in Just-
spring when the world is mud-
luscious the little
lame balloonman
whistles.........far.........and wee
and eddieandbill come
running from marbles and
piracies and it's
spring
when the world is puddle-wonderful
the queer
old balloonman whistles
far.........and.........wee
and bettyandisablel come dancing
from hop-scotch and jump-rope and
it's spring
and
.......the
.............goat-footed
balloonMan.........whistles
far
and
wee
(Thank you e.e. cummings, I needed that. It is not spring, but for ten seconds in my brain, it could be. Also, "mud-luscious" and "puddle-wonderful"? Perfect.)
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Brain Explosion
I shouldn't be blogging.
I should be writing a paper. I'm just excited because I've officially reached Grad School Critical Mass Level 1. I'm not going to kid myself and pretend that this is real critical mass because I don't have a job and I'm not working on my thesis or my oral exam yet, but I do "finally" have not just buckets and buckets of reading, but like super-human amounts of writing, reading, presenting, and things I'm supposed to be attending on top of this bizarre cold that won't get worse or better, but just sits on my chest and face like a troll.
Why is this exciting? I have no idea. I'm weird. It's not like I'm accomplishing anything. When I have tons of reading, I can read for seven hours a day; I'm fairly certain I'm the only person in my class who actually reads every word. Now, however, I've entered the procrastination zone, which mostly just entails stacking and restacking my piles of articles and books like a fortress around my laptop. Maybe while I'm making lunch the words will seep from the books into the laptop and my paper will magically assemble itself.
Most likely not. Most likely I'll bring lunch to my desk, get cream cheese all over my fortress, and have to start from scratch.
Tuesday, November 03, 2009
The Book(s) of the Dead
I meant to post my special Halloween Edition Book Review on Halloween, but oddly, had a lot of things to do that day what with all the candy, and the costumes, and the candy, and the Halloween. If, like me, you're not quite over it yet (really, does Thanksgiving offer all that much to look forward to instead? They should reverse the order, put Thanksgiving in August so there's a nice steady build up through the end of the year...), then this might offer you something to hold on to. If you're sick of it, save this for next year and move on.
Anyway, this year I went for the Classics, Frankenstein and Dracula; and then a little search for lost souls on the side.
Frankenstein, or, The Modern Prometheus
by Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley
I must first admit that the decision to read this book was not wholly mine, and that it was required for one of my classes. I tried to read Tim's untouched copy about two years ago and didn't make it through the introduction. That shouldn't color whether or not you decide to read this book though, it should only make you think carefully about which edition you buy. Mary Shelley made a number of changes to the text in her life, up to the point when she sold the copyright (for something insane like $37) and neither she nor anyone in her estate ever made another penny off of the book again. A good edition, like the Chicago edition (pictured above), shows the changes that she made, which are sometimes fairly significant. The nice thing about it though, is that if you're reading for enjoyment, you can largely ignore the little editorial bits, but the occasional footnotes actually help.
It seems as though everyone knows the story of Frankenstein, the monster made from human body parts who throws little blond girls down wells and is afraid of fire, etc. etc. However, as with anything usurped by Hollywood, what's been churned through the machine is only a shadow of the original work. You probably know that Frankenstein is not the monster, but the man who creates him (the monster has no name), but did you know that the Monster reads Paradise Lost, and Plutarch? That there is no Igor? That Victor Frankenstein begins to make a female monster, but realizes the monsters might have baby monsters and rips her body up and throws her into the sea?
Suffice to say that the book is not old hat. The story is nothing like what you've probably heard. And if, at the end, you don't want to throw Victor Frankenstein into the sea, I would be surprised. (Also, and I know this will thrill you nerds out there, the book is entirely epistolary. BAM! Now you have to read it.)
Who I would recommend this book to: my Dad, and Tim if he ever finishes The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao.
Dracula
By Bram Stoker
"Sometimes I think we must all be mad and that we shall wake to sanity in straight-waistcoats." -Dr. Seward's Diary
Imagine, if you will, spending seven years researching Eastern Europe, vampire folklore, and madness, and then sitting down at a typewritter and spending three more years writing the 600 page classic that is Dracula. Again, if you've ever seen a movie about "Dracula," even Bram Stoker's Dracula, you can pretty much just throw that out the window. Again, the novel is written in the epistolary style, with letters, diary entries, news articles and other scraps and documents thrown in here and there. Here though, Dracula is pretty much exactly the bad news you think he is.
