves and b) I'm glad I read it all if only for the fact that I can now mock it as an adult.

Perhaps there's no better contrast to these series than the four books of the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, which I devoured this summer. Like the series of old, Ann Brashares's books follow the various storylines of a group of close friends and their life experiences. There's a splash of the utterly implausible--in the opening of the first book, a girl buys a pair of jeans for $3 and realizes that they not only fit her perfectly, they also fit her three best friends perfectly. The girls--the beautiful and artistic Lena, the fiery soccer star Bridget, the restless and rebellious Tibby, and the passionate but searching Carmen--are about to embark on their first summer apart. They decide to share the pants as a way to draw on the strength of their friendship while separated. Each of the four books chronicles a consecutive summer of the Sisterhood. The series begins after the girls complete their sophomore year in high school, and concludes the summer after their first year in college.

Realistic passage of time! Characters who age! What a concept. But seriously, the depth of the characters--their families, feelings, choices, and adventures--gives these books an endurance and quality that is nuanced and heartfelt. I imagine one could re-read these books years later and feel a warm sense of nostalgia, rather than a "what was I thinking" vibe, see above.

Yes, the books are a little more mature. Characters get in serious trouble that can't be resolved in 100 pages. Parents are not always role models. Characters have sex (though not all of them, and not for purposes of reader titillation). That being said, it all seemed rather pure in heart to me, and YA literature shouldn't be confined to what's appropriate for an 8-year-old to read. (Though in all fairness, the SVH books had some pretty scandalous stuff going on even though references to actual sex are veiled at best.)

Some sample plot lines from the four books:
- Carmen looks forward to spending summers with her dad--but when she arrives anticipating a summer of freewheeling take-out, she discovers he's engaged and living a perfect life without her.
- Tibby, stuck in boring Bethesda and working at Wallman's, plans to make a "suckumentary" about the losers around her. In the process, she meets Bailey, a 12-year-old with leukemia. They bond, learn about life and love. And this dorky guy they watch playing video games at an arcade becomes hot in future books and he and Tibby get together.
- Bridget goes to soccer camp in Baja and crushes on this college guy who's a coach there. Tension and bad decisions ensue.
- Carmen's single mom re-marries. Carmen is initially a total bitch, but then gets over it and is reassured that she and her mom will always be close. When her mom is having a baby, Carmen speeds to Philadelphia to find her stepdad, while Tibby serves as labor coach in a scene that's just crazy enough to work.

Brashares's books aren't quite as deep or finely-crafted as some of the other YA lit out there, specifically Sarah Dessen and John Green, who I hope to write about soon. But they're still awfully solid, in my opinion. I can't say I'm that eager for the movies (though I was picturing Alexis Bledel and America Ferrera as I read... it seems like good casting to me), mostly because the storylines could each be a film in themselves. But Delia Ephron wrote the screenplay, so anything is possible.

Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants
The Second Summer of the Sisterhood
Girls in Pants: The Third Summer of the Sisterhood
Forever in Blue: The Fourth Summer of the Sisterhood

Writing: Hey YA

2008-08-07T19:34:00.007-04:00

STATUS: Very excited for the Olympics to start tomorrow!

IMBIBING: Jolly Pumpkin's Bam Biere. One of the best microbrews in the country, in my opinion, and located right here in Michigan!

I've been shopping my manuscript as YA (Young Adult), rather than literary fiction, for the past several months. I don't really talk about my writing endeavors with a lot of people, but sometimes I get the vibe that doing the YA thing is similar to living in Detroit -- a lot of people incredulously asking "Why?" without realizing the inherent coolness in the situation they seek to mock.

(Today is not the right day to be encouraging people to not mock Detroit. But I digress.)

I plan to devote a long post tomorrow to the YA books I've been reading over the summer. This sector of publishing--and, I'd argue, literature--has exploded and evolved significantly since I was touring that section of the bookstore as a consumer. Because, and tune in tomorrow, I read some serious crap as a preteen. It was no wonder I went running for Kerouac as soon as I crested 14. But now, there's genuinely wonderful writing, compelling storytelling, powerful characters, meaningful conflicts, and from what I can tell, a hot market for it all.

However, there are still some truisms among the innovative work: protagonists under the legal drinking age. Emotional upheaval, usually involving friendships and relationships. Firsts. A lot of experiences that shape future identity. Descriptions of high school. Joelle Anthony wrote a very popular piece a few months back on the 25 most overused things in YA fiction. She didn't compile the list to mock, but rather to encourage writers to carefully consider the usage of these elements in their stories. I thought I'd share it, while simultaneously admitting whether or not my story employs them.

#25 – Vegetarian teens with unsympathetic meat-eating parents. Nope. In the first chapter, the dad is planning on grilling a rack of lamb, and the protagonist is psyched.

#24 – Shy or withdrawn characters that take refuge in the school’s art room/ compassionate art teachers. No. The main character goes to the darkroom a couple of times, but not because it's a refuge. Photography kind of works as a metaphor for disguise/detachment in the early chapters, which is not revolutionary or anything, but it seems to work with the story.

#23 – A token black friend among a group of white friends - usually it’s a girl, and she’s always gorgeous. No (I suddenly feel racist). There's an Indian. And several Arabs. One of the Arab girls is very attractive, but as I'm writing this, I realize I don't think I even say that she's Arab in the story, or give any details that would identify her as such. So I'm going to say no on token minority friends.

#22 – A tiny scar through the eyebrow, sometimes accompanied by an embarrassing story. No. Though I once did get a nasty scar near my eyebrow after an unfortunate waxing adventure. I told people I got high-sticked in the face. They bought it.

# 21 – Using the word ‘rents for parents, but not using any other slang. No. I don't think people actually ever said 'rents. I think it's a myth.

# 20 – A beautiful best friend who gets all the guys but doesn’t want them. Sigh. Yep. There are, in fact, two beautiful best friends. And a beautiful sister. All who are sort of guy-magnets. However, and this is hopefully what Anthony meant when she encouraged innovation and originality in using these elements, it's pretty clear that romance is not simple for any of the characters. Friend #1 doesn't want them because she has unrealistic standards about relationships. Friend #2 gets lots of attention, but the guy she really wants just sees her as a friend. And so on.

#19 – The wicked stepmother who turns out to be simply misunderstood and it’s all cleared up in the climax. No.

#18 – Authors showing their age by naming characters names they grew up with (i.e. Debbie, Lisa, Kimberly, Alice, Linda, etc.). If anything, my character names are bland, even though they were all very deliberately selected. Two of the major girl characters are Kate and Anna, which may be the most overused names in all of literature. But, I imagine, they're not going to be dated anytime soon.

#17 – Parents who are professional writers or book illustrators. No. Though my protag's mom is a former Miss Virginia.

#16 – Using coffee, cappuccino, and café latte to describe black people’s skin. Oh, sweet Jesus, no.

#15 – Main characters named Hannah and making a note of it being a palindrome. No. The aforementioned Anna has more exciting things to worry about than the panlindromic aspect of her name.

#14 – Younger siblings who are geniuses, adored by everyone, and usually run away during the book’s climax, causing dramatic tension. Not as such. One of the main guy characters has some confidence/ attachment issues, and though it's only mentioned in passing in the narrative, one of the reasons is that his younger brother is a total golden boy and he's kind of a loser in comparison.

#13 – The mean-spirited cheerleader (and her gang) as the story’s antagonist. No cheerleaders. I don't know, the cheerleaders at my school were always nice.

# 12 – A dead mother. Aforementioned guy character with issues also has a dead mom, but again, it's only mentioned in passing. He's maybe the walking cliche of my story, though I wouldn't have pegged him as such. Maybe we'll devote more time to analyzing him soon.

# 11 – Heroines who can’t carry a tune, even if it were in a bucket. Nah. Kate and Anna sing in the car at one point, but that's the extent of musical abilities on display. People listen to music a lot, but do not feel the urge to sing along.

# 10 – Guys with extraordinarily long eyelashes. Ooh. One guy does. However, I mentioned a few posts back that I did an overhaul of the first 30 pages, and one of the things that got sliced was a flashback of the main character's boyfriend breaking up with her. He had long eyelashes. And blue eyes. Frankly, I thought my overall description of him was quite well-written, but those details do seem a little OMG and the scene wasn't doing much to advance the plot, so it's gone. Long eyelashes and all.

# 9 – The popular boy dating the dorky heroine to make his former girlfriend jealous, and then breaking the heroine’s heart. No. There's a lot of love triangle madness in the story, but nothing along these lines.

# 8 – The diary, either as the entire format, or the occasional entry. Only once, and I think it works. There are, however, a lot of IMs and e-mails, which I imagine will probably be on a list like this before too long.

# 7 – Fingernail biting. Nope.

# 6 – Characters who chew on their lip or tongue in times of stress – usually until they taste blood. Ironically, this ALSO happened in an early draft of the aforementioned breakup scene, but I found other ways to demonstrate that she was more emotionally invested than she was letting on. And the scene's gone now anyway.

# 5 – Raising one eyebrow. There's plenty of eyebrow-raising, but not just one.

# 4 – Main characters who want to be writers. Career ambitions aren't really discussed...

# 3 – Calling parents by their first names. No, which is sort of odd since I've always called my dad by his first name and might be tempted to replicate that experience. But my protag doesn't actually ever need to "address" her parents, and in her narrative, it's always "my mom" and "my dad" rather than Mom and Dad.

# 2 – Best friends with red hair. No. Actually, in my burgeoning WIP, the best friend almost had red hair. When I realized her name was probably going to be Ariel, I decided that was folly.

And the number one thing found in YA novels…

#1 – Lists. Lists?! Like "Top Ten Reasons To..." ? I can't even imagine how I'd do this. I kind of like the concept, but definitely a strategy better left to someone else.

Choose Your Own Adventure

2008-08-06T11:52:00.004-04:00

STATUS: Being contemplative.

IMBIBING: Nothing, but thinking about the last glass of a 2007 Cheverny that I got home just in time for last night.

Yesterday, I re-worked a scene in my manuscript where the protagonist is making a decision about transferring schools. She realizes that even though the decision she's making will impact the future, her real motive is trying to change the past. She realizes she can't, and it's kind of a character breakthrough for her, yay.

I was thinking about her last night because I just made a decision that would have drastically changed the scope of my life in the next few months. It was the right decision, and I'm feeling fine about it, but as I was mulling it last night, I tried to imagine life three months from now. Would I regret doing it? Would I regret not doing it? I remembered why I liked Choose Your Own Adventure books so much when I was younger. Not really because I could, in fact, Choose My Own Adventure, but because I could totally see how all my different adventure options played out. Follow the lost dog and end up falling off a cliff? No sweat, just flip back to p. 23 and take the other road.

We talk about this mindset in some of my classes when we cover Frost's "The Road Not Taken." It's what I refer to as a "Hallmark" poem--the kind that gets frequently anthologized and dropped into greeting cards, the real meaning diluted along the way. People always think it's about striking out on your own and being an individual, but it's really a pretty powerful poem about the impact and finality of our individual decisions, and how although we may contemplate and even regret those choices, you can never find your way back to the initial path. Way leads on to way.

I'm currently reading A Thousand Splendid Suns, and it's been a beautifully-written and very sad reminder of how lucky I am to have so many choices. I try to make them well. And in the process, I try to make them decisively, and try not to think about what might have been or how life might be better or even different with other choices.

I'm always proud of my protagonist at the point in the story when she starts making her decisions facing forward, rather than always looking over her shoulder and second-guessing herself. It's occasionally fun and even enlightening to consider the other paths of her story, and mine, but at the end of the day, I'm glad I can feel solid in all my decisions, and focus my energy on the next adventure, not the last one.

Literary Adventure - The Historian

2008-07-23T16:25:00.006-04:00

STATUS: 1,850 words done on my WIP today--in an hour! Productivity, baby!

IMBIBING: Sam Adams Summer Ale. People come hang here in the summer, leave beverages in the fridge. Sammy is more a best-of-what's-around pick at the bar rather than an at-home selection, but no complaints today.

Time for more books about vampires. Back in the day, when a lot of my friends were reading Ann Rice, I was all "Oh, I'm into Edith Wharton and Victor Hugo." Yeah, I was a snob. Now, as we all know, I'm deeply immersed in the Twilight series (finished Eclipse and am quite excited for Breaking Dawn, prediction post to come), and I just read The Historian, Elizabeth Kostova's 2005 sensation about one family's quest to bring down Dracula.

Now, to be fair, it was Writer Solidarity, with a good dose of Michigan Pride thrown in, that led me to this book--not the yen for more vampires.

When The Historian hit the shelves, I remember a lot of people talking about how Kostova had spent 10 years writing the novel, including working on it during her time in Michigan's MFA program. I remember being impressed by her endurance and doubtless tenacity, and proud that she and I had likely sat in some of the same classrooms. Elizabeth Kostova was a literary superstar, and I was happy for her, despite not buying her bookbecause, you know, it was about vampires.

But as Billy Joel said, "If I go cold, I won't get sold/ I'll get put in the back/ In the discount rack/ Like another can of beans." I was recently in Borders' and saw piles--piles--of The Historian stacked near the door with $3.99 sale stickers. I felt a sad fury well inside me. She worked on this for ten years! I wanted to shout to someone. Ten years! And now it's on clearance! AND she's a Michigan girl! Immediately I snatched up a copy and marched to the register. I'll admit, I didn't actually have much intent of reading it, but I was going to do my part to stop the humiliation.

Once I got home, however, I was intrigued, started reading, and before I knew it, I was into the story. A girl who lives in Amsterdam with her father discovers some unsettling letters in his study. When she confronts him, she begins to learn about her family's adventurous past--the travails and traumatic escapades her parents engaged in, which centered around the search for the tomb of Vlad the Impaler, known to more modern audiences as Dracula.

We learn that her father, Paul, became involved in this morbidly dangerous quest after discovering a rare book in the library and learning that his mentor, Rossi, had once come across a similar book. When Rossi disappears after their conversation, Paul heads to Eastern Europe to track him down, and it's clear he's on a collision course with an evil force (Vlad the Impaler is pretty much on par with Hitler--and he's undead--yowza).

When Paul himself suddenly vanishes while relaying these stories to his daughter, she realizes she must start a similar quest, armed with a satchel of letters Paul has left her. The narrative switches between Paul's story, via the letters, and his daughter's, told in first-person. She never gets a name, but I think this is because it's not really her story, it's her father's--she truly is "Paul's daughter" for the entirety of the book. However, the voice of a more innocent explorer helps the reader become better acclimated to this bizarre series of events, which is why I'd guess the story is from her viewpoint, not Paul's.

I've read reviews that compare this to The Da Vinci Code, but I don't think that's entirely accurate. While many of the elements are the same (couple chasing down history, forces of varying levels of evil trying to run them off the road, intrigue, strange religious figures, etc) and the book has the same read-a-chapter-while-on-the-subway accessibility, I think Kostova delves deeper into her environment. She uses detail spectacularly and truly puts the reader in the various settings she describes, particularly Cold War Eastern Europe. It's also not nearly as fast-paced as Dan Brown's books, which is both an advantage (in terms of the quality of writing) and disadvantage. I thought the energy of the book sagged in the middle when Paul's story was extended more than I thought it needed to be, but it recovered well by the end. Still, one can put away a Brown book in a couple of days -- I needed about three weeks for The Historian.

Additionally, this is obviously a plot-driven work, but the characters aren't vapid. There are probably six central characters--not including Dracula--with whom we spend a great deal of time, but even small characters are beautifully constructed and seem to help hold up the work, rather than simply decorate it.

Kostova does play up some of the more stereotypical aspects of vampire lore (garlic, crucifixes, stakes through the heart), and the idea of being "undead" is discussed, but it never really felt all that supernatural, which is to her credit--possibly because the characters take these precautions and contemplate these ideas against their better academic judgments. And her creation of the Dracula character was more surprising and intriguing than I would have anticipated.

Go Blue, indeed. Worth a read, and though I got it for a steal, I wouldn't have minded paying full price.

Sports/ culture: 10 Things to Do Before You Die

2008-07-22T07:53:00.005-04:00

STATUS: Since I've last blogged, my laptop has been infected by spyware more disgusting than you can imagine, I've gone to two weddings, I've read a bunch of books, and I did reconstructive surgery on the first 30 pp. of my manuscript. Longer posts on some of these to come; we'll start with the books.

IMBIBING: Coffee (Seattle's Best Hazelnut w/ cream)

I've read a ton of great books this summer, so it's odd that the one I'm starting with is not particularly dazzling. I was recently at the library, spotted Fanatic: 10 Things All Sports Fans Should Do Before They Die, and grabbed it. I like sports and I like lists, particularly life achievement lists. We probably all have the checklist of things we'd like to do before we shuffle off this mortal coil, and I imagine most sports fans have this sort of specific list.

Short review: pass on this book. Disclaimer: I read only 3.5 chapters of it. Starting at the beginning, I read his intro, the Super Bowl chapter, and then literally fell asleep during the Daytona 500 chapter. However, my utter apathy toward NASCAR cannot be overstated so I decided to try again. I skipped ahead to the Michigan-Ohio State chapter, thinking that if anything would sell me, that would be it. Well, once I came across these lines, I knew I was done:

"I make my way down to the student section, blending in among row upon row of rowdy late-teens. I may not be a part of any of the microcommunities at work here, but I can feed off the crowd's energy. I take wild punches at the beach balls that spring by and then disappear across the sea of arms. I sway when the crowd sways and when everyone around me yells "Go Blue!" I wait for the people on the other side of the stadium to shout "Go Gold!" before joining in to shout back."

Um, "Go Gold?" Hello? I know times change, but I've been to more than my share of Big House events, and NO ONE ever says "Go Gold." No one even says "Go Maize."

I read the chapter on the Kentucky Derby, which was okay, and then called it a day. I just wasn't feeling his style of writing--for as riveting as his subject matter was, the telling felt bland, which is discouraging since sports fans are, generally speaking, the funniest people I know. He nailed some descriptions of people pretty well, but as I've also watched most of these events on TV, I already had those images fairly well ingrained. Plus, and this is what brings me to the real topic of this post, his Top 10 just aren't my Top 10. We overlap a bit: The Final Four, Wimbledon, maybe Lambeau Field, though that's obviously less fun now. But I got to thinking about my Top 10 Sports List. In no particular order...

1. Winter Olympics: I'm a glutton for the Olympics, as anyone hanging around these parts in February '06 will remember. I'd love to see the gold medal hockey game and the figure skating long programs. Even though downhill skiing is easily one of my favorite events, I've never actually seen a ski race live, so I don't know if that would actually be cool (like luge--yes, badass event, but I'm not really up for just standing there and watching a dude whiz by every few minutes).

2. Summer Olympics: Track and field, swimming, and gymnastics. Any combination thereof.

3. Army-Navy football game: My dad's a West Pointer, so we watched this a lot growing up, and I still usually try to catch most of it. I love big-time rivalries, I love games between military academies, and I love seeing teams that generally go unnoticed get lots of love. This is all three.

4. Boston Marathon: I'm a big fan of road races (obviously), and this is the granddaddy of them all. I'll probably never be fast enough to run it, but simply being there would be really cool.

5. Stanley Cup Final game: this is sort of unfair, because what I really want is THE SCF game where the Cup itself is awarded, and that's a little harder to predict. Maybe next year. :)

6. Wimbledon: I'm not even the biggest tennis fan, but what's not to love? Tennis is a great sport to watch live, and perhaps a glimpse of the Royal family? Nice.

7. Final Four: In this case, I honestly wouldn't care who's playing. I love college basketball more every year.

8. Frozen Four: Michigan would have to be playing. I love college hockey, but not enough to just have anyone playing.

9. NCAA Lacrosse Final: Like the Final Four, I don't really care who's playing. I like Hopkins and Maryland, of course, but with this game, it's usually going to be the same seven rotating teams anyway!

10. Have a beer with Mark Messier while watching any sporting event.

Things I've done which you should do too:
- NHL playoff games: I've seen both the Capitals and the Red Wings... and the Capitals were probably more fun, if for no other reason than Wings fans are, well, expectant of victory. Caps fans die of happiness over a first-round win, and the advancement to the Conference Finals in '98 was practically a religious experience.
- NBA playoff game (Pistons)
- MLB playoff game: Tigers/Yankees--okay, it was from the roof of a parking garage, it totally still counts
- Michigan-OSU: even if you didn't go to either school, whatever! I'd go to Alabama-Auburn or Texas-Texas A&M just for fun, though I would want to go with a die-hard fan to either game.
- Michigan-Notre Dame
- Travelled to see my favorite non-local team play: Flyers... I was in high school and in love with a particular hotshot prone to head injury
- Seen my college team play in road games: there's something cool about wearing the "wrong" shirt in a college stadium. And exploring other college towns is also fun, if only to swell one's ego about how awesome one's own college town is
- NCAA hockey playoffs
- NCAA lacrosse semi-finals... the list goes on, but that's a start.

If anyone is reading, weigh in! I also thought it would be cool to develop the "Doc Brown Top 10" -- any ten sporting events at any time in history. My mind is spinning.

Cast of Characters

2008-06-26T13:18:00.003-04:00

STATUS: Biking everywhere. I love summer, and I love (relatively) urban living.

IMBIBING: H20 (this beverage feature is a lot more boring with daytime blogging)

I’ve recently been mulling the impact of characters: what makes characters not only lovable, but also engaging and memorable. Nathan Bransford recently blogged about the inseparability of plot and character, and I believe that to be true. But there seems to be relatively less dispute over what constitutes a good plot—you may personally loathe the prose of Dan Brown or find Robert Langdon to be a poor man’s Indy, but I’ve never heard someone bash the plot of The Da Vinci Code (beyond blathering about historical inaccuracies, but that conversation feels a little 2004 for my liking).

Anyway, characters are trickier and far more subject to personal preference. I like this Times article, where Curtis Sittenfeld writes about the various reactions her Prep protagonist Lee receives. Now, I was not the hugest Lee Fiora fan, but I definitely wasn’t cheering when stuff went wrong for her, even when she did things that seemed to contribute to her own unhappiness. Indeed, I’m hesitant to listen to anyone who would attack Prep on this facet alone, because characters do way stupider things than Lee, and we usually cut them some slack because we develop affection for them and invest ourselves in their journeys. I have no good answer for why we love some characters and loathe others, but I thought I’d use some recent literary adventures as tools for exploring this subject.

Bella Swan is the protagonist of Stephenie Meyer’s crack-like Twilight series. I recently read New Moon (the second of the four-part series), and I’m so hooked it’s embarrassing. Edward, Bella’s vampire boyfriend, leaves town when he realizes that he can’t control how threatening his presence is to Bella’s safety. Bella goes on kind of a self-destructive tear but forms a strong bond with her friend Jacob, who gets sucked into a “cult” (the nature of which is obvious if you were awake for the first book), a love triangle ensues… it’s good times. But the downside of the sequel is that Bella became a bit more grating to me. I found her self-deprecation not necessarily annoying, but rather unbelievable. And that’s only problematic because since it’s less believable, she starts to sound like the skinny girl who bemoans that everything makes her look fat, just so everyone around her will talk about how gorgeous she is. If Edward really didn’t love Bella, the entire series would collapse. It’s a given—so when Bella doubts this to such an extreme degree, it feels like she wants the reader to be saying “Oh, but he does love you! He really, really does!” And that’s not really how I roll in my literary adventures.

Oddly, I felt a bit of the same vibe in a book that couldn’t be farther from Twilight, genre-wise. I just finished True North, by Michigan writer Jim Harrison (probably best known to the masses as the author of the novella Legends of the Fall). David Burkett is burdened by a weighty history of dysfunction in his family. His grandfather and great-grandfather were timber doyens who wreaked environmental havoc on the UP; his father is lazy and likes jailbait; and his mother is sort of numbly oblivious. David tries to get a grip on who he is by writing a history of the UP, but he really spends most of the book trying to escape himself, and then facing himself.

When people asked what I thought of the book early on, I usually made some lukewarm reference to David’s mental state, which seemed to be rooted more in ennui than trauma. David was worried about being defined by his family, but spent a lot of the early part of the book defining himself by who he slept with or wanted to sleep with. I loved Harrison’s descriptions of Michigan and never felt bored by the events of the story (particularly David’s relationship with his dog—I know it sounds trite, but it’s actually quite sweet), but I didn’t really feel much for David himself. I grew fonder of him, but not until he started to get over himself (which I think is really Harrison’s point, but I imagine I was supposed to revel in David’s personal journey, not just be waiting for it to happen).

Before you conclude that I’m simply a too-chipper girl who doesn’t like moody people, much less moody characters, remember that one of the literary characters I love beyond measure is Will McLean from The Lords of Discipline. Mr. Darcy he’s not: Will is a total basket case—he isolates people, he inflicts an incredible amount of pain on himself and then kvetches about it, takes himself too seriously, lets convention trump love and honor at critical moments, and yet, I adore him, and therefore deeply feel every single page of his story every time I read it.

So where is the line between a character whose flaws and weaknesses make them fascinating and relatable, and a character who is just repelling because you don’t want to listen to their shit? To go back to Nathan's article, a character comes down to conflict. I used to sort of judge characters based who I’d want to be friends with in real life, but I think it comes down to what conflicts I connect to. I don’t care that much about David's inner conflict, and I like Bella right up to the minute when she lapses into this implausible conflict about Edward's feelings for her. And yet I think I’d stick with Lee through her melancholy days (even though I said in my initial review that we wouldn't have been friends) because I keenly sense the truth of the conflicts she faces, and same goes for Will. He may be a basket case, but he's fighting a good fight.

That’s all I’ve got for now.

PS – None of this accounts for the deliberately unlikable or unreliable narrator – those characters can be fascinating for other reasons, and are sort of another bag in themselves, perhaps to be explored in a future post.

Writing: The Joy of the Pen-slash (and my stab at the dreaded synopsis)

2008-06-21T11:30:00.005-04:00

STATUS: Procrastinating before attacking the weeds that are staging a takeover of our lawn and driveway. Our Canton home was saturated with pesticides and greening agents thanks to the prior owners, and while I'm glad to no longer be destroying the environment by proxy, it did make summertime maintenance a lot easier.

IMBIBING: Scarlet Robe Oolong tea.

The first time the phrase "omit needless words" became a marching order rather than a simple instruction was during AP English with Mr. Van. He taught the Drama portion of the AP English adventure and walked a fine line between ruthless tyrant and compassionate mentor. As we reviewed our first essays and tried to identify points of improvement, he said that most of our problems came down to one truism of writing. "Omit! Needless! Words!" he bellowed, slamming a legal pad in time with his words.

I was hearing Mr. Van's voice in my head this week as I pounded out a short synopsis for my manuscript. I've shamefully avoided this task for many moons, but several of the agents I've targeted for my next round of pitches require one. While I'm sure some writers have gone from obscurity to publication without doing a short synopsis, the real reason for my avoidance is that distilling 285 pages to 2 is a gigantic pain in the ass. But let's face it: a good writer can write a good synopsis, and if I'm going to expect to be taken seriously, I've got to get past this.

So. I printed off my working synopsis (which was more like five pages and has never seen the inside of an agent's inbox, which I'm now thankful for since it's been permanently filed under S for sucks), grabbed a brightly-colored pen and a pour of Biggby's Hazelnut coffee, and got ruthless.