The brilliance of Dracula, the demon and the book, is his absence--how rarely one sees his face after the first few pages, and yet the effects of his evil are felt on every page as sickness and insanity spread like wildfire. Dracula is, in a lot of ways, an adventure story, an almost epic quest to rid the world of supreme evil, undertaken by a motley (and luckily very wealthy) crew of five men and at the center of it, one woman, whose chief virtue is that she "has the brain of a man." Whether or not you consider that a compliment, consider what Dr. Van Helsing says: that evil men can be conquered because, despite their cleverness, they have the minds of children.
Who I would recommend this book to: pretty much anyone. Really, I loved it. Also, it's a classic.
Spook, Science Tackles the Afterlife
By Mary Roach
About a year ago I reviewed Mary Roach's book, Stiff, which stuck in my mind not only because it's all about dead bodies and all of the weird things that people do and have done with them, but because while I was reading it in the GW Hospital Emergency room (don't ask), I read about how one of the founders of the GW Hospital was a convicted body snatcher who used to rob graves and do all sorts of unsavory things with the corpses. (How's that for a long sentence?)
Spook looks at all of the ways (wholesome and not-so-wholesome) which people have tried to use science to prove the existence of a soul, it's weight, color, texture, smell, shape, and whether or not their is badminton in the afterlife. It's a quick read for two reasons: 1) Roach's subjects and infinitely fascinating and 2) she's adept at seeing the just the right level of humor in situations where people either take themselves too seriously, or are dismissed outright (at a school where people learn how to be Mediums, for example). Roach gets to the bottom of all sorts of things you didn't know you wanted to know about, like the "21 grams" theory (21 grams being the supposed weight of a human soul), and children who remember their past lives.
For all the times when there is some kernel of real science hidden in these phenomena that makes you wonder, "what if?", there are 10 other times when it's just fun to laugh at crazy people.
Who I would recommend this book to: Jared, J-Darnutz (yes, I just called you that on my blog), and my mom.
Anyway, this year I went for the Classics, Frankenstein and Dracula; and then a little search for lost souls on the side.
Frankenstein, or, The Modern Prometheusby Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley
I must first admit that the decision to read this book was not wholly mine, and that it was required for one of my classes. I tried to read Tim's untouched copy about two years ago and didn't make it through the introduction. That shouldn't color whether or not you decide to read this book though, it should only make you think carefully about which edition you buy. Mary Shelley made a number of changes to the text in her life, up to the point when she sold the copyright (for something insane like $37) and neither she nor anyone in her estate ever made another penny off of the book again. A good edition, like the Chicago edition (pictured above), shows the changes that she made, which are sometimes fairly significant. The nice thing about it though, is that if you're reading for enjoyment, you can largely ignore the little editorial bits, but the occasional footnotes actually help.
It seems as though everyone knows the story of Frankenstein, the monster made from human body parts who throws little blond girls down wells and is afraid of fire, etc. etc. However, as with anything usurped by Hollywood, what's been churned through the machine is only a shadow of the original work. You probably know that Frankenstein is not the monster, but the man who creates him (the monster has no name), but did you know that the Monster reads Paradise Lost, and Plutarch? That there is no Igor? That Victor Frankenstein begins to make a female monster, but realizes the monsters might have baby monsters and rips her body up and throws her into the sea?
Suffice to say that the book is not old hat. The story is nothing like what you've probably heard. And if, at the end, you don't want to throw Victor Frankenstein into the sea, I would be surprised. (Also, and I know this will thrill you nerds out there, the book is entirely epistolary. BAM! Now you have to read it.)
Who I would recommend this book to: my Dad, and Tim if he ever finishes The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao.
DraculaBy Bram Stoker
"Sometimes I think we must all be mad and that we shall wake to sanity in straight-waistcoats." -Dr. Seward's Diary
Imagine, if you will, spending seven years researching Eastern Europe, vampire folklore, and madness, and then sitting down at a typewritter and spending three more years writing the 600 page classic that is Dracula. Again, if you've ever seen a movie about "Dracula," even Bram Stoker's Dracula, you can pretty much just throw that out the window. Again, the novel is written in the epistolary style, with letters, diary entries, news articles and other scraps and documents thrown in here and there. Here though, Dracula is pretty much exactly the bad news you think he is.
The brilliance of Dracula, the demon and the book, is his absence--how rarely one sees his face after the first few pages, and yet the effects of his evil are felt on every page as sickness and insanity spread like wildfire. Dracula is, in a lot of ways, an adventure story, an almost epic quest to rid the world of supreme evil, undertaken by a motley (and luckily very wealthy) crew of five men and at the center of it, one woman, whose chief virtue is that she "has the brain of a man." Whether or not you consider that a compliment, consider what Dr. Van Helsing says: that evil men can be conquered because, despite their cleverness, they have the minds of children.
Who I would recommend this book to: pretty much anyone. Really, I loved it. Also, it's a classic.
Spook, Science Tackles the AfterlifeBy Mary Roach
About a year ago I reviewed Mary Roach's book, Stiff, which stuck in my mind not only because it's all about dead bodies and all of the weird things that people do and have done with them, but because while I was reading it in the GW Hospital Emergency room (don't ask), I read about how one of the founders of the GW Hospital was a convicted body snatcher who used to rob graves and do all sorts of unsavory things with the corpses. (How's that for a long sentence?)
Spook looks at all of the ways (wholesome and not-so-wholesome) which people have tried to use science to prove the existence of a soul, it's weight, color, texture, smell, shape, and whether or not their is badminton in the afterlife. It's a quick read for two reasons: 1) Roach's subjects and infinitely fascinating and 2) she's adept at seeing the just the right level of humor in situations where people either take themselves too seriously, or are dismissed outright (at a school where people learn how to be Mediums, for example). Roach gets to the bottom of all sorts of things you didn't know you wanted to know about, like the "21 grams" theory (21 grams being the supposed weight of a human soul), and children who remember their past lives.
For all the times when there is some kernel of real science hidden in these phenomena that makes you wonder, "what if?", there are 10 other times when it's just fun to laugh at crazy people.
Who I would recommend this book to: Jared, J-Darnutz (yes, I just called you that on my blog), and my mom.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Cheers to Halloween!
I love Halloween. And I don't mind that the build-up for holidays goes on for a whole month with this particular holiday. The whole glorious month of October is filled with candy, falling leaves, carving pumpkins, scary movies, skeletons, and all that other creepy stuff that, for some reason I can handle so much better than I can handle the overly cute fat cherubs that seem to accompany every other holiday. Halloween is like a reset button for flushing all the cute crap out of my face. Cheers to you, Halloween. Cheers to you, for saying boo to the rest of the year.
Monday, October 26, 2009
True Stories
My graduate school has this really interesting thing where they try really hard to get everyone to be a cohesive group. They have a lot of happy hours and events all organized by this group called the EGSA, or the English Grad Student Association. This all seems like a really cool, healthy, non-English majory environment, the only problem is that somehow I have totally managed to avoid all interaction with these people, through no real intention of my own.
For instance, the main event of all this, the kicker, was a barbeque held at the Department Head's house the first week of school on the day, of course, that I was moving into my new apartment. In the normal world, missing something like that is not a big deal, however it has actually been pointed out to me by other EGS's that I wasn't there and that this is not acceptable. And only in a half-kidding sort of way.
The second issue is that somehow, I got into the two most unusual classes on the schedule, apparently. Not the content of the classes themselves, but the attendance. Every other class I've seen is replete with students, and I hear them talking about their classes in the library and in the grad lounge. However, I am the ONLY English grad student in one of my classes (trust me, it's obvious) and there are only seven of us in the other.
All of this build up to say that Tim and I finally tried to make it to one ESGA event on Friday , a Ghost Tour in Old Town Alexandria, so we could meet some of these elusive people. We were five minutes late getting to the meeting spot and not a soul was there (five minutes, people!?). We had no info about where everyone was going from there, but after overhearing someone on the phone mention a ghost tour we got a hint and hunted down the spot. They were long gone, but the tour organizers nicely let us onto the next tour without making us pay again.
I love ghost tours, but I will admit that the one in Dover, England, where a) a lot more people have actually died in Clifford's tower and b) our tour got chased by this manic duck that kept biting people, was a lot more exciting.