My first step in creating the beast had been to just write. I pretended I was just telling the plot of the novel to someone. The prose had a very "and then this happened, and then this happened..." aspect to it and felt clunky and unbalanced. Not to mention ungodly boring. I wouldn't even want the manuscript based on this synopsis. Omg, I thought, flipping through the pages. This story totally sucks. What was I thinking...?

Deftly avoiding a U-Turn into self-doubt, I went to work with the pen, taking all the advice I normally dispense to others: does the sentence connect fluidly to the one that preceded it? Does the paragraph serve the ultimate purpose of your writing? Does the audience need to know that Love Interest #1 is from Jersey or that Love Interest #2 plays lacrosse? If the answer was no (as it was 75% of the time), the words were deemed needless and omitted.

Culling sentences is profoundly satisfying--similar to the feeling I get after sledgehammering a crumbling house with Habitat or being able to reel off a set of fast 800m repeats without too much labored breathing. Getting something down to its barest bones has a feeling of purity and strength to it.

For me, distillation came down to three components:
- I focused every sentence around the major plot arc of the book. There's a lot that happens in any book, but there's also usually a central question or tension that's driving the story.
- As I described the plot arc, I put events in terms of ACTION over description.
- For the more questionable excess information, I determined whether it was a HOOK or a pointless detail. For instance--the fact that Love Interest #1 is from Jersey is part of the hook because it prevents the major love story from happening. The fact that Love Interest #2 plays lacrosse is a pointless detail, at least for the short synopsis. It doesn't drive the plot, it's just a part of the dude's character.

After taking my marked-up pages back to the computer and putting in my edits, I think I have a strong piece of writing: streamlined, powerful, and efficient. We'll see if it helps.

Now, however? This synopsis may be good to go, but I must add details, plot points, and sentences carefully back in, because some agents want a "long" synopsis. 5-6 pages. Good times.

Culture/sports (sort of): Living in Detroit

2008-05-27T17:33:00.005-04:00

STATUS: Still working through Memorial Day leftovers

IMBIBING: Club soda

I should preface this story by mentioning that I was recently in Baltimore for my high-school reunion. I was bizarrely nervous about this for no legitimate reason--there's no mean girl I had a score to settle with, no dreamy unrequited crush I hoped to kiss. It was a great time, though what I imagine speed-dating must be like: you have about twenty seconds to enthusiastically spit out a Cliffs-Notes version of your post-high-school life, and hope enough mutual interest is generated to warrant a later conversation.

So of course, I mention teaching HS English, freelance sportswriting, married, no kids, live in Detroit. I'm always a little amused when I mention Detroit: reactions range from the straightforward "Why?" to the seemingly-polite-yet-utterly-dubious "Oh... how's that?"

Now, yes, I know, there's a lot about Detroit that's rather undesirable. Kwame. The floundering auto industry. Lack of public transportation. The fact that one needs to worry about frost warnings after Memorial Day (ahem). But there are two unquestionably good things about Detroit: the overall enthusiasm of the area, and sports. It's hard to really express this to people who don't live around here, but in many ways, this picture pretty much sums up why I like Detroit:

Writing: We're just not that into you

2008-05-26T19:51:00.003-04:00

STATUS: Watching American Pie 2 while waiting for the Pistons/ Red Wings action to start, and realizing that Stifler is far less humorous once one has been exposed to the comedic stylings of Dick Casablancas.

IMBIBING: Hengst Alsace Grand Cru Gewurztraminer 1992, left over from the weekend's festivities.

So I have this manuscript, and I've been shopping it around.

In querying, I'm getting used to the formulaic rejection. A letter along the lines of "This project isn't quite right for me," "I'm not the right agent to represent this," "I'm not feeling this, but good luck in your search," etc. These rejections aren't personal--both in the sense that they never say anything directly about my work (one even referred to me as "Mr. Nichols"--hmm, never knew Susannah was an androgynous name) and that they don't imply that I'm being rejected because my work is bad, but simply not personally compelling to them. These letters almost always end with "opinions vary, so don't give up."

At first, I was frustrated by this, convinced that what they were really saying was "your premise is utterly ridiculous. We can tell you're a joke of a writer. This is our way of letting you down easy." It's feeling a lot like the publishing-world equivalent of "You're nice and all, but I think we should just be friends."

But as I view literature and potential projects with a more agent-oriented eye, I'm getting my mind around this concept. I just finished a book, a mystery, which I was decidedly lukewarm about. Now, this book has a near cult-like following, and I just attended a reading by the author that was packed to standing-room-only capacity. People love this work, and despite not finding anything wrong with it--it was moderately engaging and well-written--I wasn't feeling the love. I wasn't putting off my other work to read it. It wasn't bad, certainly, but I just wasn't that into it. If I was asked to represent it, I probably couldn't do a very good job--and again, this work is a proven best-seller. But it's not for me.

While reading this particular novel has not been a thoroughly rewarding literary adventure, it has helped me see that opinion and personal judgment is a huge part of this process--and not just in the down-the-line scenario where someone will be deciding between my novel and Who Moved My Cheese Pt. 5. Certain people connect with certain works, and as much as publishing is a hard-core, bottom-line business, I don't want to be represented by someone who isn't as genuinely excited about my work as I am.

I've often heard the Agent/Client relationship referred to as a near marriage (reference Jerry Maguire-Rod Tidwell), and one would never advise getting married to someone who, yeah, you see their good qualities, but... no. For such a relationship to work, there needs to be passion. Sparks.

There are times when I've faced rejection, publishing or otherwise, and my instinct is to slap the offending party and yell that they don't know what they're missing. But even if they don't, even if in five years they're lamenting the day that they turned me down, I think I'm okay with that. I've gained the maturity to realize that there's not a sliding scale of universal quality out there--people have their preferences and their instincts, and part of the journey is making the connection. And while yes, I can present myself in the best way possible and make a compelling case for why Agent/Editor should become smitten with me, part of it has to happen organically.

Literary Adventures: Twilight, etc.

2008-05-07T20:47:00.006-04:00

STATUS: This is a dangerous time of year for me. NBA playoffs, NHL playoffs, baseball in full swing. It's amazing I get anything done, much less work, writing, and blogging!

IMBIBING: Yuengling Traditional Lager. Picked up a case of this on a recent East Coast trip in March and have been working through it ever since.

Jonathan Lyons (or more accurately, J.Lyons's client Brian Jay Jones) blogged today about a Washington Post article titled "What Kids Are Reading: The Book-Reading Habits of Students in American Schools." It's pretty interesting, but mostly seems to relay the information that kids don't read nearly enough beyond what's assigned in class, stuff that's timelessly good is still timelessly good (To Kill a Mockingbird and The Outsiders still top many lists), and reading Harry Potter will apparently soon become a requirement for citizenship on Earth.

The survey also demonstrated that students read less in high school, but I'll argue that that's primarily because high school is intense and very work-oriented. I barely ever read for pleasure in high school, which is a little insane; even unassigned books were usually part of some larger project. I'm curious to go back and check my journals, but the only non-school-related book I can honestly remember reading was A Civil War. Damn. However, there's a cadre of girls in my current freshman class who read non-school books pretty regularly--Sarah Dessen, Stephenie Meyer, Curtis Sittenfeld--and I give them credit because a) all those authors are, at least in my opinion, quality writers with interesting and thoughtful stories and b) the girls themselves are good, thoughtful readers, evident in the daily analysis they give on Shakespeare, Homer, and Dante, so I'm glad to see that they're honing their skills on all kinds of different material.

This article was particularly relevant to me because I recently read Stephenie Meyer's Twilight, which has reached total celebrity status (I believe it was #10 among books read by high-schoolers in the aforementioned study).

Twilight initially sounded like a book I wanted to run from: Bella moves from Phoenix to Forks, Washington, and falls hard for Edward Cullen. Edward is hot and mysterious (of course). Edward is also a vampire--but a nice vampire! He's part of a family unit that has vowed to only consume animal blood. The family advises against this romance, but Edward and Bella are mad about each other, and so they gradually welcome her in to their culture of unconventional baseball games and convoluted histories. However, not all vampires are willing to leave Bella alive, and soon she's on the run. Plus, she desperately wants Edward to "turn" her into a vampire so they can be together forever.

Even now, I read summaries of this book and think, "how could I possibly like this?" I'm not into vampires: I never read Ann Rice, I've never watched Buffy, and I shiver at the idea of blood-stained teeth. But I admit--I really liked Twilight.

As soon as I started, I was hooked. Even though the beginning was pretty predictable in terms of characterization (new girl who's beautiful even though she doesn't realize it, typical "average" guy tries to woo her but can't beat out the HOT, MYSTERIOUS guy across the cafeteria), I thought Meyer did a good job of fleshing out Bella's high school world without being too dramatically angsty. Even though Bella gets herself quickly entrenched in a weird situation, her individual decisions don't seem terribly implausible. Even though it's a Young Adult novel, I've found that the best YA material really is accessible to a wide audience, even those no longer in high school. The plot was well-constructed and the writing was crisp. I kept wanting to return to it, to read more, to get back in Bella's world.

Additionally, although I'm no vampire expert, I liked the fact that Meyer's take on the theme seemed fresh. There were no hackneyed scenes involving holy water and crosses, none of the blood-stained teeth that I'd feared (at least, none that were so atrocious that they overshadowed the better parts of Meyer's writing). Granted, there are some slightly unsettling lines about how Edward is incredibly attracted to the smell of Bella's blood ("like flowers," is one description, I believe), but this actually fit more with the knees-trembling-heart-pounding-omgyou'resohot romance rather than the vampire aspect.

I've been holding out on the sequels because they're still only available in hardcover, and I'm hooked, but not quite hooked enough for $19.95 a book, you know? But will I be reading them? Oh yes. Probably on a lawn chair this summer. Yes, I'm reading young adult vampire novels. And I'm pretty psyched about it.

Sports/Culture: Eight Belles

2008-05-06T06:48:00.001-04:00

STATUS: Delighted that it gets light so early now!

IMBIBING: Coffee: specifically Great Lakes Hazelnut Coffee with Horizon Organic Half-and-half

It's been over two days since it happened, and I can't shake the images.

I'm not a particularly devoted racing fan, and I understand the befuddled looks of many who try to understand why anyone follows the sport. However, I usually watch all three legs of the Triple Crown, mostly because when one grows up in Baltimore, the Preakness is kind of a big deal. Additionally, I used to live within spitting distance of Sagamore Farm, and repeatedly drove, ran, or cycled past the fields where thoroughbreds were part of the scenery.

So it was no surprise that I was watching the Kentucky Derby on Saturday (in Baltimore, no less), and no surprise that I marveled at the utter display of force and furious athleticism displayed by Big Brown as he barrelled toward an almost-five-lengths victory (in layman's terms: he left the other horses in the dust). I always giggle a little bit when Sports Illustrated puts Secretariat on "100 Athletes of All Time," but watching a race like that, it's clear that the thoroughbred is trained to be in the best shape of its life, to acheive the greatest combination ofgenetics and persistence, which at the end of the day, is what athletes do.

As the horses pounded away the final stretch, there was no question that Big Brown was going to win, but there was also no question who was going to place. Eight Belles was easily ahead of the rest of the pack; without Big Brown, she would have had a commanding victory of her own.

And moments after the race, we learned that she'd shattered both ankles and had been immediately euthanized. It seemed jarring, particularly because nothing seemed amiss during the race (in contrast, I watched Barbaro buckle at Preakness two years ago, and it was a moment in which "heart-stopping" really ceased to be a cliche). It seemed further jarring because even if she'd been hurt, wouldn't she be kept alive for seven months under equine surgeons? But as reports floated back, trainers agreed that a fast death was the most humane thing for Eight Belles.

I thought about Eight Belles for most of the next day. So did others.

PETA decried the utter cruelty of horse racing in general, and were particularly scathing in their criticism of how jockey Gabriel Saez "mercilessly whipped" Eight Belles, though trainer Larry Jones ardently defended Saez's actions. Additionally, I'm not sure anyone observing thoroughbred training, even from a distance, could make a compelling argument that the people working these horses on a daily basis don't revere them. Like all sports, it's become largely about money, but that doesn't necessarily equate to animal abuse.

Further, even a casual fan knows that many the issues with Eight Belles and Barbaro are rooted in the fact that there's more inbreeding amongst thoroughbreds than a paranoid royal family. The Wall Street Journal had a spread last Friday demonstrating how every horse running in the Derby could trace their lineage to Native Dancer, the "Grey Ghost" of the 1950s. And even a casual student of biology knows that in such a situation, traits become more pronounced--both positive and negative traits, including weak bones. (Andrew Beyer articulates these issues in the Washington Post.) So the uproar that this was the inevitable result of a brutal sport seems obnoxiously ignorant.

Some reading: at the Baltimore Sun, Sandra McKee breaks down some of the issues regarding racing surfaces and reactions of those involved. Joe Drape at the New York Times also weighs in.

I also appreciated Edward McClelland's article at Salon, particularly his comments on how it's harder for us to watch racing now because our relationship with animals, particularly horses, has fundamentally changed.

I'm not sure I've quite deconstructed why this struck me so hard--the event itself, the outcry, the way it's forced me to contend with the reality that I do enjoy watching racing even though I logically know it's at best frivolous and at worst dangerous. What I am sure of is that the images of last Saturday--the trainer's face, her obscured body, and perhaps most vividly, the way she turned in an amazing performance in the last moments of her life--aren't going anywhere.

Writing: Persistence vs. Patience

2008-05-01T19:58:00.004-04:00

STATUS: Gradually getting around to the gigantic to-do list I must tackle before heading East tomorrow.

IMBIBING: Peppermint tea

It's apparently going to take me awhile to get into my blogging rhythm. :) I'll try to get caught up a bit this weekend.

I mentioned last week that I was beginning a search for representation, which involves (on an extremely basic level) writing a query letter and targeting agents potentially interested in your work. This included:
- Hanging out for several long afternoons in the cafe at B&N and/or Borders', "borrowing" their agent reference materials while ingesting caffeinated beverages and baked goods
- Creating a massive list of agents, googling the agents, scoping out their websites (while not a hard rule by any means, I've been prioritizing agents with websites--the way I see it, an agent without a website is either so awesome that s/he's likely not accepting unsolicited queries, or is just behind the times), and culling the list to a more manageable size once I get a sense of their likes, dislikes, and sale histories.
- Returning to B&N/ Borders' to take a look at books published by agents' clients, to further ascertain if an agent is a likely match for me.
- Tailoring the query letter to individual agents, sending it out, and waiting.

And waiting.

Cue Tom Petty music.

I've gotten lots of advice on this search, and the two most popular pieces of advice are "Be persistent! It's an incredibly competitive industry, and you must be diligent and tenacious and never give up!" Hey--I run marathons. I got yer tenacity right here.

But the second piece of advice is the seemingly counter-intuitive "Be patient! Agents take weeks to respond to queries/manuscripts--editors longer! It's okay if you don't hear from an agent right away, and if you call to check on things too much, you'll look like a rank amateur and get laughed at." Fair enough--and I'm a teacher. I know there are few things more annoying than someone saying, "Hey, have you looked at my paper yet? Have you decided how good it is?" I understand the importance of patience (and, er, having a life beyond waiting to see what someone thought of something you wrote).

I want to be able to walk the line between being doggedly persistent and supremely patient, and I've decided that the way to do this is to return to the Serenity Prayer, wherein one asks for the serenity to accept the things they cannot change, the courage to change the things they can, and the wisdom to know the difference. I can be hardworking and efficient when asked for something, I can keep track of my contacts and know when a follow-up is appropriate, and I can stay determined about making new contacts each week.

Similarly, I can also know when it's time to stop hitting "check mail" and just go for a run.

Literary Adventure: Jesus' Son

2008-04-24T20:42:00.006-04:00

STATUS: Watching Wings-Avalanche Game #1. This matchup doesn't get old.

IMBIBING: Bell's Lager of the Lakes

A couple of weeks ago, my friend Todd passed on Jesus' Son, a tiny tome by Denis Johnson. He described the work as a collection of "interlocking short stories." He seemed enthusiastic, so I was willing to give it a roll. After all, every publication from Atlantic Monthly to Entertainment Weekly lauded it, and it's been made into a movie starring Billy Crudup.

Initially, I wasn't sure what to make of it. I'm a reasonably prolific reader, but my fare tends to be pretty conventional--cohesive plot, vivid characters, etc. So the random adventures of a woeful addict who essentially wanders around trying to get through each day were vaguely compelling, but more in the way of a train wreck than an engaging read.

However, by about the third story, there was something about the nameless narrator that was starting to grip me: I let him in my head (maybe against my better judgment), and started listening to his stories--a myriad of disasters, from being in a car crash while hitchhiking, to accompanying his girlfriend to an abortion, to drug use, lots and lots of drug use. Not to say I developed sympathy or wouldn't kind of hunch my shoulders up and turn away from him if he wandered into my local bar, but I heard his voice. A voice that, despite being so entrenched in a quagmire of poverty and misdirection, had a genuine truth to it that made me believe that if he could just stop doing stupid shit like carrying around rabbit fetuses or watching Mennonite women shower, he would be an incredible individual.

There's a good deal of literature that, unintentionally or not, romanticizes the type of life that Jesus' Son leads, even suggesting that such addiction begats great writing. But the narrator himself, despite dropping phrases that nearly reverberate in their beauty, never does this. He never states it directly, but he seems acutely aware that his moments of clarity and poetry come in spite of his addiction, not because of it.

It's only 160 pages, and I'd highly recommend reading it in as few sittings as possible. Otherwise, it's too easy to get irritated at the narrator and convince yourself you have better things to do than listen to him. And you probably do--but he is worth listening to.

Writing: Coming Clean

2008-04-22T20:37:00.002-04:00

STATUS: Loving the Tigers' home-run derby of a third inning; fervently hoping that the Capitals seal Game 7 and party like it's 1998.

IMBIBING: Meursault Premier Cru (a delightful white Burgundy)

Tuesdays are days to reflect on writing, and before I do that, there's something I should admit, a confession of sorts.

I am an aspiring author.

I was going to say "I want to be a writer," but that's already true. I've seen my byline in print and online, I've crafted solid argumentative and analytical essays, and I put pen to paper (or fingers to keys, but that doesn't roll as well with the alliteration and makes me sound like a pianist) on a regular basis. I am a writer. But I desire more.

Late last summer, I finished the manuscript of a novel I'd been working on for a few years, and have spent the past eight months or so revising my work and preparing it for publication. I've developed a query (pitch) letter, have researched the agent industry like I'm writing another thesis, and have begun the process of solicitation, rejection, and potential interest.

I've been hesitant to admit this for one reason, and truly one reason alone: I know it's a crap shot that it will work out, and I've always absolutely hated admitting when things I really want (a job, playoff advancement for my favorite teams, relationships, other successes) don't work out. I just tend to pretend it never happened.

However, I've realized that denial is amateur and that this journey to publication is yet another Adventure to be savored, shared, and celebrated. The destination will be awesome, and worthy of a party, but I'm going to have a great time along the way--and, given that I've learned 80% of what I know about the publishing industry via the Internet, I figure it's good karma to add a chronicle of my journeys.

Next Tuesday, I'll share more about my search for representation. For now, Ovechkin, Federov, and the rest of the DC boys need my undivided attention. Not to mention a little situation that's going on in Pennsylvania...

Back in Business

2008-04-21T20:27:00.002-04:00

The Pub has re-opened!

As most pub-goers know, atmosphere is key. You don't want to wander into the bar that you trust to provide mellow music, good conversation, and finely-crafted microbrews and discover that they're showing Wrestlemania and offering $1 PBRs. Similarly, you don't want to head to your favorite sports bar and discover that the dart board is gone and people are getting tossed for uttering profanities.

The atmosphere at the PoK has degenerated over the past six months or so, but I'm returning to my roots: the focus from here on out is books, writing, the occasional sports update (which regulars know equates to distance running, Olympics, and NBA/NHL playoff action), and maybe a little beverage discussion. My plan is the following:
- Monday/ Thursday: Literary Adventures
- Tuesday: Writing
- Friday: sports/ culture
- Other stuff as the inspiration strikes me

We'll see how this rolls. Winston Churchill tells me that planning is essential, although plans are useless, and I tend to defer to Winston in matters of planning.

I'm also experimenting with new templates and looks, so my sidebars and blogrolls are going to have to go through some modifications.

Still, I'm back in business--and when is a good pub more essential than when the Capitals are on the brink of elimination?

Under Construction

2008-04-02T18:57:00.002-04:00

I'm mulling changes to the Pub--there will be a Grand Re-Opening soon.

! 2008 Oscars Live Blog !

2008-02-24T18:58:00.023-05:00

We start at 8 PM!

8:00: All right, I admit: I've spent much of today bemoaning the fact that a) I'm not still in San Francisco and b) that there was too long of a line at The Fly Trap for me to satiate my craving for Huevos Rancheros. But none of that matters now--it's Oscars Night! E and I have settled in with a bottle of sparkling wine, Oscar Bingo cards (courtesy of the inimitable but apparently blogless Bonnie), and our picks. We're just pre-gaming it right now, watching the oh-so-sexy George Clooney joke about how his performance in Batman and Robin was comparable to Michael Clayton, and my first question for the live blog audience: who is the woman on his arm, and where can I get a knock-off of her dress?

8:14: Okay. Wasn't planning on doing a lot of updates during the pre-show, but WHOA, memo to wife of Daniel Day-Lewis: Abandon that dress! And further. Why, oh why, can Cameron Diaz never look attraactive at awards shows? As one who does not photograph well, I can sympathize with the fact that HD is inherently unkind to those of us with, shall we say, sharper features, but Cameron, babe, you have access to incredible stylists and makeup artists. Do something.

8:30: It should come as no shock that a significant number of my female friends would put Jon Stewart in their Card of Five. I'm not one of them (no offense, he's cool, just not my bag), but I am quite delighted he's allowed me to check off my first Bingo square, "someone mentions writer's strike," and he just referred to the whole night as "make-up sex." His self-deprecation and utter charisma are just --- OH! He just made a teen pregnancy joke! Check off another Bingo box!

8:40: Jon is taking care of this Bingo card all on his own: camera just zoomed on African-American actors when he mentioned Obama, he made fun of Diablo Cody's stripper past, and I've already ascertained that Javier Bardem and George Clooney are indeed looking hot.

8:41: So is Jennifer Garner. So classy. So naturally beautiful. And she just upset everyone Oscar's pool -- Elizabeth for Best Costumes? It was supposed to be Keira Knightley's green dress, dammit!

8:52: Animated films. Oh, for the love of all things holy, I want Persepolis to win this. It was utterly amazing, so nuanced, so wonderfully insightful and creative and well-written. And yet, I whored out for my Oscar picks, picking instead the allegedly gross and subpar movie about rats in the kitchen. Yes. I am a slave to the machine. E's quote regarding the two Not-Persepolis movies: "You can't tell if this was Disney or Dreamworks, or Joe's Mac computer. Choke on the mic and die." I have a point in my Oscar poll, but I feel dirty about it.

9:01: Okay. I'm not going to be captain No-Fun and criticize the adorable Amy Adams, but that song got nominated and none of the incredible songs from Into the Wild could get a nod? I love you Eddie Vedder, even if the Academy doesn't.

9:08: How the fuck does the fucking movie that looks no better than the fucking Coke commercial win the fucking Oscar! So speaks my impassioned spouse, though I think we're both irritated that we both picked Transformers for best acheivement in Visual Effects. I didn't see any of the selections, but Transformers was the only one that looked close to real in the clips.

9:13: Yes Jon, Cate has incredible range as an actress, but her dress leaves much to be desired. And she usually looks so good.

9:23: After Spanish-speaking hottie Javier, the surest lock this side of DDL, the whole "salute to binoculars" montage is fairly amusing. And Keri Russell, how completely lovely you look. Insert pie joke here.

9:30: If Le Mozart des Pickpockets is any indication, I can't do this whole "do 20 minutes of research and pick a convincing Oscar card" - I am not doing well at all. I am going to claim the winner's speech as less than 30 seconds for my Oscar card. And the little Bee gets me another square for "Animated Presenter."

9:34: All right--Best Supporting Actress. I've picked Tilda Swinton, E picked Amy Ryan. Cate Blanchett seems to be the "trendy" pick, Ruby Dee the "sentimental" pick, Saoirse Ronan the "whimsical" pick, and our two what's left. Seems wide open.... and I win. E may have just lost his Oscar office pool, which he's kind of been the Tom Hanks of.

9:45: Um, whoa. Jessica Alba and Cate Blanchett are both pregnant? God, I am AWFUL at being in the loop of celebrity fertility! (I didn't know J.Lo was pregnant until this week...)

10:06: E and I are both tanking in our Oscar picks like nobody's business. And that's all I have to say about that. And this whole "Who looks more like Halle Berry" schtick is no longer funny.

10:09: Not gonna lie -- cried at that Best Actress montage. I feel pretty confident in my Julie Christie pick, but I am delighted by Laura Linney's neckwear. And, whoa! Quite the upset for Marion Cotilliard, but my blogging hero Ian did accurately pick this one, and while I may have initially thought it was merely for her smoking good looks, he knows what he's talking about. And oh, how adorable she is! This is the best possibility this side of an Ellen Page upset.

10:23: Most of the songs are really doing nothing for me (the 11-year-old in "Raise Up" was great, but other than that, not much), but "Falling Softly" has a sweet and borderline genuine quality to its cheesiness.

10:28: E and I had a somewhat lengthy conversation about how the Oscar train has been derailing with remarkable predictability since the late 80s. Longer blog post on that to come. But four words: Forrest Gump. Titanic. Crash.

10:32: I will always adore and defend Nicole Kidman, but what is up with that necklace?

10:42: I'd like to get some insight into the "fluffiness" of the dresses: both Jessica Alba and Penelope Cruz have been sporting mini-boas on their dresses, and I can't really say it's done much for either one of them. However, the win for Austria in Foreign Film is making me feel like less of an Oscar loser.

10:46: Any readers: please weigh in on whether the guy dancing with Amy Adams in the final "Enchanted" song is a) reasonably cute or b) the love-child of Lurch and Jay Leno. I'll leave your fantastic deductive skills to guess which choice is mine and which is E's.

10:50: Blogging-hero Ian also predicted an 11 PM wrap-up for the Oscars, and I'm going to go out on a limb and say that's probably not going to happen, but don't I wish.

10:55: Evan has discovered that the Adult Entertainment Awards are simultaneously occurring. This is a time when "man in control of the remote" is clearly an upsetting concept.

11:12: This satellite presentation is super cool--maybe a little cheesy, but a really excellent concept, and nothing perks me up like seeing some people in fatigues, particularly since I'm really blowing chunks in my Oscar ballot. Not that this night's all about me.

11:39: Some observations since my last post:

- I'm pretty sure Harrison Ford was high on something other than life, but Diablo Cody is probably my favorite recipient of the night.

- Helen Mirren looked great, and better, imho, than a lot of the younger ladies. "Um, but not Ellen Page," says E. No, not better than Ellen Page.

- Did Helen Mirren even open the envelope?

- E has decided that DDL making the crack about not being knighted is not good enough to count as an "innappropriate political comment" on the Bingo card.

- DDL has also made one of the most touching and perfect acceptance speeches of the night.

11:42: Martin's eyebrows are still out of control, but he's quite cute, especially with the "I know how much this award will mean..." thing.

11:45: Denzel is not making me think of Herman Boone. Impressive. He also seems to be rushing through this Best Picture process. Probably because everyone seems to think the Coen freight train is unstoppable, which it apparently is. Scott Ruden: "It's a complete surprise?" Um, do you know what the internet is?

For some reason, even through I was really captivated by all the films of this year, I kind of stopped getting into it halfway through. Further reflections tomorrow, but I hope you guys enjoyed the show.

If You're Going...

2008-02-15T07:07:00.003-05:00

If a blog falls in the woods and no one hears, does it make a noise?

Over here in Suz-land, the past month has been delightful in terms of books and movies: in addition to polishing off Season 1 of The Tudors, I saw There Will Be Blood, which, in my opinion, is the clear front-runner for Best Picture, although I respect the arguments of those who support No Country for Old Men, which I also thought was stellar. Have seen some great stuff via Netflix: dozed for a portion of Sexy Beast the other night, but greatly enjoyed Nausicaa and Valley of the Wind, 3:10 to Yuma, Waitress, The Deer Hunter (though whoa, talk about an emotionally draining movie), and Serenity, on the heels of watching the Firefly series, which is explicit proof (as if I needed it) that marketing execs in television would need to be watered twice a day if they got any stupider.

Most of the reading has been for work, but I did just finish Atonement, and while I continue to adulate the writing of Brendan Halpin, allow me to just say that Atonement is one of the best books I've ever read, period. It was so good, it hurt. Ian McEwan's prose was just so beautiful that I'd go back and re-read sentences just to linger in them. Yes, the story is a total downer, but who cares? It was a beautifully constructed, masterfully executed, and emotionally evocative downer. I loved the story, but also the points the story raised about the redemptive power of writing and the decisions that irreparably reshape our lives. I'll have to see the movie at some point, but if it's half as good as the book, the Best Picture race could really be broken open.

Otherwise life is as good as it can be when it's dark all the time. Scandinavian life is clearly not for me. Happily, I am getting the hell out of Dodge today and going to see Mike & Becca in California, where temps are forecasted at a "chilly" 65. I've packed flip-flops and am looking forward to a well-deserved hiatus from everything but E. We plan to, among other things, eat lots of sushi, visit City Lights Bookstore, go to wine country, frolick at Stanford and Berkeley, visit Anchor Steam Brewery, and patronize several fabulous restaurants. I'm putting in my day at work and not looking back--perhaps only to see if the flowers in my hair are well-adjusted.

Fictionalized History: A Multi-Media Adventure

2008-01-20T14:07:00.002-05:00

Subtitled: Why Watching The Tudors with Susannah Sucks

I am a glutton for all things historical. Mostly this passion means real history: I love biographies, PBS specials, visiting important locales (as one must if one hopes to survive primary education in the Mid-Atlantic--and therefore the ensuing onslaught of field trips to Civil War battlefields--with a plucky attitude), and coming near anything associated with beloved things from the past thrills me. When E and I visited Victor Hugo's grave while in Paris a few summers back, I shed a tear. When handling an actual Coverdale Bible in the name of literary research, my hands trembled. When I visited the Lake Placid rink, site of the famed Miracle on Ice, I almost peed my pants. Anyway.

Given that I teach celebrated classics like The Odyssey and The Inferno, I love reading about pre-Renaissance Italy and Ancient Greece, but I have a particular fondness for Tudor England. I'm not going to lie: this passion started once I read a couple of Phillippa Gregory's books, and the excitement of reading about Henry VIII's rabid appetite for all things sexual and violent got a hold of the academic side of my brain, and I was off and running. I've devoured the work of Alison Weir, pre-eminent scholar of English history; have actually sketched family trees of not just royal families, but also the contemporary nobles who played roles in the drama of the royals; and seriously considered registering for the London Marathon solely so I could have a reason to visit the Tower of London and other noteworthy palaces. My self-imposed Tudor education has given me an insight on how gossip columnists and celebrity dirt aficianados can effortlessly remember crap that no one else cares about. If you had a gun to my head, I couldn't tell you who K-Fed knocked up before Britney, but I can ramble endlessly about who Henry granted dukedoms to and when, who his mistresses were and which ones bore him children, which families were burdened with treason charges (and the veracity of said charges), and what the line of succession was under various kings. I am more than happy to debate such scintillating questions such as "What is the likelihood that Katherine of Aragon was a virgin when she married Henry Tudor?" Consider it a charming idiosyncrasy.

That being established, it's no surprise that I a) read a lot of historical fiction and b) I drool when I see previews for The Tudors. E, who, to his credit, does not share this obsession for all things Henry, was away last weekend, so I Netflixed the first disc.

There are some good things about this show. The sets and costumes are utterly dazzling, the little actress playing Princess Mary is adorable, Jonathan Rhys Meyers is a great actor and seems to embody the passionate energy I've always associated with Henry, and wow, the sex is pretty hot. However, it was a damn good thing I was watching alone, because a companion would have probably clubbed me to get me to stop pointing out the ungodly blatant historical inaccuracies, lambasting their depiction of Katherine (okay--she was only six years older than he was! She looks like his MOM on the show!), and spewing facts on how the lineage of hottie Charles Brandon would shape British history for the next two generations.

When I read historical fiction, there's no one to carry on this type of conversation with me, but believe me, they still happen. Here are my thoughts on some of the historical fiction works I read in 2007:

Innocent Traitor - This was the best of the bunch, and a serious contender for the Pub of Knowledge Best Book of the Year. Penned by aforementioned historian Alison Weir, this novel is about Lady Jane Grey, a young, bookish heroine with true helicopter parents who seek to exploit their daughter for their own advancement. Jane is the granddaughter of Henry VIII's sister (yes! the one who offs the King of Portugal in The Tudors--which didn't really happen, but she did return to England and marry Charles Brandon, hence the progeny) and is named in the Act of Succession--essentially, if all of Henry's children died, the throne would pass to her mother, and ultimately, to her. When Henry's son, Edward VI, dies at age 16, various British factions conspire to illegitimize Henry's daughters, the eventual Queens Mary I and Elizabeth I, and put Jane on the throne. Weir stays remarkably true to history and brings a wonderfully engaging storytelling quality to this novel. She doesn't bog the reader down with facts, but does provide a vivid landscape of not just Jane's world, but of the English court in those tumultuous weeks. Even the minor characters are well-developed, the dialogue is strong, and Jane herself is an empathetic protagonist: even her well-documented idiosyncrasies--her fanatic Protestantism, her refusal of the crown, her behavior on the block--are portrayed in a way that seems fresh. It's all the fun of historical fiction, but without any of the fluffiness or intense description of brocaded bustiers being untied which often infiltrates other works chronicling this era...

The Constant Princess -- The titular princess is Catalina of Aragon, and Phillippa Gregory's story explores an often-ignored portion of English history--the time when Katherine (she adopts the English form of her name upon coronation), who had been promised to the Tudor dynasty since near-birth as part of an important political alliance, first comes to England as the bride of Arthur Tudor, Henry's older brother and the Man Who Would Be King. Except he dies. According to history, Katherine and Arthur never consummated their marriage, so Katherine was free to re-marry, and there are a number of personal and political reasons why Henry chose to take her as his bride. Of course, later he starts to doubt (in Gregory's opinion, quite fairly) that Katherine was a virgin when they married and begins divorce proceedings, but the book, to its credit, doesn't delve into that area. It chronicles the early years of Katherine and Henry's marriage, particularly the tension she feels between being a Spanish princess and an English queen, and gives a fresh perspective of her as a young woman, rather than as an aging queen who gets dumped because she can't have a son (which, by the way, she did, but he died within a month--let's hope "Obscure Tudor Facts" is a category if I ever get on Jeopardy).

Virgin: Prelude to the Throne - I feel like reading this was a symptom of Tudor withdrawal. I didn't want to shell out the bank to purchase the hardcover Boleyn Inheritance when it first came out, so I picked up this Robin Maxwell novel at the library. Eh. I actually think this was one of the few pieces of historical fiction where knowledge is a hindrance. If you had no conception that the use of "virgin" in any title about Elizabeth I is probably ironic, then you might find these tales of her early life, where she's dealing with being Anne Boleyn's daughter while being seduced by skeezy-stepfather-and-later-treason-casualty Thomas Seymour, it might be pretty interesting. But the pacing and descriptions weren't enough to hold my focus on their own, and I spent most of the book waiting for Seymour to lose his head and Elizabeth to realize guys just aren't worth the trouble that marriage intends.

The Boleyn Inheritance -- This is actually my favorite novel of Phillippa Gregory's since The Other Boleyn Girl. Like in Constant Princess, she brings to life an often-neglected slice of Henry's reign--wives #4 and #5. Neither lasted more than two years, which is why they often get ignored, and the women themselves usually get typecast: Anne of Cleves was apparently smelly and unattractive, and Kathryn Howard was a stupid slut (Alison Weir comes pretty close to using those exact words). Gregory, however, fleshes them out as quite sympathetic characters, particularly since they're both essentially forced into marrying a guy with whom no woman survives marriage, a once-dazzling guy who is now a bloated, arrogant, tyrannical old man with a rotting leg. The voices of Anne and Kathryn are interwoven with that of Jane Boleyn, Anne Boleyn's likely-deranged sister-in-law (who was largely responsible for testimony that convicted both her husband George Boleyn and Anne). Jane is back at court and becomes involved in the lives of both queens, most devastatingly in Kathryn's, who is too naive to know any better.

2007 : More adventures, round 1

2008-01-14T18:36:00.000-05:00

Following the Grand Champion, here's round 1 of what I read in '07. Most of this is
a) stuff I read between January - February of '07
b) contemporary fiction, not by (how can I say this and not sound snotty) John Updike or Phillip Roth

I really don't read this much by Jodi Picoult, but I figured I should do these with some sort of attention to theme.

V for Vendetta
Desert Solitaire
The Dante Club - Part of the reading kick I went on while teaching Inferno, thinking maybe I'd get some interesting insight on how others viewed Dante. The book had a great premise--historical poets rocking in Boston, translating the epic, and solving a lurid mystery. But the novel, despite being a best-seller, felt stale and plodding to me. I kept reading it, but I was never sure why.
The Tenth Circle - Another Inferno-inspired adventure, and my first introduction to the fiction juggernaut that is Jodi Picoult. Crack-like in its addictive quality, Tenth centers on the Stone family: comic artist dad Daniel, Dante professor Laura, and precociously beautiful daughter Trixie (Dante aficianados need only one guess as to where she got her name). While much of the ink is devoted to fourteen-year-old Trixie's intense and volatile relationship and breakup with hockey hottie Jason Underhill, the real heart of the story is Daniel's will to make himself oblivious to the tragedies and issues of the women in his life. The book takes a weird turn when Trixie bolts town for an Alaskan village, and the ending is woefully predictable, but Picoult's descriptions are fairly riveting and the story is compelling, if borderline soap operatic. Others in the Picoult canon:
My Sister's Keeper - Probably the most famous of Picoult's works, this is the best overall novel of hers that I've read, although I think Nineteen Minutes had greater potential. Anna is a wonderful heroine who was conceived specifically to provide blood cells and bone marrow to sister Kate (no pressure, right?), but sues her parents for emancipation when they demand she donate a kidney to Kate. Other than a blah tangent involving a romance between Anna's lawyer and guardian pro tem, the characters (particularly Kate and Anna's parents) are fantastic and plot is nicely paced and innovative in a way that probably set Picoult up for M.Night Shymalan-esque criticisms in future novels, a la Tenth Circle. This book is also being made into a motion picture starring Cameron Diaz and Dakota Fanning; I nearly threw up in my mouth when I heard this, because such casting totally undermines Picoult's characterization of the sisters-- they're teenagers, the Fanning sisters are tots in comparison.
Keeping Faith - Girl sees dad's mistress coming out of the shower. Girl's mom freaks out. Girl starts seeing an imaginary, angelic friend and bleeding from the hands and sides. Mom must fight off various forces to keep girl (Faith--ahem) safe from various sources including a tele-atheist and the court system. Sounds ridiculous, but it was actually an innovative and compelling look at religion and spirituality, not to mention the politics of child custody battles.
Nineteen Minutes - I was on track to simply love her most recent novel, which deconstructs a fictional Columbine-esque massacre at a high school in rural New Hampshire. Really, any concerns I'd had about the maudlin nature of her writing or the sensational quality of her plots were evaporating, because she was telling the story and crafting the characters (including the shooter and his parents) in such a gripping and empathetic way--no one is entirely good or evil. However, the ending really bothered me: I respected and appreciated the point she made, but I had absolute hatred for the ending, enough that I couldn't honestly recommend it. I can now, but I'm still wrestling with those last chapters.

2007: Literary Adventures

2007-12-31T09:59:00.000-05:00

Back when I embarked on this bloggy journey, "Literary Adventures" were a primary staple. I enjoyed reviewing books, either new or classics, and liked having a bread-crumb trail as to where I'd been. I don't want to keep dropping "2007 has been a really weird year" as an excuse for everything, but falling off reviewing wasn't an intentional decision, and blogging about books is a habit I'd like to re-establish. Here's the one book you should read, followed in future posts by a backlog of 2-3 sentence reviews of all other books read this year. That being said, the winner of the Pub of Knowledge 2007 Literary Adventure Bowl is....

Dear Catastrophe Waitress by Brendan Halpin

I've long thought that memoirist/novelist Brendan Halpin is the contemporary writer that no one is reading but everyone should be. I'm a huge fan of his because he writes with a voice that's equal parts sarcastic and soulful, tells heartfelt stories of complicated relationships, and has an ear for language that renders his books almost compulsively engaging.

DCW was his fifth book and third novel. The plot intertwines the stories of two dysfunctional yet sympathetic characters: Mark, gawky kid who means well, plays funny songs on the guitar ("I'm Pukin' My Guts Out," for one), and gets dumped a lot--most brutally by a chick who bounces to California to get famous and immortalizes him in her breakout song, "Two-Minute Man." There's also Phillippa, a sort of burnout punk chick who moves to London, understandably makes out with this guy in a poor act of timing, and her loser musician boyfriend responds by elevating her to sing-along fame with the unlikely hit "Phillippa Cheats."

Now, I always like to pretend I have sympathy for these sorts of people, because variations of "Suzy/Susie/etc" songs are numerous, not to mention a delightful Stephen Foster ditty that everyone loves to sing me. I commiserate with Roxannes, Jeremys, and Alisons, who have also been serendaded more times than is appropriately imaginable. But this story is more akin to the real life "Delilah" (of "Hey There, Delilah" fame--you know she's an Olympic hopeful in the steeplechase and talked to the songwriter like, once), except that song's nice, and the songs of DCW are pretty brutal. Still, it's a fun premise to build on, and one that helps it from being a "niche" book--this isn't a novel just for women, or music fans, or teenagers. The experience of not only going through a breakup, but having your personality literally broadcasted is a kind of personal inferno that few have experienced, but most can relate to.

From the first pages of the book, you know Mark and Phillippa will eventually meet and forge a connection over much more than their shared appearance in crappy songs. But what's really enjoyable about this story is that even though you essentially know the ending, it's not predictable at all. (I have a particular fondness for this storytelling capability--as an aficianado of historical fiction, I long for originality: Troy always falls, Anne Boleyn always gets axed, Henry VIII never makes good decisions. ) Halpin keeps the stories of his protagonists engaging, innovative, and embodying his trademark combination of self-deprecating hilarity and searingly heartfelt loss and sorrow. A few teasers: Mark takes a hammer to a stereo system. Phillippa changes her name. Foam art projects, a major-league baseball player, and a staged murder also play notable roles.

DCW reminds me of my favorite comfort movies--despite having a lot of rather profound and provocative emotional moments, it's ultimately a wonderfully romantic and incredibly pleasant romp through the lives of two people you probably wouldn't be friends, with but wish you were. It's accessible and light enough that it's an easy plane/beach/bar book, but also smart and sassy enough that bibliophiles can look forward to it as a genuine treat.

Best original screenplay to come in the next few years? I can only hope

Year in Review: 2007

2007-12-31T08:36:00.000-05:00

It's reflection time here at the Pub: time to recap the year survey-style. I'm slimming more questions because my answers would be boring.

1. What did you do in 2007 that you'd never done before?
So many things! Had a real martini, milked a goat, went horseback riding on the beach, visited the ER, closed on two houses on the same day, began the epic journey that is Ulysses (the end of that journey is nowhere in sight, but sometimes just starting a journey is a big deal), watched a football team have a perfect season. Other than the ER thing, some pretty sweet adventures.

2. Did you keep your New Year's resolutions, and will you make more for next year?
I did the 27 in 2007 thing, and I'll update that later this afternoon. As far as living each day to the fullest, I think I did okay. I went through a weird slump in mid-fall, which was kind of unlike anything I've experienced to this point in my life, and generally, there have been more days where I've gotten home and simply wanted to crawl into bed and sleep. But sometimes you do a lot before 3 PM and then you just need to cash out and have a beer.

3. Did anyone close to you give birth?
A good family friend just had a little girl.

4. Did anyone close to you die?
Not directly, though the dad of someone close passed.

5. What countries did you visit?
Canada and Costa Rica.

6. What experiences from 2007 will remain etched upon your memory, and why?
- Seeing Patti Smith in concert. She's the coolest person ever.
- The Chicago experience
- Saying goodbye to three very close friends who moved away
- Sitting on the floor of our new casa in a sea of boxes
- Walking to new neighborhood establishments rather than having to drive 45+ minutes

I partially detest this question because it always makes me remember bad stuff that I don't really want to detail, but not all etched memories are awesome, and I guess that makes the good times even sweeter.

7. Did you suffer illness or injury?
Yeah, my eye swelled to the size of a tangerine and I was in the ER, haven't you been paying attention?

8. What was the best thing you bought?
The new house; again, haven't you been paying attention? I'd also have to say the "Herbs for Men" tea that I purchased for E's stocking was a pretty clutch purpose.

9. Whose behavior merited celebration?
Tom Brady, Lloyd Carr (not always, but most of the time), and many of the people I see on a day-to-day basis.

10. Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed?
It's easy to say the Virginia Tech shooter. It's harder to say the people who treated the whole event with flippancy and general obnoxiousness. Also, all the jerks who responded to the Chicago Marathon Disaster with the comments of either "those stupid elite runners dumped water on their heads," or "you run 26.2 miles in the heat, you deserve whatever you get."

11. Where did most of your money go?
Three guesses and the first two don't count.

10. What did you get really, really, really excited about?
The aforementioned Patti Smith concert, seeing a live taping of "Wait, wait... don't tell me!," and actually pulling off selling a house in this market.

11. What song will always remind you of 2007? Other important musical moments?
"Hey There Delilah," "Beautiful Girls," "Umbrella,""Stronger," --> lay off, I work in at a high school, okay? Though I can't lie, I really do like the last two. Otherwise: I'm a huge fan of Icky Thump (in my opinion, the best White Stripes CD ever), I was excited to hear Amy Winehouse get more radio airplay, and Eddie Vedder's Into the Wild soundtrack is in constant rotation.

12. Compared to this time last year, are you:
a) happier or sadder? About the same.
b) thinner or fatter? Maybe a little fatter, but all my clothes still fit, so whatever
c) richer or poorer? Poorer, again, haven't you been paying attention?

13. What do you wish you'd done more of?
Yoga and visiting friends. I feel like I write this every year. Maybe that's a sign of something? I also could have prepped more thoroughly for this year's fantasy football draft.

14. What do you wish you'd done less of?
Taken on responsibilities that I really should have said no too, though I think I'm getting a lot better about prioritizing my own health and happiness ahead of that of others (which sounds selfish, but I'm talking about work-related things...)

15. How did you spend Christmas?
Stayed in the D, spent Christmas Eve at Larco's with E's family, spent Christmas morning opening presents, eating well, scratching lottery tickets ($10!), prepping appetizers for an afternoon/evening of boisterous eating, drinking, and Euchre playing. Nothing puts a cap on the holiday spirit like an intoxicated Boggle game at 1:30 AM.

16. What was your favorite TV program?
I refuse to answer this question since CW cancelled Veronica Mars in favor of a lineup that can only politely be defined as total shit.

17. Do you hate anyone now that you didn't hate this time last year?
My tolerance for crappy behavior in all sectors of society has really gone down, so I dislike a lot people now that I didn't dislike at this time last year, but I wouldn't say it's worthy of the Big H.

18. What was the best book you read?
See "2007 Literary Adventures," appearing within the next few days.

19. What was your favorite film of this year?
Juno. It's hard to say whether that or No Country for Old Men is the "best" film (and I think they're both going to pale in comparison to There Will Be Blood), but I really loved Juno, and it was a truly pleasurable movie-going experience. Per usual, we spent a lot of time "catching up" on old movies and classics we haven't seen, and on that note, I'll just say that if you've never seen Badlands, go do it now. Like, right now. This post will still be here when you get back.

20. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?
I was 28. I took a walk in downtown Ferndale, had some treats and coffee, graded some papers, and picked up lunch from Fly Trap on the way home. Spent a leisurely afternoon playing Scrabble and watching Gilmore Girls reruns, and then went to Mon Jin Lau with E's parents. Drove home in the snow and woke up to mounds of fluffy goodness the next morning.

21.What's the best trip you took?
DK and Joni's wedding in Suttons Bay in July.

22. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2007?
Intelligent/contemporary? I did get rid of a massive amount of bad crap before moving, so I feel like I at least made progress in this area.

23. What kept you sane?
Writing letters, running, and Evan.

24. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?
Tom Brady's looking pretty good right now.

25. What political issue stirred you the most?
The ramp-up to the election. Which seems like a lame answer, but I think the 2008 Decision is going to be huge and important, and the posturing by candidates and reaction of voters is already proving to be interesting.

26. Who did you miss?
Becca

27. Who was the best new person you met?
I met them before, but I've loved getting to spend more time with Todd and Gretchen, as well as other fabulous Ferndale residents.

28. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2007.
No matter how much adversity you think you're facing, someone else is facing that same adversity with greater challenges and better overall aplomb. (I knew this already, but it was vividly reinforced this year.)

Christmas Eve on Woodward Avenue

2007-12-24T11:02:00.000-05:00

It's our first holiday season in our new digs--the lawn is dusted with snow, the lights on the tree are twinkling, and there are tasty treats to be found in every cabinet and corner of the house.

Holiday vacation didn't officially start till Friday afternoon, and much of the weekend was spent frolicking at parties and having minor meltdowns in Target and on the Ferndale sidewalk as I realized a) I am a total loser for not finishing my holiday shopping sooner and b) I waited too late to go to the post office to send out my stuff--I was standing there yanking the door at 2:04, even though the door clearly stated they closed at 2:00.

The good news is that I went for my longest run since the Corneal Debaucle of 2007--I didn't really measure it, but I was cruising for Tracks 1-14 of Tom Petty's Greatest Hits, so that felt somewhat substantial. However, let's take stock of what I've consumed since Friday:
- Coney fries
- Peppermint mocha
- Appetizer spread of cheese, crackers, popcorn drizzled in chocolate, homemade chocolate candy, plate of turkey and potatoes, beer
- dinner extravaganza courtesy of E: smoked salmon goodness, barely braised lamb, creme caramel, wine

That gets to Saturday night, but the point is I should probably be running more if I expect to eat like this through the New Year, which is a distinct possibility.

2007 retrospectives to come... I'm ready to say adios to this year and start '08, but not before a final week of friends, food, and a healthy degree of my favorite trifecta of activities: movies, books, and sleep.

Happy Holidays to anyone who's bothering to still check in!

Good times!

2007-11-08T16:52:00.001-05:00

I stole this from Dawn. It's been a long time since any sort of Literary Adventure went on around here, and I figured this would be kind of fun, and maybe provoke some interesting discussions...

What you do is take the following list of books (the top 106 marked most often as “unread” by LibraryThing’s users) bold the ones you’ve read, italicize the ones you started but couldn’t finish, strike through the ones you really sort of hated, put an asterisk next to the ones you’ve read more than once, and underline the ones on your own personal To Be Read list.

Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell
Anna Karenina (currently in progress)
Crime and Punishment
Catch-22
One Hundred Years of Solitude
Wuthering Heights
The Silmarillion
Life of Pi
The Name of the Rose
Don Quixote
Moby Dick
Ulysses (only because my reading group stopped meeting... I'll finish it someday)
Madame Bovary
The Odyssey*
Pride and Prejudice*
Jane Eyre*
A Tale of Two Cities
The Brothers Karamazov
Guns, Germs, and Steel: the fates of human societies
War and Peace
Vanity Fair
The Time Traveler’s Wife
The Iliad*
Emma
The Blind Assassin (Atwood ROCKS!)
The Kite Runner
Mrs Dalloway
Great Expectations (sadly, I really don't remember much about it, but I don't remember hating)
American Gods
A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius (strikethrough, though I swear I'm the only one in the world who feels that way)
Atlas Shrugged
Reading Lolita in Tehran: A Memoir in Books
Memoirs of a Geisha
Middlesex
Quicksilver
Wicked : The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West
The Canterbury Tales*
The Historian : A Novel (Gooo Blue!)
A Portrait of the Artist As A Young Man
Love In the Time of Cholera
Brave New World
The Fountainhead
Foucault’s Pendulum
Middlemarch
Frankenstein
The Count of Monte Cristo
Dracula
A Clockwork Orange
Anansi Boys
The Once and Future King
The Grapes of Wrath
The Poisonwood Bible
1984
Angels & Demons
The Inferno*
The Satanic Verses
Sense and Sensibility
The Picture of Dorian Gray
Mansfield Park
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest
To the Lighthouse
Tess of the D’Urbervilles
Oliver Twist
Gulliver’s Travels
Les Misérables
The Corrections
The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay
The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time
Dune
The Prince
The Sound and the Fury
Angela’s Ashes
The God of Small Things
A People’s History of the United States : 1492-Present
Cryptonomicon (only because John Sordyl says so)
Neverwhere
A Confederacy of Dunces
A Short History of Nearly Everything
Dubliners
The Unbearable Lightness of Being
Beloved
Slaughterhouse-Five
The Scarlet Letter
Eats, Shoots & Leaves
The Mists of Avalon
Oryx and Crake
Collapse : How Societies Choose to Fail or Succeed
Cloud Atlas
The Confusion
Lolita
Persuasion (in progress... since 2005)
Northanger Abbey
The Catcher in the Rye (again, don't really remember it, which is sad because I remember thinking it was cool at the time... should re-read it)
On the Road
The Hunchback of Notre Dame
Freakonomics : a Rogue Economist Explores the Hidden Side of Everything
Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance
The Aeneid
Watership Down
Gravity’s Rainbow
The Hobbit
In Cold Blood : A True Account of A Multiple Murder and Its Consequence
White Teeth
Treasure Island (I feel like I read this with my parents when I was little, but I might be delusional)
David Copperfield
The Three Musketeers

No Girl is an Island

2007-10-20T18:25:00.000-04:00

In the past two weeks, I've become exceedingly grateful for the presence of other people in my life. And while I'd like to report that this revelation came to me organically, via the larger forces of the universe and deep personal meditation, that's not really true.