Anyway, we went 17 metro stops to meet a bunch of people who we never saw. They weren't at the cafe where they were supposed to meet afterward either. I know there are other grad students out there. I've just still never met them.
On the other hand, yesterday Tim and I went to AU because my History of the Book class read a graphic novel called Fun Home, by Alison Bechdel, and American had hosted a colloquium on her work that day. The colloquium ended with her giving a talk which was really entertaining and actually fairly amazing. She brought slides of her illustration process and of some of the photos she used to create a number of the illustrations in the book. She also brought slides of some of her favorite comics as a kid and of her own comic strip, Dykes to Watch out For.
The talk was funny, and enlightening, and sad too. My favorite authors to listen to are always the ones who are a little mystified by their own process as well, and who may not exactly know the answers to everyone's questions, but who still manage to tell you something about the book that you never, ever could possibly have gotten by just reading it, or by reading an interview or an article.
The book is a memoir about Bechdel's relationship with her dad, his sudden death, and the fact of his closeted homosexuality in relationship to her coming out. After she gave her talk, people asked questions (and I don't think a single person asked a question that wasn't a question, it was, in short, a miracle) and because she was so funny, someone asked if she was funny in her family and she said, "yeah. I was. My mom is funny and I think learned that from her. I loved to make my dad laugh, but it's not like that was hard, you know. He laughed at the road runner. Someone pointed out once that there's not a single picture in the book where my dad doesn't look very stern and serious, so... you know... ...it's not a true story."
I love that.
For instance, the main event of all this, the kicker, was a barbeque held at the Department Head's house the first week of school on the day, of course, that I was moving into my new apartment. In the normal world, missing something like that is not a big deal, however it has actually been pointed out to me by other EGS's that I wasn't there and that this is not acceptable. And only in a half-kidding sort of way.
The second issue is that somehow, I got into the two most unusual classes on the schedule, apparently. Not the content of the classes themselves, but the attendance. Every other class I've seen is replete with students, and I hear them talking about their classes in the library and in the grad lounge. However, I am the ONLY English grad student in one of my classes (trust me, it's obvious) and there are only seven of us in the other.
All of this build up to say that Tim and I finally tried to make it to one ESGA event on Friday , a Ghost Tour in Old Town Alexandria, so we could meet some of these elusive people. We were five minutes late getting to the meeting spot and not a soul was there (five minutes, people!?). We had no info about where everyone was going from there, but after overhearing someone on the phone mention a ghost tour we got a hint and hunted down the spot. They were long gone, but the tour organizers nicely let us onto the next tour without making us pay again.
I love ghost tours, but I will admit that the one in Dover, England, where a) a lot more people have actually died in Clifford's tower and b) our tour got chased by this manic duck that kept biting people, was a lot more exciting.
Anyway, we went 17 metro stops to meet a bunch of people who we never saw. They weren't at the cafe where they were supposed to meet afterward either. I know there are other grad students out there. I've just still never met them.
On the other hand, yesterday Tim and I went to AU because my History of the Book class read a graphic novel called Fun Home, by Alison Bechdel, and American had hosted a colloquium on her work that day. The colloquium ended with her giving a talk which was really entertaining and actually fairly amazing. She brought slides of her illustration process and of some of the photos she used to create a number of the illustrations in the book. She also brought slides of some of her favorite comics as a kid and of her own comic strip, Dykes to Watch out For.The talk was funny, and enlightening, and sad too. My favorite authors to listen to are always the ones who are a little mystified by their own process as well, and who may not exactly know the answers to everyone's questions, but who still manage to tell you something about the book that you never, ever could possibly have gotten by just reading it, or by reading an interview or an article.
The book is a memoir about Bechdel's relationship with her dad, his sudden death, and the fact of his closeted homosexuality in relationship to her coming out. After she gave her talk, people asked questions (and I don't think a single person asked a question that wasn't a question, it was, in short, a miracle) and because she was so funny, someone asked if she was funny in her family and she said, "yeah. I was. My mom is funny and I think learned that from her. I loved to make my dad laugh, but it's not like that was hard, you know. He laughed at the road runner. Someone pointed out once that there's not a single picture in the book where my dad doesn't look very stern and serious, so... you know... ...it's not a true story."