Less than forty-eight hours after finishing the Chicago Marathon, I found myself in the ER, for a pretty disgusting injury related to, but not directly resulting from, my arduous run. It involves my cornea, and that's all I'll say, because this is generally-speaking a mellow Pub, and not a place where deleted footage from Saw is welcomed.

As I described to the ER nurse what the problem was, I was utterly appalled that the first thing she asked me was "Did you drive yourself here?" I couldn't open either of my eyes and was practically trembling from how bad it hurt. The ER was fifteen minutes from home. Was she on crack? Did I drive myself? "You'd be surprised," she said, when I told her I hadn't.

I didn't have to drive myself because my wonderful husband (who, Christ almighty, has earned his spouse stripes over the past couple of weeks) promptly packed me up in the Prius and drove me. Without question. Without complaint. Without criticism. He drove me the next day, and the next, and dropped me off at school and picked me up when I was finally ready to try and return to the land of the living--er, seeing. When he couldn't, my mother-in-law drove me. Lately, a colleague has been driving me to and from work every day, friends have been checking in (after many of them demonstrated such epic feats of friendship during and after the race), and my bosses have made very clear that the only priority in this situation is me healing--work can and will wait. The kindness of other human beings has been nearly overwhelming.

I generally think I'm pretty tough and independent, but these past weeks have been enormously easier because other people have been willing to take uncommonly good care of me, and I am extremely grateful. I only hope that as I heal, I will continue to return the unselfish giving of time and energy that they have. And that the rest of the world takes a cue from them too, because if we all treated each other the way I've been treated, the reduction of crap in this world would be diminished like I can't even describe.

When Donne proclaimed his deep musings on our interconnectedness, I have to wonder if he'd experienced not only emotional powerlessness, but physical as well. It's probably along the lines of what people in my line of work call a "life lesson."

Chicago: "Race Report"

2007-10-13T13:23:00.000-04:00

By now, the stories are morphing into legends, tall tales even. Everyone knows about the guy who died, about the depleted resources at the aid stations, about the unbelievable support that the South Side gave us lunatic "Iwillnotquit!!!" runners on the final apocalyptic 10K. Does the internet need one more race report from its favorite tortoise, Susannah Nichols? Perhaps not, but if nothing else, this is a story that will be told in bars for years to come, and this is my little virtual pub, so here we go...

Leading up to Chicago, I really thought I was going to have a great day. It hadn't been the greatest summer of training, but I'd really pulled it together, had completed a phenomenal 20-miler training run that was better than last year's, and knew that it was entirely possible to still pull off a sub-5 hour time. I wasn't banking on it, and I knew I wouldn't need it to still feel pleased with the experience, but I felt so good and well-trained that I knew I was going to be able to have a nice, solid race, maybe PR, and earn the indulgently huge ice-cream cone I'd been dreaming of all summer as my marathon reward.

We headed to Cafe Spiaggia for a pre-race meal--I had some heavenly pasta with seared tuna, olives, and tomatoes, tossed in olive oil. While I had to forgo the delicious wine and cocktails that the rest of the crew (Evan, Alok, Jenn & Norfolk from DC, Janna) opted to imbibe, I did get to savor a bit of the dessert menu--bites of Evan's profiteroles and Janna's pistachio gelato, and my own sorbetti spread: pomegranate, pear, and basil. Yes, basil! Who would've thought? It was fresh, flavorful, and felt like a happy omen of what the next day would bring. After an ill-fated trip to a karaoke bar, where some dude was having a surprise party, I opted to stop stealing sips from E's Hacker-Pschorr Oktoberfest, and get my butt home and in bed. I cabbed it back to Hotel Sax, took a shower, and snuggled up in bed with a magazine and my iPod until E got home.

Right. Race report.

Like everyone else, I'd been worried about the weather all week, so I woke up early on Sunday and immediately cracked open the window. Warm, but not sauna-like. It could be worse. I grew up in Baltimore, for god's sake. I was going to be fine. I was going to be tough. I was going to, in the immortal words of Jay, smoke this m-fer like it ain't no thang. I'd been drinking water all weekend to ensure proper hydration, and I kept doing so. Got dressed, chowed my Clif bar, urged E out of bed so he could draw a big block M on my bicep with the waterproof blue eyeliner we'd picked up the night before.

It's hard to write this now knowing what happened later. If I'd had a clue, would I have even left the hotel room?

E walked me down to the race. I was listening to critical pre-race tuneage on the iPod, and he held my hand and helped guide use through the surge of thousands of runners heading to Grant Park. It always gives me a thrill to think of the power and euphoria at these events, and how much I love being a part of it. I got in the epic port-a-pot line, gave E a final hug, and began my final preparations.

The unseeded area of the start corral was absolutely packed. First, it was hard to even figure out how to get on to the street because it was all fenced off. Plenty of runners were just jumping the fence, which seemed pretty stupid. I mean, I know we all think we're so badass and invincible, but do you really want to break your face before you even start? (Given what happened, that may have actually been the way to go, but we didn't know that at the time.) It was hard not to feel claustrophobic, but I found a spot and stretched a bit.

Miles 1-3: Gun went off, sixteen minutes later I crossed the start line. The first mile clicked off at about a 10:20 pace, and I felt good. I swear some photographer yelled my name and then smiled when I turned around, though I have no idea who it could've been and am fairly sure I made up the whole thing to encourage myself.

It was so crowded that it was hard to see the sidelines, but I caught a glimpse of E's bright yellow Michigan shirt from the sideline and yelled his name. We waved and smiled, and I kept rocking.

The course was much more crowded than Detroit, and for miles 2-3, I was elbow-to-elbow with other runners. It wasn't uncomfortable, but it was hard to move or pass without imitating a punt returner, which I just wasn't going to do. My splits were a lot slower, around 11:30-11:45, and I thought If this keeps up, five hours is going to be tough. I wasn't upset, in fact, I felt proud that I just accepted the thought and kept plugging along.

But I knew things were going to be even rougher when, from the very first aid station, water seemed scarce. There was still some left--I just had to go to a further table to get it, but it seemed off. And it was worse, because under cooler circumstances, I just would have bypassed the madness and doubled up at the next aid station, but I knew that with the sucko heat and humidity--which I could really feel from the very start of the race--I couldn't afford to miss any aid stations.

Miles 4-5: I couldn't believe that by mile 4, I was already feeling the telltale chills of dehydration. I was also a little pissed at myself that I wasn't enjoying the scenery more, but whatever, I was running a marathon where at 9:00 AM, it was 80 degrees in the shade. No time for sightseeing. Nonetheless, I noticed that even though I was taking walk breaks already, if I did get fluid in me, I felt fine right away. Take care of yourself and don't quit, I told myself, even though people around me were contemplating dropping out by that point. Which was understandable, since the second two aid stations had NOTHING--I got hydrated at mile 5 by swigging out of a jug of water being passed between runners. I could hear the voice of my friend Mike joking about how I was probably contracting herpes simplex (which he always does whenever we drink out of the same cup), but what can you do. Herpes or not, I needed water.

Miles 6-8: I think we were headed into the zoo at this point, and people were dropping off the course to run to the water fountains or the large fountain to dunk their heads in. I didn't, but certainly understood. The sun was already fucking brutal by that point, and I had to exert a lot of mental energy to stay focused on the task and not think about the heat. At one point, I must have looked frustrated, and was barely jogging along, because a woman patted me on the back, and in a Spanish accent, told me that we weren't letting this day get the best of us. Damn straight. It wasn't bad in the shade, so I just tried to stay in those areas.

I also saw a guy dressed up as testicles, which was pretty cool. Nothing like getting a high-five from some hairy balls during a marathon.

Miles 9-10: I knew one of my best buddies from high school, Dave, would be at Mile 10, so that became my primary focal point for the next few miles. I strategized how to have a short-but-effective conversation, got excited about seeing his delightful fiance's ring ("two miles till you see the ring.... mile and a half till you see the ring..." I'm not even kidding), and frankly, he was the only reason I ran a whole strong mile between 9-10, because you don't walk when you know someone is going to be there cheering for you.

And cheering he was -- this guy is easily the most enthusiastic person I've ever met, and he was literally screaming at the top of his lungs about how awesome I was, to such an insane degree that I didn't even stop and talk, just slapped a high-five and rode the wave of energy and excitement for the next mile or so.

Miles 11-13: After the Dave sighting, I had E and the crew to look forward to at the half. Even though I was feeling good (all right--I was feeling okay), people around me were fading, and walking a lot more than they should have been. I focused on the Sears Tower for that stretch south--it was a nice and reassuring reminder of the distance I'd covered--and whenever I checked, it really was always closer.

It was good to see people at the half--it was a grim time at that point, I think my half split was around 2:40, which is about 12 minutes slower than what I usually run a half in, but by that point, I knew that simply finishing would be an achievement. I was pretty sure, now that the field had thinned out, that I could pick up some time on the back half, and I didn't think a 5:15-5:20 finish would be anything to be ashamed of. I got a kiss from E and started the East-West loop.

Miles 14-15: I was really hoping to see Becca. She'd planned to be at about 7-8 locations along the course, and I couldn't believe I hadn't seen her yet. "Running for Both of Us" had been a constant mantra for me ever since she'd had to withdraw from the race (when she'd been anticipating a shot at an Olympic Trials qualifying time!!) earlier in the fall due to injury. Plenty of times, both that day, and on training runs, I'd be tempted to walk or go slower, and I could convince myself not to by simply knowing that she wouldn't. So in any case, I really wanted to see her. I didn't, but got good pickup by some tunes along the way--"Gimme Shelter," (No matter how much this sucks, you could be on Belle Isle in 20-mph wind, I told myself) "Steady as She Goes," and "Paradise City," courtesy of whoever does those Nike Rock & Run things. The GNR felt like a good omen, and gave me enough adrenaline for a good mile. Even though I wasn't hauling ass like I'd hoped, I could feel that I was well-trained, strong, and healthy.

Things were still dire, though. Too much fatigue, too much sweat, too much walking, not enough water. It was hard to ignore the vibe of discouragement on the course--no one was whining (that had ceased around miles 6-7), but there was just a disappointing feeling that this wasn't how it was supposed to be. Some dude near me was babbling about not having enough dilithium, and I really wasn't sure whether to be amused or concerned. I chose to be amused. I had to--the race now felt like a duty, like a personal point of pride, and not a celebration, which is how big races tend to feel.

Mile 16: I began to hear rumblings from the sideline that the course was going to be shut down. I decided the spectators were on crack, and utterly obnoxious for even vocalizing such blasphemies within earshot of runners. I kept running. I remembered that The Madison Marathon got shut down a couple of years back due to excessive heat... but it couldn't be that bad, could it? What was it, high 80s? (It was actually 94 degrees. Nice.)

Mile 17: I saw E with Alok and Ryan, who looked as zapped as I felt. All I could do was smile and jog by, but I was inwardly so glad to see them. I hadn't expected to see E again till the end, and it helped to see a familiar and supportive face.

Miles 18-19: I heard a cop on a bullhorn announcing that the race had been cancelled and we had to stop running and walk the race to a pickup point. I couldn't help it--I broke down crying (I cry a lot, but it's usually of the quiet, weepy, variety -- I don't remember when I got caught with sobs like this). I was so upset. I'd been trying so hard to take care of myself, and even if I wasn't going to PR, I knew I was going to be able to finish and do the best I could under the circumstances. I couldn't bear that it was over, that this, Chicago, was going to be my first DNF.

I felt horrible--I didn't want to see anyone, didn't want to get to the end and see my friends and admit what had happened. I didn't want a medal. I didn't want my long-anticipated ice-cream cone. I was angry at myself for even buying a stupid jacket at the expo the day before, now that I wouldn't even finish the race, I had no right to be wearing it.

I pulled myself together within a few minutes, and couldn't help continuing to run, even though the cops said not to. I was so well-conditioned and felt like I still had so much in the tank that I had to put it to use somehow. But between the sticky and slippery sidewalks, hollering officers, swearing runners, I couldn't run for very fast or long. At least this slow-ass time won't go on my running record, I thought to myself, self-deprecatingly.

I cruised under a bridge where a race photographer was still grinning and snapping pictures. In what I hoped would be a visual opus to the 2007 Chicago Marathon experience, I put up my middle finger as I ran under the bridge. No offense meant to the photographer.

Miles 20-22: At long last, Becca found me and ran out of the crowd. She could tell I was dejected and walking and looked crappy, but when she got to me, she clearly hadn't heard about what had happened, and I started crying again when I told her. She just hugged me and walked with me and told me how proud she was of me. We got to a corner where cops were shuttling people into buses, and I didn't know what was happening, but I sure as hell was NOT getting on a bus. We noticed that hundreds of runners were simply continuing the course, and we decided to join them. Even if I wasn't getting a medal or a time, I started this race and I was going to finish it. We started running together.

There's nothing more uplifting than jogging along with an elite runner (even if she is your BFF) who says "you're still doing so well, you're in such good shape!" Becca was a rockstar for those miles, veering off to grab me water, Gatorade, whatever was available. "Your personal running caddy!" she called herself.

The race had been called, but the people of Chicago--from the cops to the average citizens--didn't let us down. People on the South Side poured out of their houses with boom boxes, water jugs, and cups. They mixed gatorade and lemonade on their lawns, slapped high-fives, and shouted encouragement. Even the cops, who I'd thought would be pissed at our civil disobedience, had to grudgingly smile as we ran by. "They from the heart," one said as we went by.

We jogged along a stretch by 94 (that looked oddly Detroit-esque, we observed), and I noticed that my watch was clicking past five hours. Great.

Becca and I had fun, whether it was picking out the more attractive officers, stopping to dance to someone's radio, or chatting with other runners. We were approaching Mile 24, where Evan and Alok were to meet us, when a guy next to us started screaming in a way that could only be described as blood-curdling. He went down, and we ran over to him. He kept saying he was okay, but was grabbing his leg and continuing to scream. Becca tried to help him to the side of the road, and I sprinted ahead to find help (btw, I know this particular anecdote really isn't about me, but damn, I was proud of how fast I ran to the next cop--to be able to reel off a super-fast 200m at that point?) . We came back to where Becca was feeding him Gatorade. The cops got him on to the grass, we wished him well, and kept going.

Miles 23-25: Those final miles felt like the end of the world. Sirens were wailing non-stop (we'd learned that every ambulance in the city was on the course, and more were being drawn in from surrounding suburbs), the heat was unrelenting, fire hydrants were spraying water into the street, people were doing horrible things, from wading ankle deep in the water to scooping water out of the gutter into their cups (Becca yelled at that particular person to stop, life was not that bad).

We found the guys at Mile 24, and they walked with us for the next mile. I remember little about it. I was glad to see them, but I hurt. I had moved through the stages of grieving--I was no longer in denial or really angry, but felt numb and surreal. What on earth had just happened?

Mile 25-26.2: At Mile 25, the guys veered off to head to meet the rest of the group. Becca and I ran the last mile, and she went up the Roosevelt incline with me. She left me at the last 300m, and I ran them as fast as I could, which was pretty speedily if I do say so myself.

What surprised me, however, is that there was still a finish line at all. We'd been told that there wouldn't be one--no times, no glory, but as I crossed the line and stopped my watch--6:04:28--I got a medal, a guy was calling names out, and it seemed that the race had continued in a bizarre and sweat-soaked manner. (My dad, who'd signed up for race updates, called Evan a little later to confirm I had finished in six hours.) Someone draped a heat blanket around me (I know, wtf), and I wandered up Columbus to find my friends, feeling surreal.

We were meeting in a section of park at the corner of Columbus and Jackson, and when I got there, I spread out my heat blanket, collapsed on it, and tried to process what I'd just experienced. Oddly, it felt a bit like when Michigan dropped their Ap State game this year -- after the initial shock, it was just unbelievable. That didn't just happen, did it? That wasn't really the Chicago Marathon. It couldn't have been. But it was.

When the others found me, I was eager to go home, get showered, curl up in the hotel robe, and rest until dinner. Despite the outpouring of anger that we heard over the next few days, I didn't hear much complaining or griping when we were out--just people in near-wonderment, completely confused at what they'd just experienced. It was awful--but it was also absurd and strangely uplifting.

I feel very ambiguous about the fact that my six-hour time is recorded, because it feels inadequate. It doesn't show that I ran the last 10K under the impression that it was for personal satisfaction only, and nothing more. It doesn't show that we stopped to help fellow runners, or because we had to listen to officers telling us not to run. It doesn't record the emotional upheaval of the cancellation, or the unbelievable heat of the day, or the fact that this was an endurance event that none of us trained for.

Still, I'll never be sorry I finished, and I'll never forget what that day asked of me. I'm glad I could answer.

Sidelined

2007-10-11T08:13:00.000-04:00

So, apparently I didn't survive Chicago as unscathed as I thought. I've been sidelined since Tuesday with a pretty bad eye injury (I'd go into more detail, but it's pretty disgusting), and using the computer for long periods of time is rough. Hopefully I'll be back in action by tomorrow. Thanks for the well wishes.

Chicago, the short version

2007-10-08T22:42:00.000-04:00

For those who might be checking this and wondering, I have survived the 2007 Chicago Marathon. Unscathed. No heat stroke or hospitalization.

It was a brutal day, and nothing that months of training and all sorts of visualization could have prepared me for. But I finished the race. (Unofficially, perhaps? No one seems to know for sure.) Six hours and four minutes, but that doesn't even begin to tell the story.

Stay tuned....

Faustian Football

2007-09-01T15:45:00.000-04:00

So a couple of weeks ago, I said "I don't care what happens with Michigan football, as long as they beat Ohio State and win their bowl game."

I'm feeling pretty fucking stupid right now.

Absolut Disinfectant

2007-08-22T18:18:00.001-04:00

This is kind of gross, but so useful!

A couple of weeks ago, one of my water bottles (a Nalgene) apparently didn't get rinsed after being filled with Propel, and black mold developed on the inside. I soaked, I scrubbed, I mentally channelled the mold, and nothing worked.

Ever the resourceful one, I googled "black mold plastic removal" and found a lot of useless stuff, but one site that advised cleaning out said bottle with rubbing alcohol.

No rubbing alcohol to be had in the casa, plus, I was concerned that such a cleaner applied to something I was going to drink out of seemed a bit hazardous. But, I eurekad, we had plenty of OTHER alcohol! I grabbed some vodka and scrubbed with that, and--mold gone! Another dishwasher rinse and my bottle is back in the land of the drinkable.

Again, I know it's gross, but I had to share. Yay for a new use for subpar liquor that people bring over during football games and leave at your house!

The Journey Home

2007-08-21T12:12:00.000-04:00

"This feels right."

So spake E, at 1 AM a week ago Sunday, as we sat on the floor in our new dining room, with boxes, paper, and bubble wrap strewn around us. Most of our possessions were still crated up, 90% of the floor in our new casa was obstructed by boxes, and we were both in possession of achy feet, sore backs, and slightly wild-eyed looks reminiscent of truckers who've been on the road way too long. But E was correct -- after several arduous months of waiting and several weeks of rather hellacious packing, we were indeed home. And it felt right.

To recap this little adventure, even though it's now well over a week after the fact:

Friday 8/10: Close on sale of old house in the morning. This goes smoothly--the new owners are nice and quite grateful about our offer to leave them all the floor lamps, since the place has no overhead lights anywhere except the kitchen and bathrooms. They, like we had been before purchasing the place, were on the verge of getting married and rather adorable in every way. We signed about a zillion papers and left, en route to a casual hour or two at our no-longer-owned-but-still-in-possession-of-keys home and a few drinks from my favorite coffee place in Canton (how's this for timing--I finished my last punch card and got a free beverage that day--isn't life delightful sometimes)? However, in classic home-ownership fashion, we got a call informing us that we needed MORE money for the closing of our new place, as if this whole day wasn't going to file us under S for skint in a pretty dramatic way. Because of reasons too complicated to lay out in this likely epic blog entry, we had to haul ass out to Rochester Hills, obtain the funds, and floor it back to Royal Oak for our second closing. It was easily one of the most stressful stretches of my young life.

Outside of some pretty severe intoxication/hangover episodes, I've never felt more like I was going to vomit. E, thankfully, was driving, and I spent much of the afternoon trying to breathe slowly and remind myself that everything was going to be okay once we got through the day. I tried to rationalize that we had everything under control, and the fact that we were in possession of a check larger than my yearly salary was, like, normal. I can generally be a cool cucumber in tense circumstances--no need to throw up now.

"Were you nervous when we got married?" I asked E as we navigated I-75 at a slightly unsafe speed.
"No, were you?"
"No, not all--which I find weird, given that I'm about to puke now."

Indeed, our wedding day was a cake-walk compared to Closing Day. Biggest worry on 7/31/04: will I accidentally get lip gloss on my dress? (Seriously, that was about it.) Biggest worry on 8/10/07: will I spontaneously combust before signing for the new place? The only times in recent memory I remember being so nervous and vomit-verging were when I took my second TFA gig in Detroit, and right before I started Michigan when I was 18. Both felt like rather life-upheaval times as well, but again, I wasn't clutching a check the size of Manitoba on either of those days either.

Luckily, I kept my breakfast down, we got the dinero, made the second closing, signed our names a zillion more times, handed over our life savings, and got the keys. I'd expected to feel an Olympic-level moment of glory, with E and I dancing around in the parking lot singing, "We Did It!!" In fact, we wandered out to the car with a half-glazed over look, glanced at each other, and stated "Yep. We Did It."

We'd packed up a load of clothes and other non-mover things to drop off at the place, and we unloaded, pausing for a surprise visit with a friend and now-neighbor. "You looked fried that day," he'd later comment to me. Indeed, even though we were inside the place that was now OURS, I was too drained to process it -- and I was pissed at myself because we discovered we forgot to ask for a rather key appliance in our weeks of negotiations. We then schlepped back to Saharan Suburbia for one last late-night round of packing.

The emotions of the day definitely caught up to me, because as I was laying in bed, trying to fall asleep, I literally started crying. Why, I couldn't fathom, since I'd wanted to move out of Canton practically since we moved in. The house we bought is literally my dream house (for anyone who's known me a REALLY long time--it's a close relative of the house we lived in in Baltimore when I was younger). And at the same time, I was feeling an uncommon swelling of love for this 1978 Canton house. Much had happened here--I'd gotten married, went through numerous jobs en route to the right one, become a runner... I'd gone from Quarter-Life Crisis to Has Her Shit Together. I'd become an adult, and I'd done it living less than a mile from three of my best friends ever. However, they'd all moved out of Canton already--to Chicago and California--and even though I knew I didn't really want to stay, there was something unbelievably sad about going.

I finally did get some shut-eye, which was fabulous, because the next day was...

Saturday 8/11: Moving Day. E packed up the computers and electronics and zipped over to the new place at about 7 AM. I spent the next hour in a cleaning/ last-minute packing frenzy, and then spent the next hour bored out of my skull until the movers showed up (I'd packed down to the last New Yorker). It did, however, give me time to dig up St. Joseph.

The movers arrived, and despite a few minor snafus with information on the estimate (they had to send over a third guy, but didn't charge us for it), they got the job done quickly and professionally. E's dad, bro, and grandpa showed up to take a few more loads (re: our alcohol) over the new place, and I spent the next five hours attempting to clean up after the movers and otherwise stay out of the way. We finally got going to the new place, and then spent another 2-3 hours unloading. Who knew just standing there and saying "Yeah, that goes in the green room." "Uh, garage." "Take it to the basement, please." could be so exhausting?

After we'd paid up (and given a couch to the movers that was clearly going nowhere in the new house), we walked to the WAB, inhaled a beer and burger, and walked back. Then, feeling a second wind of "Holy shit, we actually live here now!" adrenaline, we unpacked for the next five hours. Clearly, we were out of our minds, but we did have the majority of the kitchen unpacked before we crawled into bed, slightly kidding ourselves for moving into a place with no AC.

On Sunday, I took the aforementioned trip to Ikea and walked through the old house one more time before turning the keys over to the new owners. It felt almost surreal, but I was glad I'd done my weeping on Friday, because there wasn't the need to on Sunday. I then gave my credit card a workout at Bed Bath & Beyond, and unpacked more. The next few days proceeded as such, but despite the lingering stress of not knowing where to find jamaican jerk sauce at a moment's notice, wondering what we'll do with that bookcase sitting in the garage, and breaking down box after box after box, I've moved into a content, and indeed, delighted state.

I'm home.

It feels right.

Pictures are here!

The Irony is Delicious

2007-08-14T07:41:00.001-04:00

Wouldn't you know that last Sunday, the very first lovely day I was not an official resident of Canton, I had to truck back down I-275 to IKEA of all places?

Otherwise, the move was good, the new place is sweet, and life is overall good, except for the lingering boxes (mostly contained to one room now).

I Will Run Through This

2007-08-07T22:11:00.000-04:00

I generally save this type of self-reflective business for private writing sessions, but this is a topic on which I must make myself accountable, and blogging, for better or worse, makes me accountable to my family, friends, and random people from the past who happen to Google me and wind up here.

Two months from now, I'll be running the Chicago Marathon. In one sense, this is familiar territory--I've completed the Detroit Marathon twice, and don't doubt the ability of my body to get me through such an adventure. And yet, October 7th has been looming over me in a slightly sinister way, mostly because it's the first time that I've set a definite time goal for myself in a race of this length--since I made the decision to run, I've sworn to finish in under five hours, a meager goal by any serious running standards, but an ambitious one for this Rudy-esque tortoise.

When I first set that goal, I felt like I had gallons of time at my disposal. I would devote my spring to training. I would do tempo runs and speed work, and run half-marathons and 5Ks and 10Ks, and load up on PRs. I would do weights several times a week. I would become strong and speedy and lithe and limber. I would become a running machine.

Remember a post or two ago, when I mentioned that my attempts to script perfection usually resulted in reality intervening and being like, "uh, not today, pal?" Well, so it goes. If there was ever a year that I don't need to be marathon training, it's this one. Let's rewind to March, when I anticipated devoting a lot of time to running. Briefly, I was asked to be on a committee at work, which was a fairly big honor and one I'm glad I got to be a part of. However, it meant at least 1-2 nights a week when I didn't get home till 9 or later, which effectively eliminated running from the equation. Even on days when I did get home early, it was all I could do to catch up on my work, spend a modicum of quality time with E, and pass out during Heroes.* Rising at 6 AM to get to work eliminated the "run before work" option. At this same time, I was dealing with putting our house on the market, doing the work to purchase our new house, processing the fact that some of our best friends were leaving the state, and wrapping up the school year. My planned Dexter-Ann Arbor Half-Marathon turned into a subpar 5K, and I started "official" Chicago training more behind the proverbial eight-ball than I'd ever been.

In a lot of ways, this wouldn't have been a big deal if I wasn't viewing every single workout as a potential checkmark en route to Sub-Five-Hour-Bliss. If I didn't run under my target time, I was depressed. If I missed a run for something, I agonized about the miles lost. If I had a bad long run, I became convinced that I was a fraud and had no business even trying to run Chicago. And, in the interest of full disclosure, I talk a really good game about being a veritable Cheer Bear in my day-to-day existence, but I can get brutally down on myself if the situation warrants. I run a few crappy miles over the course of a long run, and suddenly I'm bearing a scary resemblance to a weepy Billy Bob in Varsity Blues--you remember, the scene where he's wasted in the back of his pick-up, shooting up his trophies and replaying every insult he's ever received? Yeah, it gets ugly. That was how things were looking around mid-July.

Then I went to Costa Rica, and proceeded not to run for ten days. Okay, a few days I got up with the intent of running, but suffice it to say there was nowhere to go. I jogged in circles for fifteen minutes, did crunches, and called it a day (though really, I was wrecked by the end of every day, and opted to deem the whole week a "cross-training adventure"). I was glad for the break, but convinced that this was the final nail in the sub-five-hour Chicago coffin.

You may ask, why is running Chicago in under five hours such a big damn deal? In one sense, it's very much me chasing the ghost of what I wanted to do at Detroit last year, and still really feel that I could have done with just a little help from the weather gods. In another, it's the fact that I registered with a good friend under an umbrella goal, and I want to hold up my end. In yet another, even though it's my third marathon, Chicago feels bigger, more important. And I fear that I will metaphorically (or perhaps literally) fall on my face and the entire city (not to mention everyone I know back here) will point and laugh, and I will look stupid. Yeah, ugly is a generous term.

However, running, for me, has always been more of a head game than anything else (as most sports are for me, because if it's a physical game, I'm pretty much SOL). So last weekend, I resolved to get my head back in the game, and returned to a tool I used during my first season of training: the mantra.

Common in meditation, the mantra is simply a series of truisms repeated over and over during a run, much like a rosary. My first year, it was all about recognizing myself as a marathoner, chronicling the miles run, the potential of my being, etc. But this year, it's more about celebrating what I have accomplished and reminding myself of what I must do. I feel somewhat silly sharing this with the Pub, but this is what I repeated to myself through at least 90% of last weekend's 12 miles:

I run because I love to. I run because I can. I run for completion, not time. The journey is the destination. I have run through heat and cold. I have run through rain and wind. I have run through fatigue and pain. I have run through two marathons, I have run through two half-marathons, I have run through Hell, and I will run through this. I run because I love to. I run because I can. I have heart, and strength, and endurance.

Each time a negative thought about my slow and pathetic nature came to me, I endeavored to push it away--in Eat Pray Love, Elizabeth Gilbert compares her soul to a harbor, and vows that no bad thoughts may dock there. I similarly envisioned those angry images being dropped in a current and whisked away from me.

It was a solid run--not incredibly fast, but steady and controlled. It was the best long run I've had this season.

And, in recognizing that, I have to also recognize the crux of my mantra: I run for completion, not time. I need to face the fact that even if I don't hit five hours in Chicago, that's okay. I'll train the best I can from now until that day. I'll do the very best I can. I'll be proud of myself no matter what, and if anyone wants to point and laugh at my lack of running prowess, they can go to hell.

Starting your first marathon, you're always told that your only goal should be to finish. And while I may add other goals to that list, I need to remember that finishing is always the prime goal. And not just finishing the race, but finishing every run, with my head high.

*E has been repeating "Sylar is Spock" all night. This is exciting, I agree.

Pura Vida Take One

2007-08-06T14:28:00.000-04:00

Suz can't come to the blog right now, as she is buried in a sea of packing tape, boxes, and bubble wrap.

Only a week ago, she was drinking strawberry juice and getting her hair braided by Caribbean women (finally, the thick curly hair worked to her advantage).

On that note, enjoy some pictures from her recent Costa Rica trip. More to come.

This is the crater at Poas volcano. Pardon the insane cloud cover -- it was actually simply a solid mass of white for most of the morning, until a breeze came and cleared things up a bit.

Here's Suz at a random roadside waterfall.

Some friendly locals:

Arenal volcano. This was the view outside Suz's window for two mornings of the trip. Bliss.

Perfect

2007-08-02T11:05:00.000-04:00

There are a few times in my life when I've been seized by a joy so deep and satisfying that I am compelled to describe the moment I'm in as perfect. These perfect moments are rarely the ones I expect or script to be perfect (in such moments, I'm usually too nervous about sucking my stomach in or otherwise making a fool of myself, or reality otherwise conspires to make the moment a little less than ideal). But the really perfect moments usually catch me off guard, in a delicious holy-shit-this-is-really-happening kind of way.

I've just returned from travelling in Costa Rica for a little over a week with some of my students. We frolicked in La Fortuna waterfall, swam in the shadows of the Arenal Volcano, zip-lined through the rain forest, white-water rafted on the Sarapiqui river, hiked to the Poas crater, snorkeled in the Caribbean, played cards, laughed, and ate the sweetest pineapple known to man (in addition to approximately twelve tons of rice and beans). Pura vida, indeed.

There were many fun times and great moments, but the best one for me came late in the trip, when we were going horseback riding in Puerto Viejo, on the Caribbean side of the country. Most of us were expecting sort of a casual trail ride, and were delighted to hear that we'd get to ride on the beach, too. I have always, always wanted to go horseback riding on the beach. Perhaps I viewed a particular scene in Cocktail at an impressionable age, perhaps I romanticized the stories of others, perhaps it just seemed like the coolest thing possible you could do on a horse. It always existed for me on a vague back-of-the-mind to-do list, something I definitely wanted to do sometime. The funny thing is, even though I knew we'd go riding on this trip, it never occurred to me "Hey, maybe we'll get to ride on the beach!"

The guide had given the horses who were a little more energetic to those of us who either knew how to ride or had been riding before. The horses were incredibly trained and knew exactly where they were going and which horses they liked and which they didn't. We walked/trotted/occasionally cantered along, but if we ever started going too fast, the guide reined us in (basically, none of the horses would go faster than the lead horse). The day was warm, but not oppressive, and the air coming off the ocean felt good on our faces. The sun was beginning to maybe think about setting, and I couldn't have imagined a better afternoon, until the guide beckoned me and a couple of the other front riders over to him.

"You know how to ride?" He asked.
"Well, yeah," I said. Isn't that what we've just been doing for the past hour?
"No, you know how to ride?"
"Yeah, I do." Finally, going to a school with horses and riding lessons has paid off.
"If you want, I can make horses gallop."
"Really?" After quickly ascertaining which students in fact could ride and which would be remaining at a comfortable pace, a few others and I offered our assent.

Now, I truly wish that I could repeat verbatim what this laid-back guide dude then uttered in broken English/ Spanish, but it was something along the lines of:
"Okay, but you fall off -- whatever. You break your head, it's not my fault. You know how to ride?"

I opened my mouth, about to give him the whole litany of my equestrian resume, but he apparently didn't care, because he'd already turned his lead horse and taken off down the beach. And before I knew it, my horse was following suit.

Now, I didn't lie to the guide, or to you. I do know how to ride. I did take lessons for what seemed like a long time, and went on a lot of trail rides at camp, on vacations, etc. But I'd never gone faster than cantering. And I knew, as my horse was literally flying down that beach, that I was in for something insane. But I know all the rules of holding your body on a horse, of holding your legs and shifting your weight the right way, and that, combined with hanging onto the saddle horn with a vice-like grip, allowed me to adapt to the speed pretty quickly and enjoy the ride.

It was beyond incredible. The breeze whipped fresh, salty air off the sea, there were palm trees to one side, turquoise water to the other, and black sand flying under our horses' hooves. We galloped nearly half the stretch of beach we'd just ambled down, and as we sailed along, my heart pounding, my hair whipping behind me, only one word was permeating my mind.

Perfect. Perfect. Perfect.

It ended, of course, as all perfect moments do, before I realized it and a bit too quickly. I leaned over and rubbed my horse's neck, thankful that he'd done his part to ensure my head was still intact. We trotted around as we waited for the rest of the group, as ecstatic as if we'd just scored the Stanley Cup together. And for whatever else was happening that night, around the world, or back home, or even further down the beach, that three-minute slice of existence on a black beach twenty miles from Panama was absolutely perfect.

When I was younger, I used to love the concept of being completely portable: the idea that, at a moment's notice, I could load everything important to me in a car and take off to parts unknown. Really, how much did I possibly need? A bag or two of clothes, a crate of books and CDs, my journal and other writing notebooks, some working pens, a water bottle, a coffee thermos, and my wallet. Maybe a few really sentimental things (photo albums, teddy bear) and a few more practical (alarm clock, boom box, first-aid kit). Being so low-maintenance and compact made me feel spontaneous, like the embodiment of carpe diem.

I never did the pack-up-and-go thing. This is likely due to the lack a car, a destination, and a real-life Dean Moriarty. Still, I've always prided myself on being something of a minimalist. Upon arriving to college, lots of of kids came with U-Hauls. I had less than a minivan, and never felt wanting. For most of college, I stayed content knowing that if I wanted to be, if I had to be gone (if I had to be--right, like if a warrant got put out for my fake ID?), it could happen. Even when I moved to an unfurnished apartment, my stuff consisted of crate-shelves, plastic drawers, and a loftbed that I had no emotional attachment to. I didn't accumulate shoes, cosmetics, or old copies of Sports Illustrated. The only problem I'd have would be deciding whether the hefty textbooks were worth taking along. I felt simplistic and loved it: I didn't read my Thoreau for nothing.

If I need any more proof that I'm really an adult now, it's the glaring evidence that I could never just "pack up and go."

E and I have, barring any unforeseen disasters, sold our house and will be moving in less than a month. By most normal standards, we are still pretty simplistic in our living habits. We don't buy tons of useless crap, we get rid of stuff we don't use anymore, and I still have a smaller shoe collection than 90% of the American female population. (Maybe that's not saying much. But still.) But as I've begun packing, the job seems enormous. Our kitchen appliances alone: coffee maker, mandolin, food processor, blender, juicer, microwave, toaster oven, chest freezer, not to mention pots and pans. Then there's the electronics, E's guitars, and the furniture, which can no longer be transported in one truck and one SUV. And oh yes, the books. We have what could politely be deemed a shitload of books: we have three large, full, floor-to-ceiling shelves worth, some shelves stacked two rows deep. We have piles and piles of DVDs and CDs. We like to read and watch movies and listen to music. These habits have caught up with us.

I mean, yeah, if a meteor was going to hit Detroit and we had to leave now, we'd be able to. But it wouldn't be easy. And it wouldn't be desirable. I'm not yet ready to label myself "materialistic," but I like my stuff.

My stuff. That's the difference. In my days of being able to be "gone," most of what was around me wasn't mine--until 18, everything in the house was basically my parents'. In college, most of it belonged to the University of Michigan. Even when I lived off-campus, none of the stuff, even if I bought it, seemed really permanent. It would either get tossed, worn out, or returned to the slightly socialist circuit of cheap-stuff-for-sale somewhere in Ann Arbor.

But now, everything I have, I love. I love our framed posters and photographs. I love our lamps. I love our appliances, and our plates, and our margarita glasses. I love the ample Asian serving ware we've gotten as gifts. I love our books, and our bookshelves, and I don't want to just leave it all behind.

It's a pain in the ass, and it's a lot less romantic, because I'm pretty sure Dean Moriarty would not be down with "um, can I bring my laptop and CD collection? Hey, what about my pizza stone?" But I wouldn't want it any other way: now I can't really envision packing up and being gone, but that's because there's nowhere else I really want to be.

27 in 2007 - mid-year check-in

2007-07-12T15:26:00.001-04:00

I'm apparently back in business, and thought a way to break the proverbial ice (seems a bad idiom to use in the middle of the summer, but I'll ease back into this) would be to catch up on my way ambitious to-do list of January. Bold indicates done and done. Italics indicate still working on it. Plain text indicates dead in the water. And here we go!

1. Run a 5K in under 30 minutes - My spring training took a serious stumble due to some responsibilities I'll elaborate on in a later post (I'm not pregnant). Thus, this hasn't happened yet, but I'm not worried.
2. Run the Chicago Marathon with a PR of at least 8 minutes – less than three months away. I still think that this a realistic goal, but I've been very ambiguous about having a real, long-term time goal. But again, running will get its own post very soon.
3. Begin regular yoga classes – not yet. But definitely happening, I know the place I'm going to, a few things just need to fall into place.
4. Learn a good routine for lifting and integrate it into workouts on some level – I'm working with weights a lot more, and I feel good about it, but I haven't done anything to link it to running, and that was the goal, so it stays italicized for now.
5. Use a boxing bag and not look like a total moron – I'm pretty good at it! And it's really fun.
6. Drink soda no more than twice a month – I kept track of this through March, and then realized I didn't really care. I only drink it once in a while, and I have enough things to worry about without charting my soda intake.
7. Read Anna Karenina - Not yet, but I'm teaching a class on Russian novels next winter, so this is definitely happening or I'm going to be SOL.
8. Read The Brothers Karamazov - TBK is not on my syllabus, so I'm forgetting about it. I will be reading a bunch of other quality Russian Lit, so I think it's okay to drop this one.
9. Re-read Crime and Punishment OR Notes from the Underground – both are on my syllabus. Yahoo.
10. Read Fagles’s translation of the Iliad. One of my students came up to me in January, this exact book in her hand, and said "Can we do an independent study on The Iliad and The Aeneid?" Both were absolutely brilliant and beautiful. Literary adventure to come.
11. Incorporate reading of the newspaper (in some form) into daily routine. - I do the Freep and the Washington Post first thing in the morning, but this plan may be shot to hell once school starts again. I also don't enjoy it as much as I thought I would, but maybe that's because it just reminds me how messed up everything is. I must be careful not to scan headlines and click straight to the Style section.
12. Finish a particularly beloved piece of writing – but I'm close, and think I can knock it out by the summer's end, especially since I worked out the ending in my head. I may be avoiding finishing it because if I do, then I have to think about publishing it if anything I've talked about for the past 27 years is more than hot air.
13. Go ice-skating at Campus Martius – Christmas, maybe?
14. Go to at least one play – I saw Eugene O'Neill's O Wilderness! when I was in Baltimore in April. My parents and I had season tickets to Center Stage the whole time I was in high school, and this production was a pretty good reminder why.
15. Go dancing at least once – went with Becca and some other friends to some places in Dearborn before she left. Quality. I think I was at least a few notches above the white chick in Save the Last Dance.
16. Try out for Jeopardy! – I have a sad feeling this one isn't going to happen, but I'm maintaining hope.
17. Increase knowledge about wine enough to understand what Evan talks about half the time – This is still in progress, but I feel good about what I do know. We read the Wine Atlas together sometimes as we imbibe. Yes, it's sooo cute.
18. Call sister more – it's still pretty much the same as it was. Which is good, but not good enough. Am calling now, and am finishing blog post as we talk.
19. Stay in touch with HS roommate– it's dead right now, but I'm now motivated to send an email, like, as soon as I'm off the phone with my sister.
20. Visit Ann in New York – but it's going to happen!
21. Send out holiday cards – well, we'll see in December, won't we?
22. Condense sweater collection to one box – in preparation for putting our house on the market, I dumped a ton of clothes. I still have two boxes, but one is sweatshirts and ski stuff, which previously had its own drawer and pile elsewhere. There are still a bunch that really could go, but for some reason I can't let them go. Therapy post to come, perhaps.
23. Grow something edible that doesn’t die - and no, I haven't tried and failed yet.
24. Work at Habitat for Humanity at least once – I actually forgot about this until
25. Clean out closet of old Detroit teaching stuff. Donated the good stuff to Becca's old school (most was elementary stuff) and put out literally five bags of both trash and recycling. Buh-bye.
26. Re-tune my bike and ride to grocery store, library, and rec center on a semi-regular basis – no, but that's a good project for this week.
27. Be impeccable with my word – I don't think I've really screwed up yet, so we'll put this in the W column for now...

Not too shabby, but I still have my work cut out for me!

They Don't Dance Like Carmen No More*

2007-06-07T20:25:00.000-04:00

I have recently been wrestling with the absolutely subpar nature of most contemporary entertaiment/art: TV, movies, music, books. At a sprightly and mirthful 27, I am beginning to sound like a crotchety senior citizen, and have come close to uttering "these damn kids!" as I become convinced that all entertainment is marketed to the lowest common denominator; that no one cares about the production of seriously good shows, tunes, and books; that future generations of students will be analyzing "Summer Love" and "This is Why I'm Hot" as the romantic/ identity exploration verses of our generation and wondering where the dream went wrong.

I won't pretend that this irritation and hostility isn't a direct result of the cancellation of Veronica Mars, arguably the best written and potentially most entertaining show on television. This show, which survived the WB-UPN fusion into the CW, has been cancelled in lieu of Pussycat Dolls: Search for the Next Doll.

Veronica, I believe, was a casualty of poor marketing and misplaced priorities. This show had the sharpest writing west of Aaron Sorkin; had (at least for the first two seasons) a compelling, well-paced, and twisting plot; had finely crafted and appropriately complex characters, and had a a superb cast who clearly knew their acting, but never took themselves too seriously. Even though "sensational" issues like date rape, drugs, and sex played a role, it never felt overly gratuitous (in other words, not really a family show, but not one I'd feel too weird watching with my family). However, the protagonist is a cute, blonde, high-school girl.

Therefore, only 13- to 16- year-old girls would be interested in watching, right? Obviously, according to the marketing wizards at the CW. The last season's ads featured Veronica preening in trendy clothes and casting sultry glances at the men in her life. All clips shown focused on her uttering gems like "Rock-n-roll!" or sticking her tongue out. Similarly, in a clear effort to reign in more viewers, the plot became more youth-oriented, and the plot arcs were shorter, so as to aid non-devoted viewers.

All of this might make sense, however, what I know (and apparently the CW doesn't) is that anyone who watches Veronica Mars does so because of word-of-mouth reccomendation -- and usually the people watch grudgingly and then realize it's the greatest thing ever. And yet, that information means nothing--the niche audience is apparently not valued, at least not on network television.

I have ample time to mourn Veronica on my 45-minute commute to and from work, and I have to say, the compilation of music getting radio airplay is sad. Now, I won't be one of those people that claims that the only good music was produced pre-Vitalogy, but must everything on a non-public radio station be completely mindless drivel about hittin' that and smackin' that? When the best I can get is crooning about digging my keys into my cheating ex's car, we've got issues. I don't need the resurrection of a Mozart/Bob Dylan/ Kurt Cobain hybrid, but how about some music with originality and creativeness?

To illustrate, let's do a little side by side comparison of lyrics detailing essentially the same thing: the joy of summer. First up: "Summertime," the anthem from the early 90s, immortalized by DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince,*** details the onset of June in a way that is near poetic:

it's late in the day and I ain't been on the court yet/ hustle to the mall to get me a short set/ yeah I got on sneaks but I need a new pair/ cause basketball courts in the summer got girls there/ the temperature's about 88/ hop in the water plug just for old times sake/ break to ya crib change your clothes once more/ cause you're invited to a barbeque that's starting at 4/ sitting with your friends cause y'all remincise/ about the days growing up and the first person you kiss/ and as I think back makes me wonder how/ the smell from a grill could spark up nostalgia/ all the kids playing out front/ little boys messin round with the girls playing double-dutch/ while the DJ's spinning a tune as the old folks dance at your family reunion/ then six o'clock rolls around/you just finished wiping your car down/ it's time to cruise so you head to the summertime hangout/ it looks like a car show/ everybody come lookin real fine/ fresh from the barber shop or fly from the beauty salon/ every moment frontin and maxin/ chillin in the car they spent all day waxin/ leanin to the side but you can't speed through/ Two miles an hour so everybody sees you/ there's an air of love and of happiness/ and this is the Fresh Prince's new defintion of summer madness...

Vivid details! Innovative images! A bit schlocky for sure, but you can't hear it and not smile. Now, let's compare that to one Justin Timberlake's 2007 variation on this theme:

Come on and lemme show you 'round/ Let me take you out, bet you we could have some fun girl/ 'Cause we can dress it up, we can dress it down/ Any way you want it done girl/ Or we can stay home, talkin' on the phone/ Rappin' 'til we see the sun girl/ Do what I gotta do, just gotta show you that I'm the one girl/ Well I'mma freak you right, each and every nightI know how to do it insane girl/ 'Cause I can make it hot, make it stop/ Make you wanna say my name girl/ Come on baby please 'cause I'm on my knees/ Can't get you off my brain girl/ But who would've thought that you could be the one 'cause I/ I can't wait to fall in love with you/ You can't wait to fall in love with me/ This just can't be summer love, you'll see/ This just can't be summer love (L-O-V-E)

I'mma freak you right? I know how to do it insane girl? Must every song now be created solely to grind to in a sweaty and dimly-lit environment? Apparently, yeah, and Veronica and Logan would probably be rockin' it to this if some moronic execs had their way. We won't even delve into the utter riduculousness and illogical nature of "This is Why I'm Hot/ I'm hot cause I'm fly/ You ain't cause you not." The producers behind that hit are now millionaires. Consider that.

There is not one station, not even those that declare "it's about the music," where you can hear a set that highlights artists like Regina Spektor, Kristen Diable, Alice Smith, Amos Lee, in combination with music that fits no genre but is just good: Joan Osbourne Motown, Johnny Cash, Nirvana, early Rolling Stones, Aretha Franklin, Simon/ Garfunkel, etc.

Quality TV and quality music -- is it too much to ask? Am I too picky? Or has quality gone the way of the Detroit Pistons, and I must admit that it really is the end of an era?

If you need me, I'll probably be found wandering the streets of Metro Detroit, babbling incoherently, and searching for an independent bookstore.

*If anyone gets this reference, I'm extremely impressed.
**If you need hardcore proof for the utter lack of anything on TV, allow me to inform you that E and I fall asleep nightly to reruns of The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. When society longs for Geoffery, Uncle Phil, and Carlton, we have a problem.

Ding Dong?

2007-05-16T10:39:00.000-04:00

So it's always a little weird when a death is announced, and the universal reaction seems to be throwing up your arms Touchdown-style and bellowing "Yahooo!" But how else does one react, upon hearing that Jerry Falwell, hater of teletubbies and most conceptions of social equality, died at age 73?

While I don't know enough about his long-term political history to get into arguments about the validity of his actions and messages, I have long been disgusted will Falwell and his Moral Majority Machine for one reason: he has always reeked of unkindness. His statements were notoriously mean and hurtful, and he amplified the worst sorts of intolerance. For someone embracing morality as the touchstone of his character, he seemed to love spewing hate like few others.

And yet I slightly recoiled upon hearing the delight at his passing (though my initial reaction, admittedly, was the same). I was urged to chastise myself, because rejoicing at someone's death seems mean. It felt hypocritical to denounce Falwell's unkindness, but justify my own unkindness toward him. But I'm still having a hard time rising above it. I still hope, if such a thing is possible in the afterlife, that God says to Falwell: "You know what? You were wrong! You were wrong to be bigoted and mean, and you were wrong to use the faith of people to spread your mean, bigoted ideas." (I have some other, more graphic desires about what might happen to him in the afterlife, but to mention them would probably be obnoxiously gratuitous...)

What Falwell's death reminded me of, ultimately, isn't anything connected to Tinky Winky, 9/11, Liberty University, or abortion. Rather, his death reminded me that treating others--even those who may upset or disgust you--with kindness, tolerance, and humanity is crucially important. That doesn't mean ignoring atrocities or sugar-coating what is wrong or evil--but we can't let that evil and cruelty infect us along the way.

Celebrating

2007-05-13T11:33:00.000-04:00

A few days ago, I was doing an exercise with some of my classes to help them brainstom ideas for a personal essay they have to craft in the next week or so. We took five silent minutes to write down as many things we LIKED, and then five minutes to write down as many things that we DISLIKED. The second one was much harder ("Isn't that a good thing?" commented one person). Here are mine--over the course of four classes.

LIKES: pancakes and crepes at OHOP, new running shoes, Rip Hamilton's Dr. Rahmani commercial, plums, sunshine, the garden department at Home Depot in early May, coffee, fuzzy socks worn in the winter, skiing fast down black diamonds, flip flops, bookstores, horses, mulled cider, Parisian hot chocolate, crossword puzzles, Rodenbach, the Royal Shakespeare posters in our house, reruns of Star Trek: Voyager, Kensington Metropark, Office Space, Ann Arbor, sarcastic humor, goats, plasma TVs, Dairy Mat, Murphy (E's parents senior citizen Westie) Hybrids, sunroofs, my first car (RIP sweet Focus), Fells' Point, Worthington Hillside, picnics, fresh bread, mechanical pencils, long runs, muffins, chocolate-covered pretzels, thunderstorms, Amazon.com, the school supply aisle at Office Depot, my fleece grey hoodie, seeing people in Michigan shirts, Prague, tall ships, the National Gallery in DC, sharpies, silver jewelry, Supernatural, The Senator Theater, maps, tea, comfy sofas, new clothes, swivel chairs, apricots, strawberries, driving with the windows open, lacrosse, Mozart, Venice, caramel macchs, clean bathrooms, saunas, pretty sundresses, Nalgene bottles, sailing, Washtenaw Dairy, file folders, the original Super Mario Bros (NES!), the Olympics, Tayshaun Prince's arms, peaches, fancy dinners, twilight, violins, certain Tim McGraw songs, blankets, trapeze, hayrides, atlases, deleted scenes on DVDs, food processors, ceiling fans, NPR, friendly senior citizens, chocolate bunnies at Easter, the Michigan Marching Band, shrimp, stainless steel coffee mugs, cherry blossom trees, saxophones, tuxedos, old houses, bales of hay, Marlon Brando, Daniel Day-Lewis, chess, Taboo, milkshakes, porches, swimming, giggling, ice cream sundaes, rare steak, filtered water, soft old T-shirts, clean windows, blues, fresh-cut grass, my winter coat, flavored club soda

It's amazing how happy these little things can make you.... and how nice it is, that even though there are things in the world that really drive me bananas, some of the things I dislike are so trivial that they're funny and make me kind of happy too:

DISLIKES: American Idol, Bill O'Reilly, spike heels, mean coaches, bad coffee, humidity, Hummers, elitist snobs, violent OSU fans, Splenda, traffic jams, over-lotioned tissues, shag carpets, vacuuming the stairs, conversations that start with "what do you do?", inept grocery baggers, people who stand on the side of the road with gigantic pictures of aborted fetuses, Paris Hilton, the Lebron James "Witness" ads, feeling mediocre, stupid bumper stickers, Houston, commercials for Viagra/Cialis, crappy pens that run out of ink, losing socks in the dryer, spam, leaky faucets, condescending attitudes, mean people, black licorice, clothes that fall apart after you wear them once, trash in harbors, people yelling obnoxious things at runners, centipedes, the theme song to Free Willy, people who misuse literary lines (like "wherefore art thou, Romeo?" "Over here!"), signs about Nut Awareness, Ron Artest, skanky stores where a size 10 person can't fit into a size 14, commercials for the Sleep Number beds, Helen Keller jokes, biting into rotten fruit (when you expect it to be fresh), people who leave shopping carts in parking spaces

It's so fun!! Have a great Mother's Day, and here's to a re-opened Pub of Knowledge!!

Alive and Kicking

2007-04-30T11:23:00.000-04:00

Not much to report other than that, though I think I'll be transitioning exclusively to book/ movie commentaries for a little while. Not that my life isn't still completely fascinating, but I'm lacking the energy to turn it into witty and compelling segments for any captivated souls who are reading.