I love that.
Tuesday, October 06, 2009
Hurry! Hurry! Hurry! Step Right Up!
In addition to the new trend seeing strangers vomit in public (which I've now see twice in the past three weeks--once on a metro bus and once echoing majestically across the National Mall), Saturdays are emerging as a key player in my week.
It's not that Saturdays weren't always awesome, it's just that now I think about Saturday all week because I have time to, and then I get to hang out with Tim, as opposed to before when he got to hang out with me.
(I'm just going to tell you right away that this is a two part post. Here is the table of contents: Part I: The National Book Festival, or For Those About to Read, We Solute you; Part II: The Palace of Wonders, or What is the Recommended Dose of Burlesque for a Man of My Height?
Part I:
So--the point of this is that last Saturday we went to the National Book Festival, which is Laura Bush's legacy and brain child. It's like a giant rock festival, with eight stages, and food vendors, crowds of people waiting for autographs, rain or shine--only with authors instead of Van Halen. It's also exactly like VooDoo Fest or ACL in that you have to time which authors you want to see perfectly, and run back and forth between the tents, unless there's basically only one genre you care about and then you can stake out one spot all day and just send people to go get food and drinks.
It is NOT like a music festival in that I never saw anyone's DMB tattoos, smelled any pot, or was offered any hemp clothing, knock-off hats, t-shirts, henna tattoos, "tobacco" pipes, or stickers for purchase. However, I did get two free tote-bags and a children's book. Last year they gave out free bottled water. There were still plenty of puppies and babies.
Part of these shenanigans are author signing booths, where you can get your books autographed throughout the day, and the signing schedule does not remotely correspond with the speaking schedule. I'm going to leave out all the details, suffice to say that Tim had to carry around five of my John Irving books, a Lois Lowry and a Junot Diaz all day and not one of them got signed. There are DC residents far more dedicated than I.
While half of what I imagine where the teachers and librarians of the DC public school system waited in line to have John Irving sign their dog-eared copies of A Prayer for Owen Meany (sigh), Tim, Josh and I went to hear Lois Lowry speak at the Children's tent. Tim is probably right, she probably would be best friends with his Nana. I can see them going out for breakfast. But only if they take me. Also, she wanted everyone to know that Jonas isn't dead.
After that, I headed to the Fiction tent where I heard Julia Alvarez accidentally; I was waiting for John Irving. She is a Dominican author and was an excellent speaker. Everyone who asked her questions asked them in Spanglish because they were so excited to speak to her, which made me happy.
Then came John Irving. Now, I kind of want to just lump the next four authors into one story because it's more like, "then came John Irving, followed by Nicholas Sparks (whom I wanted to murder), followed by Junot Diaz and Colson Whitehead (who completely negated Nicholas Sparks and can be in my murder-posse if they want to)".
Here's the point: John Irving, Junot Diaz, Colson Whitehead, and Julia Alvarez (though I didn't know about her until I heard her speak) all write books from somewhere more than their brains or their hearts or (ugh) their souls. They write books because they just do. John Irving said about his repeated themes of wrestling, and flawed, fragile, otherworldly children that it frustrates his critics, but that a writer doesn't chose his obsessions, that they obsess him. That, as a writer, and probably as a human, if you're not repeating yourself, it's because you have nothing important to say. He said he took nearly 20 years in writing his latest book because he knew it had to be in third person, but he couldn't figure out how. It kept coming out in first person. It seems like a small issue, but it's everything. And it's worth waiting 20 years to write the book correctly.
Someone asked Junot Diaz about the connection he felt with Oscar Wao now that it's out in the world and he said, "writing that book was so painful, for so long. There is so much of my life in that book. I handed it to the publisher and I was like 'fuck you, book.'" He won the Pulitzer Prize.
Nicholas Sparks got on the stage and talked about how when he writes his books he always thinks, "what have I never, ever, done before. I want all of my books to be totally different. I've done teenagers in love, I can't do that. What about a young man? I can't do a book about two 60 year-olds falling in love for the first time. If you're just now falling in love we've got something to talk about." And my first thought was, "yes! you do have something to talk about. That DOES sound like a story." Then he talked about how he got his inspiration for his most recent book...