Culinary Adventure - Loving Spoonful, Giovanni's

2007-04-07T13:34:00.000-04:00

Fantastic Four Farewell Tour: Phase One

I've been going through a situation of premature separation anxiety because of the imminent departure of two of my closest friends (Mike and Becca) to California. It's for a good cause -- Mike just accepted a fairly kick-ass job at Stanford -- and much visiting will doubtlessly occur. However, it's still going to be a rough transition, as they've been a critical part of our post-college existence. We are truly a fantastic foursome, minus superpowers, and a posse breakup this tragic has not occurred since the first dissolution of KISS. However, one way we've opted to deal with our sadness is by eating. We've launched a farewell tour of sorts, where we're determined to try out as many quality Detroit-area restaurants as possible before they leave.

The farewell tour actually began last month, when Becca and I hit Loving Spoonful for a belated birthday dinner. Owned and operated by Chef Loving, probably best known in these parts for being the personal chef of Rip Hamilton, this place was literally a piece of heaven in Farmington Hills. I started with the sweet corn and shrimp bisque, which was delectable and potent, but not too heavy or overly creamy. We then moved on to the ribs (unfreakingbelievable) and a shrimp/scallop special which was also prepared beautifully. We finished with tea and dessert, and were attended to by an extremely diligent and friendly waiter.

However, that was just a girls' outing, and so the first foursome outing was last Friday, when we went to Giovanni's, a small Italian restaurant tucked on a random Detroit street not far from the Rouge Plant. We were again taken care of by a very professional and personable server, who suggested we start with the calamari. We couldn't resist and weren't disappointed. Calamari can be tough to do as an appetizer, and most people likely associated it with the over-fried globs you often get at chain restaurants. But this was very lightly breaded, incredibly tender, and wonderfully seasoned.

After salad, it was on to the main course: we had lasagne, Olindo's Special (shrimp, scallops and artichokes marinated in pesto pomodoro, and served over linguine), Veal di Granchio (veal sautéed with sundried Tomatoes, asparagus & crab in a brandy glaze), and Manzo di Braciole (beef tenderloin rolled around prosciutto, garlic & parsley braised in tomato mushroom sauce). We had not a single complaint among the four of us. We were particularly fond of the quality of the housemade linguine -- it's hard to describe other than to simply say that it's how pasta is supposed to be.

And then desserts. Oh, the desserts. At the start of the evening, I would have wagered that we'd maybe split two desserts among the table, but these treats simply could not be ignored. We each ordered something different and thus experienced 80% of the dessert tray. The lemon "Grandmother's cake," the flour-less chocolate cake (with a blackberry sauce, whoa), and the cannoli were all blissful, but I believe my own selection, the tiramisu, was without compare. Bar none, I have NEVER had a tiramisu that good (and that includes tiramisus in various Little Italys and er, the Real Italy). Perfectly balanced, devastatingly indulgent, and no trace of any preservatives, canned frosting, or too-long-soaked ladyfingers. If there was ever a dessert to blow your cholesterol level on, that was it. I'll run an extra few miles this week, but goddamn, it was worth it.

Giovanni's: a treasure! Go!

What Would Beyonce Do?

2007-04-03T16:31:00.000-04:00

Usually I approach life with a sense of near-foolish optimism and borderline-annoying mirth and leave the rageful ranting to my other half. However, in recent days, I have become completely infuriated with a segment of society that seems determined to squash my independence and security, and paralyze me via fear.

I'm not talking about the current Administration, but rather the marketing peeps at ADT and Brinks Home Security.

I'm sure you've seen the ads: in one, a woman sits down to watch a movie with her kids ("who wants popcorn?!") when she sees a shadowy figure outside. He breaks the window. She and the kids flee upstairs where a beefy and attractive security employee calls and makes sure they're okay. In another, a woman bids her hunky hunky husband farewell. HHH waves to a jogger and gets in his car. Jogger, with a carnivorous look in his eye, proceeds to kick open the door of the house. In another, a version of HHH laments the fact that while he was away on business, someone broke into his house... where his wife was home alone with their kids!!

Do I see a pattern? The message is: women, be very afraid, because as soon your Protector leaves the house, a vicious intruder will break in, rape you, and then eat your children. BE VERY AFRAID!!! DO NOT STAY IN THE HOUSE ALONE! Or if you must, the only thing that will save you is an overpriced security system!

Also, the irony of the fact that most of these women live in the most bougy neighborhoods imaginable? Has not been lost on me.

Now, lest you remember a time a while back when I got a little freaked out about being in the house alone, these ads don't give me nightmares and I haven't heard mysterious noises outside while I'm waiting for E to get home. But I am angry that these companies are selling their product not just by preying on fears, but also supporting the idea that WOMEN should be cognizant of such extreme fear, particularly when they're not protected by men.

Despite my incredible skills on the punching bag, I'm certainly not saying that if some guy busted into my house, I could go all Buffy on his ass and defend myself (though if he grabbed me, I know just how to throw a well-placed elbow into kidneys or other sensitive areas). However, I've never had an alarm system in any house I've lived in, and I simply don't feel like my safety has ever been compromised. I take precautions: I lock doors, have my cell nearby, listen carefully, and rarely answer the door if I'm alone at night (okay, that's mainly because I fear solicitors selling me $2000 vacuum cleaners, but regardless).

We're in an age where over half the women in this country live on their own, and an attitude of confidence is essential to making your way alone in any circumstance. What are we taught in self-defense classes about walking alone at night? Stand tall, be alert, don't let anyone mess with you. Sing a Destiny's Child song to yourself if you think it will help. Above all, convey that messing with you is unacceptable.

I don't necessarily think security systems are a bad idea -- particularly if you're on a long vacation, live in an extremely isolated area with no neighbors, or spend hours away from home, a system seems like a reasonable layer of protection. But market that -- not the helpless female.

The Organic Force is Strong

2007-04-01T14:30:00.000-04:00

Seriously. Stop what you're doing and click on this link to STORE WARS. You won't be sorry.

Let's Go to the Movies! (Or the couch)

2007-03-22T12:36:00.000-04:00

Taking a cue from Ian, master of the four-sentence movie review, I decided it was time to catalogue my recent Cinematic Adventures.

Half Nelson - Oh, how I longed to love this movie. Inspirational yet crack-addicted teacher, played by Ryan Gosling? Brilliant yet disenfranchised student in crisis? Sweet! Not so much. There were fine points of crafting--I very much appreciated that the affection and respect for Gosling's character wasn't portrayed in a Dangerous Minds-esque "I'm gonna be somebody because of you!" speech, but rather in hesitant smiles, giggles despite their tough exteriors, and moments of real engagement in class despite the fact that other students were sleeping. However, at the end of the movie, I felt like I had just invested a whole lot of a time in a story that basically went nowhere. Again, I appreciate that white teacher-black student didn't romp into the sunset in a haze of significant academic gains and racial equality, but I want to know that I watched 45 minutes of crack-smoking for something.

New York Doll - Evan already commented on this film pretty extensively, but it was an oddly enjoyable documentary on the life of Arthur "Killer" Kane post-New York Dolls. Done very thoroughly yet subtly (not a lot of Behind-the-Music-esque overkill on the background), it was a fascinating study in humanity as well as music. How does a rockin' bassist become a depressed librarian and rockin' bassist yet again? Watch the movie and see.

Howl's Moving Castle - After seeing Princess Mononoke and Kiki's Delivery Service, we were excited to expand our exposure to the work of Mr. Miyazaki. However, Howl was pretty quickly filed under Y for yawn. While artistically beautiful and featuring Billy Crystal as a talking fire, the movie was just not compelling in terms of the story. Both E and I dozed within the first half hour, and actually pulled up the Wiki summary to ensure we actually knew what was going on. Was it a complete waste of two hours? Not really, but not a DVD I'm going to heartily recommend. Spirited Away is now sitting on my kitchen table, so perhaps I will watch that this weekend and reassess my Miyazaki viewpoints.

A Man for All Seasons - After a somewhat arduous search, I located, watched, and loved this 1966 Best Picture. The screenplay was beautiful -- yes, people don't talk like that anymore, if ever, but it was lovely to listen to them. Given my somewhat unhealthy fascination with Tudor history, it was historically fascinating to me, but even if you couldn't give less of a shit about Henry VIII and his wives, it's still a wonderful story about remaining steadfast and noble in the face of opposition, and how it's really not enough that God would know you really believed the right thing in your heart. Flawless acting. And Vanessa Redgrave as the momentary Anne Boleyn is reason enough to watch.

Match Point - "Has anyone ever told you that you have particularly sensual lips?" This film, despite being compellingly watchable in a sick kind of way, was brought down by heavy-handed lines like the previous example. Maybe that's what Woody Allen does, but I'm not sure it did it for me. Scarlett is beautiful and a wonderful actress (and supported by a very good cast as well), but she couldn't carry the story, which was melancholy and predictable. Not just a poor man's Closer, but the Closer you get if you're so poor you've never even seen a movie before. That being said, we gave it three Netflix stars. Worth watching, but nothing particularly life-altering or memorable. And the whole tennis-ball metaphor. I get it. Really. Stop.

The Departed - We settled in to watch this movie after a week of documentaries and foreign films. "You know," said E, "I like watching all these different kinds of movies, but sometimes I really just dig a good, violent Martin Scorcese movie." Amen, brother. I feel fully comfortable in the decision of the Academy to name this Best Picture, and not just because I'll agree to anything once Matt Damon starts talking in a Boston accent. I thought it was well-acted and finely-crafted--every frame seemed to propel the energy and the emotions of the story. I've rarely been aware of sharp editing in a movie the way I was with this one--it was paced so well, and although it was two and a half hours, I barely noticed the length. While I loved Jack Nicholson (who doesn't?), I was most impressed with Leonardo DiCaprio's searingly emotional portrayal of the impact of living a life of deception. I thought the performance was much better than that of Blood Diamond, but I understand the politics of why he likely wasn't nominated.

Movie watching has slowed down a bit as of late.... suggestions?

The Tongue in the Martini

2007-03-19T22:10:00.000-04:00

In my "Year in Review" posts, a regular question is "What's something you did in 2005,6,7 that you'd never done before?" I now have a few ready answers for this year's list:

- Ate cow tongue

- Drank real martini

- Milked a goat

First things first: While working at the Catherine Ferguson Academy farm on Saturday morning with some of my Building with Books kids, E called. I was ebullient, having just fulfilled a lifelong dream by milking a goat. (I'm not being sarcastic -- if I had my way, I would have a pet goat and milk it and feed it and pet it daily. I am a HUGE fan of the goats. And, by the way, I wasn't that great at it, but definitely showed good potential. It's a weird motion, sort of like squeezing out toothpaste, and not as easy as any children's movie set in some agri-pastoral setting makes it look. So I need some practice. In the interest of full disclosure, I should also add that two of the goats--and one particularly obnoxious sheep--busted out of their pen on our watch.) Anyway, I was reeling in my delight at having worked with the goats, and E informed me that our pal Todd was making tacos that evening out of cow tongue, and did I want to go?

Yes, indeed, who the fuck eats cow tongue? However, Todd got a share of the same organic cow that E and I went in on last year, and the tongue was his last piece of meat left. Although this concept sounded ungodly disgusting to me, Todd generally knows what he's doing in the kitchen, and so I was confident he'd be able to pull it off. Plus, I'd just sipped ridiculously fresh goat's milk, and was feeling adventurous. "I'm in!" (The goat's milk, by the way, was rich, sweet, and warm. A little jolt to the senses for this skim-drinker, but mighty delicious.)

Todd's other recent passion, besides finding creative uses for disgusting bovine body parts, is making mixed drinks. Generally, I'm not an enormous cocktail drinker. I love me a Tom Collins on a hot summer afternoon, or a good gin & tonic before a nice dinner, but I like my beer and my wine and that's about it. We realized that in fact, I'd never had a real martini. I'd never made one for myself, and if I was out and got something in a martini glass, it was usually a Cosmopolitan or some otherwise tricked-out flavored martini. So Todd shook a few up for us (garnished with both an onion and an olive) and I imbibed.

I wasn't sure I liked it at first, but as I sipped on, it really grew on me. It wasn't so much an acquired taste as a taste I needed to experience slowly -- a sip every five minutes was a good pace for me. The onion was way better than expected, and my last swallow, saturated with a lot of olive flavor, was utterly delightful. He also mixed us some Pisco Sours, which were heaven in a glass, and made me consider Chilean citizenship on the spot. I still will probably opt for a usual beverage while at a bar, but I definitely enjoyed expanding my horizons.

And the tongue? After Todd removed the taste buds and other nasty components from the above picture, he diced it and cooked it relatively simply. We layered it with some basic greens with the option of hot sauce, but I kept mine plain. I will say this -- were I to be strapped for cash, I'd do tongue over Spam in a minute. It had a light, soft quality (spongy without being chewy) to it that reminded me of processed meat, but without any bite of preservatives or cloying taste of excess fat. We postulated that it might be best served in a chili, and something about the quality of the meat made me thought it would be especially appealing to have on a camping trip, particularly a cold and rainy one.

So while the weekend was audaciously unremarkable in other areas, I must say that the exposure to new experiences on Saturday was memorable. And I have written this whole post without one dirty joke about tongues, so I'm pretty proud of myself.

The Ides of March

2007-03-15T17:31:00.000-04:00

Yesterday, many mathematicians and scientists were geeked about "Pi Day." And today is a day dear to literary aficionados and history buffs: March 15th, The Ides of March, the day of Julius Caesar's assassination. I was informing one of my classes about the event, and I was rather delighted because we were discussing portentous moments in Hamlet and it provided a great historical tie-in. One student said "Um, isn't a little morbid to be so excited about an assassination?" Possibly. It's also morbid that I take regular delight in Hamlet's crack-up scenes.

In other news, I had reason to beware this particular Ides of March as I got mercilessly slammed by my credit card company. Now, of all the life lessons my parents imparted on me, none stuck better than one financial truism--never, never, ever, ever do anything to incur extra credit card charges. And I've taken it to heart and always been a model of sterling credit. I never spend more money than I have or can afford, I always pay on time, and I never carry a balance. My Visa was essentially a debit card with a formal bill, and came with nice Amazon points to boot.

Until last week. No, I didn't suddenly succumb to a yen for high-priced handbags, I simply had a rather substantial personal crisis and forgot about my bills -- and for the most part it didn't matter, but when I checked my CC bill, I realized it was due that very day. And, in a cruel twist of fate, I was out of checks.

Trying to not suck at life, I went right to the bank on my lunch break the next day, and had them issue me a certified check from my account. Signed, sealed, and delivered. I thought maybe I'd only be two days late, maybe they'd take notice of my flawless record and let me slide.

Wanna guess how that worked out? Fucking late fee AND processing fee. Although it certainly wasn't a lesson I needed to learn, I keenly felt why my parents had found it necessary to hammer into my head the fact that credit was not something to be messed with. "They're like vultures lying in wait! They're just waiting for you to screw up!" I bemoaned to E today, upon getting my new bill and seeing the charges. Beware the Ides of March indeed.

The Ghost in the Martini

2007-03-14T20:44:00.001-04:00

We read a poem by that title in one of my classes today, and in lieu of posting anything of substance, I thought I'd share it with you. (We were actually reading Anthony Hecht in context of comparing "The Dover Bitch" to "Dover Beach," and were seduced by the title and spent most of the rest of the class studying it.) I can't get the formatting exactly right, but you get the idea. Nothing like a little "contemplate the worth of your life" on a gloomy Thursday.

I'll be back with some mirthful buzz later on.

The Ghost in the Martini
by Anthony Hecht

Over the rim of the glass
Containing a good martini with a twist
I eye her bosom and consider a pass,
Certain we’d not be missed

In the general hubbub.
Her lips, which I forgot to say, are superb,
Never stop babbling once (Aye, there’s the rub)
But who would want to curb

Such delicious, artful flattery?
It seems she adores my work, the distinguished grey
Of my hair. I muse on the salt and battery
Of the sexual clinch, and say

Something terse and gruff
About the marked disparity in our ages.
She looks like twenty-three, though eager enough.
As for the famous wages

Of sin, she can’t have attained
Even to union scale, though you never can tell.
Her waist is slender and suggestively chained,
And things are going well.

The martini does its job,
God bless it, seeping down to the dark old id.
(“Is there no cradle, Sir, you would not rob?”
Says ego, but the lid

Is off. The word is Strike
While the iron’s hot.) And now, ingenuous and gay,
She is asking me about what I was like
At twenty. (Twenty, eh?)

You wouldn’t have liked me then,
I answer, looking carefully into her eyes.
I was shy, withdrawn, awkward, one of those men
That girls seemed to despise,

Moody and self-obsessed,
Unhappy, defiant, with guilty dreams galore,
Full of ill-natured pride, an unconfessed
Snob and a thorough bore.

Her smile is meant to convey
How changed or modest I am, I can’t tell which,
When I suddenly hear someone close to me say,
“You lousy son-of-a-bitch!”

A young man’s voice, by the sound,
Coming, it seems, from the twist in the martini.
“You arrogant, elderly letch, you broken-down
Brother of Apeneck Sweeney!

Thought I was buried for good
Under six thick feet of mindless self-regard?
Dance on my grave, would you, you galliard stud,
Silenus in leotard?

Well, summon me you did,
And I come unwillingly, like Samuel’s ghost.
‘All things shall be revealed that have been hid.’
There’s something for you to toast!

You only got where you are
By standing upon my ectoplasmic shoulders,
And wherever that is may not be so high or far
In the eyes of some beholders.

Take, for example, me.
I have sat alone in the dark, accomplishing little,
And worth no more to myself, in pride and fee,
Than a cup of luke-warm spittle.

But honest about it, withal . . .”
(“Withal,” forsooth!) “Please not to interrupt.
And the lovelies went by, ‘the long and the short and the tall,’
Hankered for, but untupped.

Bloody monastic it was.
A neurotic mixture of self-denial and fear;
The verse halting, the cataleptic pause,
No sensible pain, no tear,

But an interior drip
As from an ulcer, where, in the humid deep
Center of myself, I would scratch and grip
The wet walls of the keep,

Or lie on my back and smell
From the corners the sharp, ammoniac, urine stink.
‘No light, but rather darkness visible.’
And plenty of time to think.

In that thick, fetid air
I talked to myself in giddy recitative:
‘I have been studying how I may compare
This prison where I live

Unto the world . . .’ I learned
Little, and was awarded no degrees.
Yet all that sunken hideousness earned
Your negligence and ease.

Nor was it wholly sick,
Having procured you a certain modest fame;
A devotion, rather, a grim device to stick
To something I could not name.”

Meanwhile, she babbles on
About men, or whatever, and the juniper juice
Shuts up at last, having sung, I trust, like a swan.
Still given to self-abuse!

Better get out of here;
If he opens his trap again it could get much worse.
I touch her elbow, and, leaning toward her ear,
Tell her to find her purse.

Oscars Live Blog!

2007-02-25T19:50:00.000-05:00

Welcome to the Pub of Knowledge Oscars Live Blog! I've settled in with my Oscar Bingo card, my list of picks, a cup of hot chocolate, and my delightfully sarcastic husband.

8:17: We're watching the pre-show, in which interviewers ask probing questions like "how does winning an Oscar change your life?" and "What's your favorite Eddie Murphy movie?" Here's what they're not asking:

To Nicole Kidman: "What about that red bow said good idea?"
Followup to Nicole Kidman: "Are you drunk?"
To Cameron Diaz: "Why do you never look attractive at awards shows?"
To Cate Blanchett: "Can you please be a fashion advisor for other super divas?"

8:30: We're underway! I'm quite touched by all the nominees hugging and kissing--everyone loves a little Kate Winslet/Will Smith affection. I'm also excited about Ellen's velvet suit, though the white shoes are a little weird... one of those "only Ellen could pull it off" items.

8:42: Delighted to see that Jennifer Hudson lost the little cape going with her dress.

8:44: Have so far nailed two squares on my Oscar Bingo card. "Someone's wearing sunglasses," for Jack Nicholson, and "Anti-Bush comment" -- I think Ellen's comment about how America did vote for Al Gore counts for that....

8:45: Daniel Craig is HOT.

8:49: I must say, as exciting as it is that I correctly predicted the first category, and as fascinating as Maggie Gyllenhaal is, what's up with a commercial BEFORE a major award? I always thought they started with Best Supporting Actress--apparently I have time for some more perusal of my Bingo card.

9:00: Sweet, kid presenters! Abigail is really quite an adorable little pumpkin. I just want to hug her. Jaden appears completely uncomfortable and appears to not know how to read an envelope (or a telepromter).

9:02: I have no idea what "The Danish Poet" is, but its win means that I'm now 2-1 on award predictions tonight.

9:03: The kids are still here. They are cracking short jokes. Evan is screaming in support of "Binta," the short film he picked in the pool. Literally screaming. However, he LOST, and MY pick, "West Bank Story" won, despite butchering of the pronunciation from young Jaden. We also both nearly got to check "Male winner cries," off our bingo cards, but he scampered off stage just in time.

9:14: The sound engineering choir is the coolest thing ever, and the Sunshine guys have definitely been the best presenters so far. Evan also trumped me for the Sound Editing Award, and is now convinced he's going to win the whole she-bang. He's obviously on crack. However, I am delighted that Iwo Jima got an award.

9:17: Jessica Biel simply cannot look unattractive, but I'm not sure the pink belted number is the right pick. It doesn't look fancy enough for Oscar night, though her hair/makeup is quite lovely. Oh. I see her nipples. Great. Evan has just called into question the fact that NONE of the Sound Mixing guys took the opportunity to kiss Jessica Biel. These are, however, the same guys who set their Oscars on the floor while giving their acceptance speech.

9:21: Rachel Weisz: also very hard to look unattractive. However, it's hard for me to comment on her neckwear and dress, because I'm very nervous about the Best Supporting Actor pick, as it was my most "controversial" selection--I opted for Alan Arkin over Eddie Murphy. And... OHHH!!! I CALLED IT!!!

9:25: Martin Scorsese's eyebrows are as legendary as his directorial skills.

9:27: I'm blown away by this shadow puppet dance troupe. I clearly missed my calling.

9:32: I love James Taylor, but this song from Cars is doing nothing for me.

9:33: I also love Melissa Etheridge, and am a little surprised to see that she is definitely aging, albeit quite gracefully. While she looks a bit like she's gunning for a Hillary Clinton look-alike contest as well as an Oscar, I can't be too critical of this performance, which is earnest, soulful, and features scrolling environmental facts.

9:36: Gore/DiCaprio in '08? Could Jerry Seinfeld have looked any more disgruntled/bored during that camera shot?

9:43: Ryan Gosling's bemused expression at Cameron Diaz is quite priceless. I'm also a little bummed that I didn't go with Happy Feet, because seriously, how could any movie featuring that JT song be anywhere in the area code of quality? This guy accepting the award is probably the most adorable person of the night.

9:45: Yay, a Ben Affleck-led tribute to writers! And hey, now it's the stunning Helen Mirren and the affable Tom Hanks. I'm not sure I'm a fan of this tactic of reading the screenplay details. I am however, a fan of The Departed snagging the award and getting me some points.

9:53: I cannot BELIEVE Monahan just said "Valium does work," and then burbled through the rest of his speech. He does seem sweet, but come on.

9:59: The Devil Wears Prada girls are completely delightful, though I think Anne Hathaway's dress would work better without the tuxedo overlay thing. Emily Blunt's blue strapless number is very cool.

10:05: Tom Cruise! Looking remarkably normal, and gives a nice narrative for the Jeann Hersholt Humanitarian Award for Sherry Lansing, who has one of the more amazing dresses of the night. What could he be extensively whispering in her ear? Evan's guess is "next week, I'll tell you how to get to the seventh level."

10:11: Ellen gets Stephen Speilberg to take a picture of her with Clint Eastwood "for my Myspace page."

10:12: I'm not sure how Gwyneth Paltrow makes that dress work, but she looks quite beautiful.

10:23: I'm currently 7-5 in my picks. Not that fabulous, but not horrible either.

10:31: How did Pan's Labyrinth not win best Foreign Film? Cate Blanchett apparently wonders the same thing, as she appears visually shocked and somewhat bewildered when she declares "Um... Germany!"

10:36: Despite being the surest lock this side of Helen Mirren, Jennifer Hudson looks honestly, genuinely, thoroughly thrilled and touched. And who doesn't love these extra Beyonce shots? (Side note: is Jay-Z not in the house tonight?)

10:37: How excited am I that someone's reading the live blog!! For Heather, here's a bingo update! Evan would be winning if someone had kissed their fucking Oscar statue, and if someone had mentioned another nominee in their category by name. I would be winning if my space "short person adjusts microphone" hadn't been rendered impossible by the Academy, OR if I get a combo nominee claps for self/ audience boos. You could cut the tension in here with a knife.

10:42: I've come to the conclusion that I have whatsoever no interest in ANYTHING Jerry Seinfeld says anymore. Dude, shut up and present the award, none of the bop-de-bop-bop music is in the background and Kramer has left the building. Give the award!

10:48: An Inconvenient Truth wins, which means more Al Gore, yay! Guggenheim is gripping/touching Al pretty aggressively. Hello Larry David, look alive!

10:50: Oh, Clint. Please pull it together. Read the teleprompter. You're far too suave to appear incoherent and sort of drugged out because you can't get the phrasing of "movies and music" down right.

10:57: I didn't think anything could make the James Taylor performance look inspired and lovely, but this Celine Dion thing is doing just that. She is not out of practice at the dramatic arm gestures, but is not rocking the high notes like the Celine of old.

11:02: Since when does Clint speak Italian? This is quite possibly the most awkward Oscar moment ever, especially since the recipient seems not to get the whole "exit the stage when the orchestral music plays."

11:16: The shadow dancers continue to delight me!

11:21: I'm a fan of the "an excellent reason for Hi-Definition TV" joke about Jennifer Lopez. Less of a fan of her hairstyle.

11:22: At long last, the Dreamgirls musical numbers! The key element seems to be "boobs." Not that there's anything wrong with that. And Beyonce, somehow, looks even sexier now than she did in her other dress! Her performance is also blowing JT, Celine Dion, and even Melissa Etheridge out of the water.

11:28: Who remembers Queen Latifah busting out with "It's Hard out Here for a Pimp," last year? Will she do a similar thing this year? WHOA - apparently not. Talk about a significant upset... will we be hearing about liberal bias at the Academy?? And sorry, I'm all about the environment, and "Come to My Window" is still on my running mix, but those Dreamgirls were simply denied. Hardcore.

(Side bingo note: the cryptic John Travolta comment about their "upcoming film that we can't talk about" would have earned me a bingo square, I'm now blogging from bed, and my bingo card was left downstairs. Sigh.)

11:35: All I can focus on are Will Smith's ears.

11:40: The montage on America was pretty exciting. Even more exciting is Kate Winslet, who is the most beautiful woman I've ever seen, save perhaps Beyonce. In my Oscar research, I read that "editing" is often a very good barometer for what will win Best Picture, and perhaps this is further evidence that it's Scorsese's night?

11:49: So I feel like somewhat of an asshole saying this after the "In Memorian" montage, but can we move this along? The show was supposed to end at 11:30, and I know going over is part of the charm, but seriously. We've got ALL the big four awards to go. And hello, it's a school night, people!

11:52: I'm always surprised at how normal Philip Seymour Hoffman seems. And... let's give out the most obvious award of the night... at least some things are reliable tonight!

11:57: I've decided Chris Connelly is supremely annoying. He's all like "ohh, big awards still to come! The presenters are ready, the stars are ready, the Oscars are ready..." no shit, Sherlock, we're ALL ready, it's almost midnight. How's about we see less of a random hand brushing the statue, and more of actual award distribution?

12:02: Reese--poised, sweet, refined. I love her. Ryan Gosling just clapped for himself--why, oh why, did I leave my bingo card downstairs? Forest takes the award, and Peter O'Toole didn't look very grumpy at all.

12:09: MARRRTYYY!!!! Quite the standing ovation (damn, another bingo square!) He's so exuberant that you can't help but want to hug him as much as you wanted to hug Abigail Breslin. I'm curious to see if the Academy will have the cojones to try and music-exit him offstage - apparently not! I must say, this was worth staying up for!

12:14: Best Picture presenters--Jack appears to be little more than eye candy in this operation, and the lovely Diane Keaton is carrying the show. But no matter. The envelope? And the Oscar goes to... The Departed. Evan picked right. I did not. I suck.

I read earlier on my pal Ian's blog that he predicted a 12:15 AM finish. It is now 12:14. I will allow you to process the speech on your own. I will check in with reactions tomorrow. Until then, friends, good night and may dreams of Oscars dance in your heads.

Countdown to the Oscars!

2007-02-23T19:05:00.000-05:00

While my Britney post earlier this week might indicate otherwise, I am usually not into celebrity madness save two nights: The Golden Globes and The Oscars (and sometimes the SAG awards, but I've fallen asleep during those for the past two years, so they’re apparently not that compelling). For a night, I become as giddy as little girl as I marvel at the beautiful dresses, hold my breath hoping for a favorite upset, and actually tear up during the long “Honorary Awards” montages.

This year will be even more exciting, since a) there will be a live blog! And b) E and I will be playing “Oscar Bingo,” courtesy of the delightful Bonnie, who crafted cards with boxes such as “loser doesn't clap for winner,” “the dangers of movie pirating mentioned,” and “winner thanks agent before God.” If you would like copies before Sunday, email me and I will hook you up! (For the record, E thinks playing Oscar Bingo with only two people is extremely lame. However, he doesn't have much of a choice. When you’re married to Suz, you are obligated to watch obscene amounts of Olympic coverage, enjoy finely-crafted ales, not incur credit card debt, and play Oscar Bingo when the opportunity presents).

Here are my picks, with some explanation for the top awards, and not much for the bottom ones, which I picked after tooling around for hours on various Oscar websites. (Including the betting sites offering Vegas-odds….)

Best Picture
Babel/ The Departed/ Letters From Iwo Jima/ Little Miss Sunshine/ The Queen

SUZ’S PICK: BABEL

I tossed and turned a little on this one, as my heart said Little Miss (which I think is too indie/comedy to win) and much logic said The Departed. But I think the Academy will want to recognize Babel, and there simply aren't many other areas where this will happen. And I DID hear genuinely good things about this movie, that it was a lot better than Crash but with a lot of the elements that rendered Crash a victor. We'll see. The buzz is that this is the most wide-open Oscar race in years, and I believe it.

Best Actor
Leonardo DiCaprio, Blood Diamond/ Ryan Gosling, Half Nelson/ Peter O'Toole, Venus/ Will Smith, The Pursuit of Happyness/ Forest Whitaker, The Last King of Scotland

SUZ'S PICK: FOREST WHITAKER

This seems like a pretty sure thing. I was hoping that enough excitement might be generated around Ryan Gosling for him to be a contender, but I don't think that's likely. The other x-factor is Peter O'Toole, who is the Martin Scorcese of Best Actors and, should he lose, will go eight times without a trophy. Still, I think Whitaker will win this. It's not like he hasn't developed a fine body of work of his own, and O'Toole did get an Honorary Oscar a few years back. So it looks like the dude who put Dr. Kovac's hand in a vice on ER this season gets the win.

Best Actress
Penélope Cruz, Volver/ Judi Dench, Notes on a Scandal/ Helen Mirren, The Queen/ Meryl Streep, The Devil Wears Prada/ Kate Winslet, Little Children

SUZ'S PICK: HELEN MIRREN

Apparently, guys in Vegas are already paying out victory bets on Mirren. However, I think Winslet is going to get a nod the next time she's up.

Best Supporting Actor
Alan Arkin, Little Miss Sunshine/ Jackie Earle Haley, Little Children/ Djimon Hounsou, Blood Diamond/ Eddie Murphy, Dreamgirls/ Mark Wahlberg, The Departed

SUZ'S PICK: ALAN ARKIN

This is my big unconventional pick, but I truly think that in lieu of getting the Best Picture award, Little Miss Sunshine is going to pull an upset in one of the supporting acting categories. I was tempted to go with Abigail, since the Academy occasionally loves the darling little girls (who else remembers Anna Paquin in that little blue-sequined hat, barely able to catch her breath when she won?), but first, I think Arkin turned in a legitimately awesome performance, and second, he's somewhat of a Lifetime Achiever. Only halfway expecting it to fly, but it wouldn't be Oscar night if there weren't a little bit of random suspense.

Best Supporting Actress
Adriana Barraza, Babel/ Cate Blanchett, Notes on a Scandal/ Abigail Breslin, Little Miss Sunshine/ Jennifer Hudson, Dreamgirls/ Rinko Kikuchi, Babel

SUZ'S PICK: JENNIFER HUDSON

See above comments on Best Supporting Actor. I've opted to go with conventional wisdom on this one.

Best Director
Clint Eastwood, Letters From Iwo Jima/ Stephen Frears, The Queen/ Alejandro González Iñárritu, Babel/ Paul Greengrass, United 93/ Martin Scorsese, The Departed

SUZ'S PICK: MARTIN SCORSESE

Because otherwise, people are just mean.

Best Adapted Screenplay
Borat: Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan/ Children of Men/ The Departed/ Little Children/ Notes on a Scandal

SUZ'S PICK: The Departed

Okay. I haven't actually seen this movie yet, but it's the only one on the list that everyone I know consistently praised its writing specifically. And can anyone explain to me how Borat even generated a nomination in this category--wasn't the whole point that there wasn't a screenplay?

Best Original Screenplay
Babel/ Letters From Iwo Jima/ Little Miss Sunshine/ Pan's Labyrinth/ The Queen

SUZ'S PICK: Little Miss Sunshine

The balance of emotion, searing wit, and humor in this movie were just priceless. It was finely done.

Best Animated Film
Cars/ Happy Feet/ Monster House

SUZ'S PICK: Cars

I actually wanted to go with the dancing penguins, but everyone says it's going to be Cars.

Best Art Direction: Pan's Labyrinth
Best Cinematography: Children of Men
Best Costume Design: Dreamgirls
Best Documentary Feature: An Inconvenient Truth
Best Documentary Short: Recycled Life
Best Film Editing: Babel
Best Foreign Language Film: Pan's Labyrinth
Best Makeup: Pan's Labyrinth
Best Original Score: Pan's Labyrinth
Best Original Song: "Listen" - Dreamgirls
Best Short, Animated: The Little Matchgirl
Best Short, Live Action: West Bank Story
Best Sound Editing: Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest
Best Sound Mixing: Dreamgirls
Best Visual Effects: Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest

A Suburb for All Seasons

2007-02-21T14:42:00.000-05:00

I live in Canton.

Had you told me such a fate would befall me when I was a kid, I would have been delighted. Canton, after all, is a cool Baltimore neighborhood not far from Fells Point. The only other Canton I knew of was the one in Ohio, home of the Football Hall of Fame. The gigantic building tribute to Barry Sanders solemnly declared "Gone to Canton," as though it was a sort of Valhalla, a mythical land only accessible by those truly worthy.

Well, now I live in Canton, and let me tell you, there is NOTHING mythical nor mystical about this place, unless you consider the blue-and-yellow monstrosity of IKEA a representation of some sort of corporate Camelot.

Don't get me wrong: it's a decent "halfway" suburb between Ann Arbor and Detroit. The schools are good, the streets are reportedly safe (unless you live in our neighborhood, which I've descibed before as a haven for miscreant adolescents with little to do but trash peoples' yards), and if you're into fine dining, well, there's not a chain restaurant that hasn't set up shop on one of the strips around here.

The fact that you could walk to (in theory -- this is not a pedestrian community) Chili's, Don Pablo's, Friday's, Applebee's, KFC, Panera, Mongolian BBQ, Dunkin' Donuts, BW3's, and Damon's, but the best independently-owned Thai place just closed up shop last month should give an indication to the level of true Americana-suburbia madness that oozes out of this area.

I was further aggravated by the living location today when I went in search of A Man for All Seasons--a 1966 classic about a seminal moment in British history: when Thomas More refused to recognize Henry VIII as Head of the Church, and got axed for it. The film took home six Oscars, including Best Picture and Best Actor. Now, ordinarily, I'd just get the movie from Netflix, but we already have our allotted number films, and whether we'd watch one in time for me to get the film before my vacation was over seemed doubtful. No worries, I thought. I've got the public library. I've got Blockbuster. Getting my Tudor fix will be no problem.

I first stopped by the library (for the record, Canton does have a nice public library). Apparently, someone checked it out in January and hasn't returned it. They've been billed, the librarian informed me. Great. I checked the two next closest librarie, but their copies were out for the week too. Hmm. Momentarily heartened by the fact that apparently three other people in this region wanted to see the movie (or that some teacher assigned some project on British history over break), I rocked to Blockbuster, figuring $3 was a small price to pay for a few hours with greatness.

Well, obviously, they didn't have it. What they DID have was the first three seasons of Bridezilla, about fifty copies of some UNRATED--THE VERSION YOU COULDN'T SEE IN THEATERS! movie, and, oh right, Little Man, that Wayans movie about the midget that disguises himself as a baby. But the "M" column in Drama was distinctly lacking in what I needed. I asked the clerk -- she didn't know what I was talking about. I departed, movie-less and sad.

I used to feel sorry for Blockbuster--real-world company getting squeezed into oblivion by the internet. Now, I'm merely sorry that whoever makes the decisions on what movies to stock apparently caters to the demographic of this area all too well.

Bad Hair Days

2007-02-20T20:10:00.000-05:00

I've been on break this week, and appointments and errands have landed me in the car between 1-2 PM both yesterday and today - conveniently, the time when "World Have Your Say," a BBC radio program airs on WDET.

Yesterday, I was rather taken aback to hear the latter half of the show devoted to the perilous life of one Britney Spears. People from Manchester to Zaire to Indiana called in to debate: is her recent decision to embrace the Sinead O'Connor look a sign of a woman in crisis? Do we, as a world society, bear any responsibility to feel sympathetic for someone who has been in the public eye for so long? Is it possible to feel sympathy for someone who willingly married Kevin Federline?

Now, usually I have only a lukewarm interest in celebrity matters--I know the name of Katie and Tom's baby, I had no yen to google pictures of their Italian wedding. But I admit I was intrigued both by the content of the BBC's conversation, and the very fact that the conversation was even occurring.

I have never been a big Britney fan--I can admire Christina Aguilera for her otherworldly singing voice, Lindsay Lohan for her plucky acting ability, and Hillary Duff for her general aplomb, but I've generally got nothing for Britney. But I'm not going to lie -- I've felt really bad for her since she married K-Fed. Yes, it was her decision, and she's an adult, but you can't help but feel bad for the train wreck, even if the driver knows it's coming.

Don't tell me: I know there are WAY better things to be concerned about. My sympathy for Britney may be linked to the fact that I'm generally a huge advocate of the "Don't Hate the Player, Hate the Game," theory (as my affections for one Eric Lindros should be evidence of). I suppose I feel bad in part because American culture--albeit a sector that I and most people close to me willfully try to stay out of--does just hammer celebrities to no end and then ridicule them when they screw up. And the people who should be the most responsible--parents, mentors, friends--seem to have no problem being swept up in all the celebrity hoo-ha right along with the star herself. It's kind of disgusting. However, despite my sympathies, there's a big difference between unwilling exploitation and people who put themselves (however misguided) in a situation that's going to eventually screw them.

Here's some other commentary from some quality listeners.

Thoughts? I figured if BBC's talking about it, I can too.

Senator in peril

2007-02-14T22:15:00.000-05:00

I got an email with that title line from a friend today, and I thought for sure that something had already gone devastatingly wrong for Hillary Rodham Clinton, John McCain, Barack Obama, John Edwards, etc. I did not expect the message to contain the news that one of my most beloved hometown landmarks--the Senator Theater--is in danger of foreclosure.

I blogged about this theater last summer, particularly some of its challenges as related to clearance, a little-known cinema practice that prevents certain theaters from screening certain movies.

The owner is ardently trying to salvage the theater, reports Bmore journalist Michael Olesker. And the whole thing seems particularly sad because the owner seems like such a genuine advocate for Baltimore and what makes it great--the guy even tries to expose kids to classic movies that relate to their curriculum through a "Classics for Kids" program.

Fundraising efforts are in full-swing, among organizations and individual citizens (Lynda Lambert shares personal memories and why this is something every true Baltimorean should support).

The necessary cost is about $91,000, or it will be sold at auction. Personally, I'm hoping that John Waters, Jada Pinkett Smith, and Edward Norton could each kick in some Ks for the cause. In the meantime, I'm seriously considering writing a check. I'll keep you posted.

The skool of hard knocks... and later Princeton

2007-02-14T13:39:00.000-05:00

I haven't watched Colbert Report in awhile (though I recently dove back into DVR'd Daily Shows with vigor... Jon Stewart never gets old), but I was amused to hear that Wendy Kopp, founder and President of Teach for America, was recently on his show.

It's a pretty ridiculous interview, truth be told--essentially the audio version of any TFA brochure with some lukewarm witticisms thrown in. But for some reason I'm inclined to post it... seeing as this week is the five-year anniversary of my interview with that illustrious organization?? Check out the clip here, if you're so inclined.

Literary Adventure - V for Vendetta

2007-02-11T20:31:00.000-05:00

I think a significant goal of this week will be to blog about something other than books, which would be quite a novelty. I'm not planning on live-blogging through the Grammys (though I am planning to do the Oscars... woo!) but I will simply observe:
- Once again, Fergie is the most annoying human being I've ever witnessed in my life. Does Will-I-Am ever simply wonder "where did the dream go wrong?"
- Beyonce is BEAUTIFUL!
- Justin Timberlake: trying to morph to musical legitimacy by turning in a Billy Joel/ Elton John at-the-piano performance?

Anyway....

I recently read V for Vendetta, the graphic novel that inspired the movie. It didn't take long to read, but I think I've resisted writing about it because it really upset me--not the content of the work per se, but the resulting frustrations of how warped and manipulative our world has become.

For anyone who's been under a rock for the past year, the story takes place in Alternate Universe 1997 England, and is about "freedom fighter" V, a masked marvel who spouts alliterative monologues and wreaks havoc on the world in the name of helping wrench it free from the totalitarian government that clutched the community after nuclear wars ofthe 1980s.

But that's about where the similarities end. I recently overheard some people in a coffee shop talking about the graphic novel, and one guy claimed "the movie stayed pretty true to it." He's clearly on crack, as anyone who's actually read it (or read any publicity surrounding the release of the movie) knows that the author Alan Moore broke ties with the film claiming that the original meaning and message of the work had been essentially Americanized and distorted. And it has been--not in ways that I think are necessarily bad (I loved the movie), but the issues of government are simply more complex in the book. V fights for anarchy, not democracy, and argues rather articulately as to why anarchy is the only acceptable state for a society of that sort. It was easy to sympathize with V in the movie, but the book demanded a more rigorous and thoughtful form of sympathy. (And I'll say that I felt more sympathy for anarchy as a concept than I think I ever had before.)

Furthermore, the book is just a lot darker than the movie. To begin with, Evey is only 16, and not the brightest red-light-bulb in the bunch, quite a detour from the fresh-faced, intelligent office girl of the film. Her character also takes quite a different path than Natalie Portman's, and I'll leave it at that cryptic juncture to entice you to read it yourself. The writing has a harder edge to it, and the government goes beyond creepy to downright sinister and disturbing.

Just like 1984 or The Handmaid's Tale, this is the sort of book that I vehemently believe needs to be read, processed, and discussed. And although I think the movie provoked important conversations, they were airbrushed a bit, and I certainly encourage anyone interested to pursue the original work and get deeper into the ideas presented.

Literary Adventure - The Memory Keeper's Daughter

2007-01-31T21:45:00.000-05:00

I read The Memory Keeper's Daughter for my most recent book club, and I have to say that I was initially skeptical. I'm not sure why, but I had this feeling that it was going to be depressing and sub par. And while I liked reading it, I don't think I realized how fine of a work Kim Edwards had crafted until we talked about it in our group. The subtle complexities of the relationships and the attention to detail are really impressive. And while the plot veered to deeply into the realm of implausible a time or two, this is certainly one I'm glad I read.

Don't get me wrong, it wasn't a cheery read by any means. The story begins in the 1960s, when Dr. David Henry must deliver his wife Norah's child during a freak Lexington snowstorm with only the aid of his nurse, Caroline. Norah gives birth to twins: a healthy boy and a girl with Down's Syndrome. In a life-defining moment, David takes the girl from the room and orders Caroline to take her to a mental institution. He tells Norah the baby died. Caroline takes the baby to the institution, but cannot bear to leave her there, and in a life-defining moment of her own, decides to flee town and raise the baby as her own. The rest of the book illustrates the unfolding of the consequences of these momentous choices. Though Norah remains ignorant to her husband's action, their marriage fractures. Their remaining son, Paul, feels an grief so inexplicable that he can't truly connect with either of his parents. All three of them find impersonal venues for their grief. Caroline must wrestle with joys, heartaches, and decisions of her own. As I said, there are a few times when the plot gets a little long-winded, or simply got away from me altogether (for anyone who's read it: the duplex thing did nothing for me, although I liked Rosemary's character). And the question that hangs in the balance: will the secret ever be revealed?

Something I particularly liked about this novel was the way Edwards made David a very sympathetic character despite his absolutely atrocious action. As their lives progress, the reader learns more about the personal history that motivated David's decision: a very simple and justified desire not to cause his beloved wife the pain of losing a family member. You can't help but hating him, and yet that hate is underscored by a pity and sadness that generally stays out of the maudlin realm. Everything he does seems like an illustration of his paralysis--he continually references the fact that time moved on from the moment of his decision, yet it's so clear that he was never able to move beyond that night.

There were some other fun figures: Norah's wacky sister Bree, the only one who seemed truly sane; the truck driver who rather randomly rescues and woos Caroline; and Phoebe, the daughter David cast away but could never let go of.

I can't say this is a novel I'll return to again and again, but it's certainly a worthwhile read. Depressing, yet somehow enjoyable, and quite random when we catch up with David planting flowers outside his duplex after 25 years. Maybe just visit your local library to grab it, rather than a bookstore. I might be willing to trade you my copy for a beer. But it would have to be a good beer.

Literary Adventure - Desert Solitaire

2007-01-21T18:49:00.000-05:00

There may be one or two souls out there who mourned the lack of fresh fare here at the Pub, but believe me, you weren't missing much. Samples of posts forever relegated to the draft folder include:

- Do I Have Scurvy? An Analysis into my recent obsession with citrus

- Wintry Mix: Why has this not been made into a shot available at every Michigan bar?

- Pros and Cons of Moving to Switzerland

If it's not apparent, it hasn't been the cheeriest of fortnights in the land of Suz. Although a particularly intense few weeks at work coupled with Jack Frost bitch-slapping Detroit's nose last week could certainly explain my relative gloom, it's been a little more than that. While I usually have a fairly optimistic and (completely unwarranted) romantic view on the world, the combination of reading V for Vendetta and viewing In the Name of the Father left me quite misanthropic. And not just about authority figures--about everyone. It seems as of late that the population can be broken into two groups: The Morons and Those Who Manipulate Them. Where is the goodness? There is none, apparently.

In these weeks, one thing that I unquestionably looked forward to was curling up in bed at night and reading a chapter or two of Desert Solitaire, Edward Abbey's memoir of his life in the wilderness. At first, I thought it was just Abbey's wry tone, vivid details, and often languorous descriptions of his days as a ranger in Arches National Park in Utah. But as the nights wound on, I realized that Abbey had found the antidote to the malaise that the simple act of living in this world thrust on us -- he left.

I've truly loved Abbey's commentary on the existence of very justified violence in the environment (Paradise is a place where lions lie down with lambs? Impossible--what do they eat?), the wretched ignorance of people craving to build highways through National Parks so people can see it all from their car, and the glorious contentment found in sitting alone under a silent summer sky.

There's much in Abbey's work that resonates with the same parts of my soul that Walden did. Like my pal Henry David, Abbey urges a life of simplicity, of knowing yourself in connection with the world. Abbey's voice, however, has a much more embittered edge to it, as I imagine Thoreau's might have if mechanized carriages had threatened his sanctuary. Desert Solitaire is by no means a coherent narrative, and Abbey's rough voice will probably grate just as many readers as it engages, but the philosophy is one worth remembering.

I've long since abandoned any urges to flee to parts unknown with my journal and a bicycle -- despite some pronounced anti-social tendencies, I'm far too attached to chats with friends and family, shared dinner with my beloved spouse, and the occasional interaction with a kind stranger (not to mention the indoor shower). But in a time that far too often baffles and enrages me, it's good to remember that places of ultimate peace do still exist in the world if we let ourselves find them. And while that inner peace doesn't negate corrupt political officials, blissfully unaware idiots in large automobiles, or any of the other negatives that I've been hating, it's certainly a peace worth working for.

27 in 2007

2007-01-10T18:53:00.000-05:00

I've mentioned this before, but I'm not a tremendous fan of New Year's resolutions--those tend to be made by people who drop an atrocious amount of money on a gym membership, hog the treadmill and the good Swedish balls, and then peace out around President's Day. However, I do like setting goals and checking in with myself to see how I've changed and progressed over time. I used to write letters to myself on the first day of school to open on the last (dork, I know), and in that epistolary spirit, I offer my goals for 2007. 27, in fact.

In the realm of fitness...
1. Run a 5K in under 30 minutes – I’m at 31:19 now, and I’m sure with the speedwork I’m planning this spring and summer, I can hit this before really getting into the mileage I’ll need for marathon season.
2. Run the Chicago Marathon with a PR of at least 8 minutes – I already registered, along with a fellow member of Team DX, the inimitable Mr. Norfolk. We both endeavor to crack five hours, but given our combined level of badassedness, I wouldn’t be surprised if we do even better!
3. Begin regular yoga classes – I’ve mourned the lack of yoga in my life for the past two years, so I’m bringing the goodness back. Hopefully, a move this summer will put us within closer striking distance of many fine yoga studios.
4. Learn a good routine for lifting and integrate it into workouts on some level – I don’t pump iron, and I should. But I would like to have a solid process for how it will make me a better runner, not just “ooh, guess I’ll do some triceps today.”
5. Use a boxing bag and not look like a total moron – do I need to elaborate on this?
6. Drink soda no more than twice a month – I’m probably pretty close, but I want to be a little more conscious about it. This caveat obviously doesn’t include sparkling water or my beloved flavored club soda, else I’d surely die.

In the realm of mental fitness...
7. Read Anna Karenina
8. Read The Brothers Karamazov
9. Re-read Crime and Punishment OR Notes from the Underground – if you can believe it, these used to be under one item: “Read three Russian novels.” Each in itself will be an accomplishment.
10. Read Fagles’s translation of the Iliad - I love Fagles’s Odyssey, but haven’t read his telling of the Iliad and I really want to.
11. Incorporate reading of the newspaper (in some form) into daily routine - I’m by no means ignorant when it comes to world events, but I'm also not as informed as I should be. Maybe it’s first thing in the morning, maybe it’s at lunch, but I need to read more.
12. Finish a particularly beloved piece of writing – I’ve been working on this novella for over a year. It’s just a matter of buckling down, doing it, coming up with a decent ending, and not spending all my time working on the minute revisions that I can always go back to.

A lady about town....
13. Go ice-skating at Campus Martius – it’s essential.
14. Go to Eastern Market at least once - I've wanted to go for years, and don't think I can really say I'm any kind of Detroiter if I don't.
15. Go to at least one play – it need not be RSC-level, but I love theater and always enjoy myself when I go.
16. Go dancing at least once – granted, I could easily be likened to the white chick in Save the Last Dance, but I really have fun doing it, so there.

And the truly random...
17. Try out for Jeopardy! – It is my destiny to appear on this show. I almost auditioned in college, but had an exam at the time the crew was on campus. I stood on the sidewalk for a good three minutes, seriously contemplating blowing off the exam and auditioning for the show. I opted for the exam. I always wonder if that moment could have re-defined my existence. Sadly, they’re only holding auditions in LA now, so if anyone wants to finance a trip for me, let me know!
18. Increase knowledge about wine – I fake it way too much.
19. Re-tune my bike and ride to grocery store, library, and rec center on a semi-regular basis – right when we moved to our current house, I brought out my bike from Baltimore with the intent of riding it everywhere. I did it for a few months, then stopped. But it would be a lot of gas saved if I used it more, so I will.

The social caterpillar...
20. Call my sister more – at least once a month - It seems lame to say that I need an item on a checklist to stay in touch with my sister, but it’s so easy NOT to. Should I call way more than once a month? Yes. But this is a start.
21. Stay in touch with high-school roommate – again, seems lame that I need an item to do this, but I do. I’m horrible at emailing, but she’s important to me, so I’m going to try.
22. Visit Ann in New York – because it would be damn fun.
23. Send out holiday cards – haven’t done it for a while. Should.

A Citizen of the World...
24. Condense sweater collection to one box – I have enough sweaters to clothe Uganda, and many just need new homes, particularly the ones I haven't worn in years, or the ones that I still wear, yet was also wearing when I was a sophomore in high school. So it’s sweater Darwinism in Suz-land.
25. Grow something edible that doesn’t die - I have a dream of growing my own vegetables, but if you really want a good laugh, ask E about the herbs I tried to grow last summer. So this is a way bigger goal than it might seem.
26. Work at Habitat for Humanity at least once – this was my favorite project in college. Nothing says “killer Saturday morning” like some solid roofing or nailing. It makes me feel tough and helpful all at once. I hope to go many more times than one, but hey, baby steps people.
27. Be impeccable with my word - yeah.

I'll check in periodically and let you know how I'm doing!

Delighted!

2007-01-08T22:29:00.000-05:00

You know life is good when, just for giggles, your spouse brings you home an unexpected gift:

Thanks to a plethora of Borders' and Barnes & Noble gift cards, we recently purchased the V for Vendetta DVD. While watching on Sunday afternoon, I commented that I wanted to read the graphic novel. On another Borders' trip (we also have Rewards expiring soon) today, E picked it up for me.

SWEET!

2006: Year in Review

2007-01-06T17:09:00.000-05:00

A little late, but what the hell! I did this last year, and it was fun, but I'm tweaking some of these questions and dropping others all together because the original ones are lame.

1. What did you do in 2006 that you'd never done before?
Kept the same "real" job for more than a year. Oh, and I read Moby Dick, have I talked about that lately?