Disney asked him to write it for Miley Cyrus. So they could make a movie and fulfill her contract.
Makes your soul sing.
He talked about how he hates his wife's girlie dogs, but loves his manly dogs, how he coaches a winning track team, how he runs a christian school that "accepts everyone" (I've heard that before) and then he was literally said "well, now you know how awesome I am!" (no seriously) and left.
He is what Colson Whitehead would call a "Fake-ass Members Only Jacket Wearin' bitch."
Part II
A few days before we moved into this apartment, I discovered this:
I also discovered that they have Real! Live! Amazzzzing! Burlesque shows almost every day in addition to being a ridiculous "dime-museum" and bar. And what's more! more! more! is that they're eight blocks from my house. The only problem is that when I made this Spectacular! discovery, we were moving in to our new place, Tim was starting his job, and I was starting school. The show I really wanted to see, The Skullduggery and Skin Show, is on the first Saturday of every month, which was exactly the day that we moved in here. Boo! Hisssss!
So, I somehow managed to keep this ridiculousness a secret for a whole month, and it was a surprise up to the moment that Albert Cadabra, the MC, came out and swallowed a 30" balloon. The show included magic, Ruby the Wonder Dog (jumping through a flaming hoop!), Gal Friday doing burlesque of course (notable numbers include a tribute to Spinal Tap with the song, "Big Bottom." Turn it up to 11.), and this month's special guests: Clowns Betty Bloomers and Jellyboy.
It may be a little hard to tell with the woman's head in the way, but this is a photo of Jellyboy having swallowed a 23"(?) sword with a flame thrower on the end... and then bending over and lighting it. What you also can't see is all the people standing along the wall, trying very hard not to catch on fire.
Before swallowing the world's record length-sword for us, Betty Bloomers also hung upside down and swallowed a coat hanger... which was a little gross when she bent it inside her esophagus... but then there were a number of points in the show when the MC would say "Do you want to see (blank)" and we would all scream "YEEEAHHH" and then we would all scream "NOOOOOOO!" (i.e. Jellyboy drinks wine from a tube wrapped around his head, through his nose, out his mouth, around his head and into his mouth again. Yum. Yum. Yum.)
However, she also did a beautiful fire eating act that had everyone completely entranced. Not that it's difficult to entrance drunk people, and having a) a beautiful girl, b) magical music, and c) fire, helps, but it really was sort of breathtaking and amazing.
During intermission Gal Friday raffled off a hand made tote bag full of B Movies, home made pasties, a whoopie cushion (perfect for date night?) lots of candy, a signed pin-up and lots of other goodies. Of course, the winner was the one Bachelorette in attendance with her horde of pink-tiara'd companions. I would say the drawing was rigged but even Albert Cadabra was like, "you? Oh god. Of course."
Sorry we didn't get any pictures of the burlesque... I guess we were distracted.
It's not that Saturdays weren't always awesome, it's just that now I think about Saturday all week because I have time to, and then I get to hang out with Tim, as opposed to before when he got to hang out with me.
(I'm just going to tell you right away that this is a two part post. Here is the table of contents: Part I: The National Book Festival, or For Those About to Read, We Solute you; Part II: The Palace of Wonders, or What is the Recommended Dose of Burlesque for a Man of My Height?
Part I:
So--the point of this is that last Saturday we went to the National Book Festival, which is Laura Bush's legacy and brain child. It's like a giant rock festival, with eight stages, and food vendors, crowds of people waiting for autographs, rain or shine--only with authors instead of Van Halen. It's also exactly like VooDoo Fest or ACL in that you have to time which authors you want to see perfectly, and run back and forth between the tents, unless there's basically only one genre you care about and then you can stake out one spot all day and just send people to go get food and drinks.
It is NOT like a music festival in that I never saw anyone's DMB tattoos, smelled any pot, or was offered any hemp clothing, knock-off hats, t-shirts, henna tattoos, "tobacco" pipes, or stickers for purchase. However, I did get two free tote-bags and a children's book. Last year they gave out free bottled water. There were still plenty of puppies and babies.