2. Did you keep your New Year's resolutions, and will you make more for next year?
My only constant resolution is to live each day to the fullest, and I think I did okay. Be excited for an upcoming "27 in 2007" list, wherein I'll set small goals like "Grow something edible that doesn't die."

3. Did anyone close to you give birth?
Bec and John brought Sammy into our lives, and we are all made better by his uber-mellow, uber-adorable presence.

4. Did anyone close to you die?
No, though again, people close to me had people close to them die, and that's always a perspective jolt.

5. What countries did you visit?
Canada and Mexico. I should be a NAFTA consultant.

6. What experiences from 2006 will remain etched upon your memory, and why?
On the positive side, watching from an elevated rooftop as the Tigers put away the Yankees (and the whole World Series experience) was pretty unbelievably sweet. Continuing the running journey, especially Marathon #2 was a big deal. Our vacation up north last summer was completely amazing. The end-of-the-year school picnic day was also beyond delightful. Sadly, there were other negative/life-altering experiences that were part of '06, and are hard to separate from the joys of the rest of the year.

7. Whose behavior merited celebration?
This is kind of lame, but a couple of my students went out on limbs and tried things that they were afraid/dubious of doing, and I was really inspired by their actions and resilience.

8. Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed?
Appalled: How the fuck is Ferg-a-licious still working?

Depressed: The Pistons. And Ben Wallace. And that's all I have to say about that.

9. What did you get really, really, really excited about?
The aforementioned World Series run, seeing the Royal Shakespeare Company, finishing Detroit for a second time with my parents there.

10. What song will always remind you of 2006?
"Hung Up" by Madonna was a critical Running Mix component. And even though I didn't discover it till late in the year, I love Regina Spektor's "Sampson." Maybe the most completely beautiful and haunting song I've heard since Jeff Buckley's "Hallelujah."

11. Compared to this time last year, are you:
a) happier or sadder? About the same
b) thinner or fatter? About the same
c) richer or poorer? Richer... probably in part due to keeping the same "real" job for more than a year.

12. What do you wish you'd done more of?
I wanted to go snowshoeing (I've never been) and never got around to it. Maybe this year, except, oh snap, it's never going to snow again in Michigan. On a similar note, I also wanted to go skiing more, or once.

13. What do you wish you'd done less of?

I should probably say "Drank less coffee" and "Watched fewer reruns of 90210," but if those are the worst vices I have, whatever. It's a lot better than "continually hitting refresh on careerbuilder.com and wondering why I feel like a loser at 25" which went on some in 2005.

14. How did you spend Christmas?
Went to Baltimore, hung with E and the fam, made crab cakes, opened zillions of presents with the kiddies, drank egg nog with brandy, contemplated a NY trip and decided to stay put, played Scrabble, discovered the Knifty Knitter (now addicted). Overall, a pretty fantastic experience.

15. Did you fall in love in 2006?
I fall in love with E all over again every day. It's the Nirvana T-shirts.

16. Were you pursued by any secret admirers in 2006?
Not unless you want to count some misdirected late-night text messages about meeting up at the club.

17. What was your favorite TV program?
Discovered: Veronica Mars. Watched new episodes of: Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip.

18. Do you hate anyone now that you didn't hate this time last year?
I said this last year, but so far I still don't have the negative energy capable of hating anyone. At least not for longer than a day or so.

19. What was the best book you read?
The Handmaid's Tale for undeniable enjoyment and literary valuable, The Kindness of Strangers for writing about an impossible subject with grace and craft, In the Heart of the Sea for making history fun, The Six Wives of Henry the Eighth for also making history fun, and The Other Boelyn Girl for the establishment of the best guilty pleasure ever.

20. What was your greatest musical discovery?
The Sounds, Regina Spektor, Amos Lee, and Mutlu. With Mutlu's "Board Games" being far and away the winner.

21. What was your favorite film of this year?
V for Vendetta, Borat and possibly Casino Royale, though I have yet to see either The Departed or The Queen and think that either of those could be a contender. (These, btw, are movies in the theater and not via Netflix. Hey, that's a good question...)

22. What were your best Netflix picks?
Hustle & Flow, The Station Agent, Do the Right Things, History of Violence, All the Real Girls, 25th Hour, Trainspotting, Transamerica

22. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?
I was 27. I went to work, where through the beauty of MySpace EVERYONE knew it was my birthday. I then came home, where E and I ate sushi, wrapped presents, and watched Thank You For Smoking.

23.What's the best trip you took?

As stated, Up North was good (Petoskey's really pretty when not blanketed by gray sleety crap as it often is in ski-season). My April Baltimore trip was a lot of fun, and Becca and I had a great weekend in Chicago in October.

24. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2006?
This is a terrible question, but I'm leaving it in there because it's also hilarious. I have two looks: Model for "You Too Can Be a Distance Runner!" article, and model for "How Many Different shirt-shoe combinations can you wear with that pair of jeans?" article.

25. What kept you sane?
Reading, hanging with Evan and Becca, running, making a concerted effort not to drown in work. And the wine and beer probably helped some.

26. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?
You mean other than the 15-year ongoing fancy of Mark Messier? That would have to be Jensen Ackles from Supernatural, which I realize makes me sound like I'm 14, but no one's made killing demons look better since Julian McMahon was on Charmed.

27. What political issue stirred you the most?
When I heard the Democrats took the House, the person in the car with me shrieked very loudly and nearly I drove off the road.

28. Who did you miss?
The same people I missed last year; I didn't rebuild many bridges. Though one of my best high-school friends and I are now in touch again, which is a significant accomplishment.

29. Who was the best new person you met?

I think I met her earlier, but I have delighted in getting to know Bonnie better! :D

30. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2006.

Maybe some other time.

There is no sun, and it's so dark: some musings on the winter solstice

2006-12-22T07:58:00.000-05:00

Yesterday, on my first day of holiday vacation, I was amazed to find that I could not get out of bed. My ambitions for the day had been chronicled the night before in a 12-point list, and getting up at 7:00 AM was critical to the completion process. Given that I normally get up before 6:00 AM to get to work on time, I thought that an extra hour of sleep would be more than sufficiently luxurious.

My alarm went off. I slapped the snooze and rolled back over. A few minutes later, I found myself wondering if I'd been delusional. I mean, it was PITCH BLACK. Middle of the night. It could not possibly be wake-up time. I went back to sleep.

Ten minutes later, the clock angrily snarled at me, and I realized that it was indeed time to get up. This was an agonizing concept. It was so dark! And my bed was so warm! It's one thing to face these conditions when it's time to go to work. But to have this greet me after supposedly sleeping in?

Suz: Oh my god, it's so dark, I don't think I can get up.
Evan: Um, welcome to my world.

Not cool. I finally hauled myself out of bed, grumbling all the way.

This morning, I met a similar fate, but knowing that my to-do list was even more daunting than yesterday's, I got rolling without much complaints. Post-shower, I did start whining to E about my new lack of interest in moving to any high-latitudinal countries, and he quite fairly pointed out, "So, how have you never noticed this in the NINE years you've lived in Michigan?" Or, more accurately, in the TWENTY-SEVEN years you've been alive? I think distraction is the key. When I'm thinking about school, NPR, or Spike's latest hijinks on 955, I don't care if there's sun. Once I'm at school, I'm awake and swathed in artificial light, though I am starting to realize that I've seen the sun rise while walking to my first class of the day.

But when the option is a) get up or b) keep sleeping, sunlight is crucial. The vitalizing effects of Vitamin D cannot be ignored, people.

What can I say, the solstice is having its way with me this year. I used to think that the happy pagans would do rituals to celebrate this time of year. I now understand that they were just trying to make it go away.

For the record, it's 8:10 AM as I'm writing this, and it's still pretty damn dark outside.

Seriously.

2006-12-17T21:19:00.000-05:00

Last summer, Ann (who has always been one of the smartest people I know) posted the following on her blog:

No one can be my friend unless they see An Inconvenient Truth. That's all... :-) Please see this movie.

E and I watched it tonight, and although most of the info was familiar to me, it was a piece of rhetorical genius, and must be viewed by every Citizen of the World. Honestly, I'll go one further than Ann -- no one can be my friend unless they see An Inconvenient Truth and recognize environmentalism as one of the most compelling issues of our time.

Also, I drove next to an H2 on the highway this weekend, and I really thought it would eat me.

Literary Adventure - Moby Dick

2006-12-16T17:49:00.000-05:00

Ask someone about his or her worst high-school English memories, and the name Charles Dickens might be bandied around. The name Nathaniel Hawthorne might take a bit of a whipping. The names Thomas Hardy or William Faulkner or Stephen Crane might be uttered with a side of eye-rolling and deep-sighing. Unlike hip cats F. Scott Fitzgerald and Zora Neale Hurston, these authors are criticized as long-winded, boring, confusing, or quite likely a combination of all three. But one name, one book, tends to send its readers into fits of resentment when faced with the memory, or even the possibility.

That book, my friends, is Moby Dick. Or, The Whale as most editions will tell you.

I never got friendly with Moby in high school. And I was never very sorry about it. And it never really went further than that. Then, last summer, I read In the Heart of the Sea: The Tragedy of the Whaleship Essex. I was surprisingly compelled by the book's unflinching look at whaling life, and I began to see the raw poetic material embedded in a whaling voyage. Upon learning that the Essex shipwreck had been Herman Melville's inspiration for Moby Dick, I decided to tackle the whale. Inspiration to read such a book doesn't happen every day, and I knew that if I was ever going to check this one off the reading list of life, I had to seize the day.

Having heard that Moby, at its heart, is a story that anyone can read, grasp, and understand, I opted to forego any editions with oodles of footnotes and critical essays. I didn't want other people to do the thinking for me. I wanted to approach the work unencumbered, as I imagined Melville would want me to. I picked an edition that Nathaniel Philibrick, author of Heart, had written, and I settled in for the voyage.

The first 50-100 pages were utterly enthralling. I couldn't put the book down, and I couldn't believe anyone could ever trash talk this book. The narrator ("Call me Ishmael.") was funny! Not just joke-cracking funny, but deeply, searingly funny. Philibrick calls Ishmael the best friend he never had in high school--and he is! After explaining that whaling is his alternative to beating people up when he's angry, he meets a "savage" buddy (Queequeg--they awkwardly share a bed, it's great), and enlists on the Pequod for a voyage, where he learns about Captain Ahab and his deranged quest to find and kill the White Whale that chomped off his leg on a prior voyage. Ishmael's voice is rich and engaging, and some of his philosophical musings were almost aching in their beauty. One of my favorites:

"It needs scarcely to be told, with what feelings, on the eve of a Nantucket voyage, I regarded those tablets [memorials to dead whalemen], and by the murky light of that darkened, doleful day read the fate of the whalemen who had gone before me. Yes, Ishmael, the same fate may be thine. But somehow I grew merry again. Delightful inducements to embark, fine chance for promotion, it seems--aye, a stove [wrecked] boat will make me immortal by berevet. Yes, there is death in this business of whaling--a speechlessly quick chaotic bundling of a man into Eternity. But what then? Methinks we have hugely mistaken this matter of Life and Death. Methinks that what they call my shadow here on Earth is my true substance. Methinks that in looking at things spiritual, we are too much like oysters observing the sun through the water, and thinking that thick water the thinnest of air. Methinks my body is but the lees of my better being. In fact, take my body who will, take it I say, it is not me. And therefore three cheers for Nantucket; and come a stove boat and stove body when they will, for stave my soul, Jove himself cannot."

So I sailed on for about 250 pages, and greatly enjoyed it. I could see that it might be tedious for the average high-schooler, but it really wasn't that bad at all.

Then, I hit the middle chapters. Where, among other things, Melville details the anatomy of a whale, the color of the whale and other animals in nature that share that color, the proper usage of a harpoon, and the precise layout and daily activities of a whaling ship. He wrote in circles. He wrote six pages where I felt sure one would be sufficient. I cannot tell you how much I wanted to reach through time and throttle Melville; I'd unleash a stream of expletives, all buffered by one word: EDIT. For the first time in my life, I longed for an abridged version. I avoided reading. I wondered if the book would soon find its way back to the shelf, unfinished.

But I stuck with it, and somewhere around page 425, things started to click. I started to "get it." I began to be able to deconstruct what the hell this guy was talking about. And what he was talking about are the timeless themes that people bandy around when talking about this life: the futile struggle of humanity against larger forces. Ambition. Leadership. Mortality. Loneliness. Suddenly, rather than dreading the encyclopedic chapters, I was devouring them, able to see the deeper messages Melville was urging his readers to consider.

I was fully engaged by the time the Pequod caught up to Moby-Dick somewhere in the middle of the Pacific. The climax of the story absolutely didn't disappoint, though for the record, Captain Ahab is really nothing more than a slightly creepy old man with a prosthesis until the last quarter of the book, when he comes totally unhinged. While the psychosis is vaguely gripping in the tradition of a train wreck, I actually found the personal journey of Starbuck to be the book's most gripping. He's the only crew member who appears to have a conscience, and pleads with Ahab to give up the ghost and head home till Nantucket in one of the book's most emotional moments.

Also for the record: getting through this book is worth it for the final chapter alone. Everyone always says that the opening line is so memorable, but it's the last lines that are really quite incredible. I can't even record them here, because it's only with the experience of the book at your back that you read that final paragraph and are nearly moved to tears. Once again, Ishmael was a philosopher, but also a friend, and one you desperately wanted to pluck from the disaster and tell him that the world's not that bad, except you think he might be right.

Do I recommend it? For the average reader, probably not, and I don't say that to sound elitist. This isn't a book you can enter into casually. I almost wish I had read it in high school, or at least bought the Norton Critical Edition, because I think it would have been helpful to have a guide and a forum to discuss and debate the work. But I'm not sure I would have been ready for it then, hell, I'm not even sure I was really ready for it now. If you are willing to commit, this book can be amazing, and make you forget the segments when you wanted to drive a nail through your skull out of frustration.

Truthfully, I think I'm still processing the experience. But I know that I'm glad I met these characters, content that I took this journey, and quite satisfied that this whale didn't get the best of me.

A weekend of significant accomplishment

2006-12-11T12:41:00.000-05:00

I don't usually get to make that sort of proclamation about my weekend. Normally, it's pretty basic: did work for school. Worked out. Drank some wine/beer with E. Occasionally, there's the rocking Royal Shakespeare or Marathon that goes on, but it's usually pretty tame.

Not this time! Granted, there was still a lot of aimlessly wandering around the house in my pajamas, drinking of the fermented beverages, watching of the DVR-ed shows.* However, I also ran a pretty amazing 5K on Saturday morning in Holly. I PR'd by over 2 minutes, which is kind of a big deal for a race that short. I ran at a 10:05 pace for the whole race, which is the fastest I've run in a race, like, ever. Even though I've done that distance faster on the treadmill/outside in the summer, given that it was 23 degrees out on Saturday, I'll take it! AND! It's the first race I've ever run where I finished AHEAD of most of the people in my age group (5 out of 12! Woo!). Which, to borrow an Alok phrase from circa 2001, is pretty sweet-ass-sweet.

The other monumental accomplishment: I finished Moby Dick! I actually did it--yahoo! Literary Adventure to come, but here's the short version: Melville is legitimately badass, but if you made me read that when I was in high school, I would have put my head through a wall.

Hope all is well with you, my happy Pub friends.

*Yeah, I haven't written about Nip/Tuck in forever, but who else is so delighted Wilbur has re-entered the series? And how glad were you that James didn't make off with his kidneys???

Susy Snowflake

2006-12-04T20:37:00.000-05:00

While I love all seasons--lying outside in the summer, running in the fall, driving with the windows open in the spring--there's something about winter that is terminally delightful to me. Just ask E, who was recently subjected to the delirious fits I go into upon viewing "A Charlie Brown Christmas."

It was easy to forget that fact this afternoon, when it took me two--not one, but two hours to get home from work as traffic along I-696 was reduced to a 15-mph crawl. Snow was swirling, and drivers became apprehensive. Although I had my tunes and my NPR, I still felt downright curmudgeonly. God! Why can't people drive in the snow--it's not even like I'll get 8 snow days as payoff as I did in Baltimore. Crap! Why does my lame-o little car slide all over the place? Holy redlights Batman, do NOT slam on your brakes like that! Of all the Suzes in the world, I was definitely the Suziest this afternoon.*

Yet as I rounded into my neighborhood, which could politely be described as an ice rink any time it precipitates in weather under 30-degrees, I suddenly felt my soul fill with a warmth akin to the feeling one gets when gulping mulled cider too quickly. I pulled in front of my house and was met with the warm glow of a thousand twinkling white lights wound around the tree, the garage, and the front porch. Colored lights adorned the bushes, and I could see the outline of the Christmas tree through the window. It was December, I had a tree to light and snuggle up next to when I got inside, and a listing of showtimes for Frosty and the Grinch on the fridge.

Some of my favorite December memories in no particular order (not even related to my birthday, which is--ahem--next week):

- In Baltimore, the house grew up in had two white columns on the front porch. We'd wind thick red ribbon around them during the holidays to create a delightful candy-cane effect.
- I am an addict to the tiny peppermint nougats with the Christmas tree in the center that come out around Thanksgiving. Am eating one now. They are to me what Lotus was to Odysseus's crew (my kids have a test in two days on The Odyssey, forgive the random Homeric reference).
- Senior year of high school, one of my good friends and I went on a three-hour driving tour of metro Baltimore, following the newspaper's guide to the BEST-Decorated Holiday Houses. We saw an eight-foot tall menorah. The whole experience was well worth it.
- My parents have a thick leather strap of jingle bells that has hung on our front door as long as I can remember. The sound of those bells was sonorous, rich, and heartily joyous. Never a question as to why someone would hitch some on their sleigh.
- There's a particular recording of "Sleigh Ride" where a guy with a profound basso starts bellowing "IIIII love a SLEIGH ride!" during the chorus. This song, contained on a frequently-played cassette residing in a family vehicle, would never fail to send my sister and I into uncontrollable giggle fits.
- The past three years, Evan and I have delighted in picking out a fresh tree, bringing it home, and decorating it with a steadily increasing collection of ornaments. The whole house smells like evergreen and it hits you like wave when you come in.
- The peppermint mocha. You can't put a price on tastiness.**
- Staying up insanely late with my cousins on Christmas Eve, waking up insanely early on Christmas morning

I have a feeling no one will respond... but what are yours? Do share the fuzziness.

Point being--this season, whether it's about inflatable decorations or presents or the shepherds abiding in the field and keeping watch over their flocks by night--it should be about hope and happiness and love. Twinkle on, friends.

*If you got my Charlie Brown joke, I'm extremely impressed.
**Actually you can, and it's a little ridiculous

Hopscotching Literary Adventures

2006-11-26T15:45:00.000-05:00

While I'm working on a colossally exciting Thanksgiving blog post (more football than turkey), I figured I'd do my bar crowd of three the pleasure of some insight into my latest reading material. While I'm still tackling the beast known as Moby Dick, I realized that going cold turkey on all other books wasn't in the cards. So in between voyages on the Pequod (and inside the labyrinth of Mr. Melville's mind), I made some visits to Gothic England, Dominica, south of 8 Mile, and the ancient lands of Canaan.

Jane Eyre and Wide Sargasso Sea were part of a Book Club-sponsored Literary Adventure that occurred last summer. We picked WSS because it had been "on the list" for most of us, and we'd simply never gotten around to it. Because WSS is a spin-off of Jane Eyre (it's the pre-history of Rochester's first wife before she gets tossed in the attic to laugh maniacally through most of the novel), we thought it would be fun to read them together.

I started with Jane Eyre, thinking it would be a bit of a review because I read it when I was about 13. Let me just say: it was way better the second time around. I don't think I could have given much more than a basic plot synopsis after my first reading (and to be honest, I think I probably read the first 300 pages and then tapped out, though why I don't know... it's not like I had either cable TV or instant messenger at that point in my life), but this time, I completely fell in love with Jane. Reared in her early years by an obnoxious aunt and shipped to boarding school by age ten, Jane is a heroine in the Charles-Dickens-meets-Little-Orphan-Annie tradition. She's somber, serious, and quite rough, but also has a genuine heart and kind spirit that starts to come out when she's contracted as a governess to the sassy Adele, who lives in the manor of one Mr. Rochester. The story heats up as Jane discovers a latent mystery lurking in the manor, and much of the novel is Jane solving and coming to terms with what that mystery means for her. The book's language previously came off as drab to me, but as I now view it as precise, even-tempered, and just emotional enough that W.M. Thackeray declared it must have been written by a woman (Bronte, right, originally published under a male pseudonym). There's definitely a bridled hostility and passion to Jane's voice, but its restrained in a way absolutely consistent to her character. It absolutely became one of my favorite classics, and it was a wonderful, serendipitous lead-in to Wide Sargasso.

In many ways, Jean Rhys's novel couldn't be more different that Bronte's gothic masterpiece. Set in the Caribbean (where Rochester's first wife lived before he married her), the novel is a searing remembrance of slavery, Creole identity, the supernatural, and living landscape of Antoinette Cosway's existence. Rhys certainly gave voice and validity to the "madwoman's" experiences, and when the story reaches its inevitable, fiery climax, you'll never read Jane the same way again.

I've heard some people say that Sargasso ruined Mr. Rochester for them, but I don't think that's necessarily fair. First, Rochester is not Darcy, and if you really viewed him as a classic romantic hero, I don't think you really got what Bronte was saying. He's always been bruised, flawed, and conflicted, and while I didn't gain any newfound love for him, I thought his reactions and actions illustrated many of the wrenching themes of deception and manipulation that Rhys was going for. If you trust what he says in Jane, then you forgive his unforgivable past. Rhys just gives us a pretty vivid insight into what needs to be forgiven.

By the way, there's also apparently a movie version of WSS (rated NC-17! Cool!). We were planning a Cinematic Adventure to view it (for reasons of literary comparison, of course) but that has yet to happen. Full update to come if it transpires!

From there it was school and the Pequod until I discovered Paul Clemens's Made in Detroit and found that it a welcome relief. Dubbed a "south of 8 mile memoir," the book chronicles Clemens's life as a white Catholic boy in a city that's rapidly changed in every conceivable way over the past half-century. I enjoyed this book, though I recommend it with a caveat: I'm not sure anyone who isn't personally attached to the city would find much delight in it. There's much that's quite interesting about the different neighborhoods and their reactions to Coleman Young's time as mayor (particularly some insightful history from Young's autobiography and some out-of-print Detroit collectives), the changing demographics and declining industries, but I'm not sure that anyone not already invested cares. What is universally appealing about Clemens's writing is the personal odyssey he goes through as he struggles to find his artistic voice. At its heart, I think this is more a coming-of-age memoir that's critically intertwined with its author's hometown, rather than a Detroit retrospective. While personally I glazed over a bit during the long passages detailing afternoons Clemens and his dad spent working on cars, I loved the recollections of growing up Catholic, philosophical contemplations while running 12 miles in the woods, and losing oneself in literary analysis (big surprise). Maybe this is the kindred-spirit speaking, but many of those chapters just sang with their eloquence and depth. Clemens mentioned again and again that he had an unwritten opus--a novel set in Detroit--and I'll say this: I hope he gets around to writing it, because I'll definitely be reading it.

Finally, I just read The Red Tent this weekend, which I realize was the cool thing to be reading about eight years ago, but hey, there are a lot of tomes in this world to get through. I picked this up at a used book sale for a quarter (the same place where I got Made in Detroit for 50 cents! Rock!) and it was pretty much the deal of the century. The Red Tent is the extended story of the women of Genesis--Rachel, Leah, Bilhah, Zilpah, and their daughter Dinah. Dinah is familiar to most for the violent story in Genesis 34, where a local prince sleeps with her, asks for her hand in marriage, and receives a bloody death at the hands of her legendary 12 brothers, who refuse to see their sister "be made a harlot." The story is often referred to as the "rape of Dinah," but Anita Diamant gives a tender and passionate voice to the Biblical heroine, and extends the story so we see its roots and consequences.

The story is intensely feminine, but not in any kind of maudlin or cloying way. Dinah weaves the stories of her four mothers--Jacob's four wives--in an enchanting manner, and makes it clear that she's allowing the reader into a world unknown to history and to the men of the era. Diamant doesn't make any "oh, this is what's left out of history and your faith" claims, but it's fascinating to see an old story told from a different, nuanced viewpoint. While any male might shudder at the idea of vivid scenes inside the "red tent," where women go to give birth, heal, menstruate, etc, I really enjoyed this novel and don't think you necessarily need to be a mother, daughter, or sister to do so.

Hope

Thankful

2006-11-22T12:21:00.000-05:00

After passing through yesterday in a fatigue not felt since the day my wisdom teeth were extracted and I was hopped up on enough anesthesia to render me couch-bound for two days, I am officially ON BREAK. And thankful for it.

In honor of the little things, a brief list of what I'm most thankful for during these days:

1. The genius at my independent school who decided that the concept of classes on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving was a ridiculous idea.
2. Automatic garage door openers and indoor plumbing. I embrace the Michigan winter, but only so much.
3. The peals and peals of laughter that E and I share every day.
4. The guy at TNT who approves putting A Few Good Men on 800 times a week. Even though one of the scenes with Downey made me cry this week.
5. Low-calorie ice-cream sandwiches.

More to come...

A sure sign Thanksgiving is needed

2006-11-19T15:31:00.000-05:00

When I was younger, I played the piano, and had a teacher who was awesomely rigorous. In the weeks before our performace "festivals," she would demand that her students practice by simply drilling their pieces into their heads and hand muscles. I'd spend any given evening playing my Haydn concerto five times. It was effective. It was also dull.

My mom would often implement little food bribes to get me through such sessions: she'd line up five or six jelly beans on the piano, and I was permitted to celebrate each run-through with one bean. It was silly. It was also effective.

Today, I was grading papers, an occupational hazard that I usually enjoy, and was pretty cranky about it. In homage to my mom, I lined up about twenty chocolate chips on the table in front of me. Each time I completed an essay page, I popped a chip. A silly yet effective antidote to the the dull-drums.

I am so ready for a vacation.

As a follow-up, also representative of my rather terse mood, is a one-word chronicle via the delightful Dawn. It's harder than you think. Each answer must be one word and one word only!

Yourself: Mirthful
Your partner: Sarcastic
Your hair: Curly
Your mother: Genuine
Your father: Sturdy
Your favorite item: Books
Your dream last night: Football
Your favorite drink: Seltzer
Your dream car: Mustang
Your dream home: Classic
The room you are in: Kitchen
Your ex: Alive?
Your fear: Complacency
Where you want to be in ten years: Thankful
Who you hung out with last night: friends
What you’re not: Bitter
Muffins: Today!
One of your wish list items: shoes
Time: Afternoon
The last thing you did: Paperz
What you are wearing: socks
Your favorite weather: Autumn
Your favorite book: Conroy
Last thing you ate: Chocolate
Your life: Sweet
Your best friend: Badass
Your mood: Langourous
What are you thinking about right now: leaves
Your car: Adorable
What are you doing at the moment: Mulling
Your summer: Blissful
Relationship status: Knotted
What is on your tv: Favre
What is the weather like: Drizzly
When is the last time you laughed: Minutes