Part of these shenanigans are author signing booths, where you can get your books autographed throughout the day, and the signing schedule does not remotely correspond with the speaking schedule. I'm going to leave out all the details, suffice to say that Tim had to carry around five of my John Irving books, a Lois Lowry and a Junot Diaz all day and not one of them got signed. There are DC residents far more dedicated than I.
While half of what I imagine where the teachers and librarians of the DC public school system waited in line to have John Irving sign their dog-eared copies of A Prayer for Owen Meany (sigh), Tim, Josh and I went to hear Lois Lowry speak at the Children's tent. Tim is probably right, she probably would be best friends with his Nana. I can see them going out for breakfast. But only if they take me. Also, she wanted everyone to know that Jonas isn't dead.After that, I headed to the Fiction tent where I heard Julia Alvarez accidentally; I was waiting for John Irving. She is a Dominican author and was an excellent speaker. Everyone who asked her questions asked them in Spanglish because they were so excited to speak to her, which made me happy.
Then came John Irving. Now, I kind of want to just lump the next four authors into one story because it's more like, "then came John Irving, followed by Nicholas Sparks (whom I wanted to murder), followed by Junot Diaz and Colson Whitehead (who completely negated Nicholas Sparks and can be in my murder-posse if they want to)".
Here's the point: John Irving, Junot Diaz, Colson Whitehead, and Julia Alvarez (though I didn't know about her until I heard her speak) all write books from somewhere more than their brains or their hearts or (ugh) their souls. They write books because they just do. John Irving said about his repeated themes of wrestling, and flawed, fragile, otherworldly children that it frustrates his critics, but that a writer doesn't chose his obsessions, that they obsess him. That, as a writer, and probably as a human, if you're not repeating yourself, it's because you have nothing important to say. He said he took nearly 20 years in writing his latest book because he knew it had to be in third person, but he couldn't figure out how. It kept coming out in first person. It seems like a small issue, but it's everything. And it's worth waiting 20 years to write the book correctly.
Someone asked Junot Diaz about the connection he felt with Oscar Wao now that it's out in the world and he said, "writing that book was so painful, for so long. There is so much of my life in that book. I handed it to the publisher and I was like 'fuck you, book.'" He won the Pulitzer Prize.
Nicholas Sparks got on the stage and talked about how when he writes his books he always thinks, "what have I never, ever, done before. I want all of my books to be totally different. I've done teenagers in love, I can't do that. What about a young man? I can't do a book about two 60 year-olds falling in love for the first time. If you're just now falling in love we've got something to talk about." And my first thought was, "yes! you do have something to talk about. That DOES sound like a story." Then he talked about how he got his inspiration for his most recent book...
Disney asked him to write it for Miley Cyrus. So they could make a movie and fulfill her contract.
Makes your soul sing.
He talked about how he hates his wife's girlie dogs, but loves his manly dogs, how he coaches a winning track team, how he runs a christian school that "accepts everyone" (I've heard that before) and then he was literally said "well, now you know how awesome I am!" (no seriously) and left.
He is what Colson Whitehead would call a "Fake-ass Members Only Jacket Wearin' bitch."
Part II
A few days before we moved into this apartment, I discovered this:
I also discovered that they have Real! Live! Amazzzzing! Burlesque shows almost every day in addition to being a ridiculous "dime-museum" and bar. And what's more! more! more! is that they're eight blocks from my house. The only problem is that when I made this Spectacular! discovery, we were moving in to our new place, Tim was starting his job, and I was starting school. The show I really wanted to see, The Skullduggery and Skin Show, is on the first Saturday of every month, which was exactly the day that we moved in here. Boo! Hisssss!
So, I somehow managed to keep this ridiculousness a secret for a whole month, and it was a surprise up to the moment that Albert Cadabra, the MC, came out and swallowed a 30" balloon. The show included magic, Ruby the Wonder Dog (jumping through a flaming hoop!), Gal Friday doing burlesque of course (notable numbers include a tribute to Spinal Tap with the song, "Big Bottom." Turn it up to 11.), and this month's special guests: Clowns Betty Bloomers and Jellyboy.
It may be a little hard to tell with the woman's head in the way, but this is a photo of Jellyboy having swallowed a 23"(?) sword with a flame thrower on the end... and then bending over and lighting it. What you also can't see is all the people standing along the wall, trying very hard not to catch on fire.Before swallowing the world's record length-sword for us, Betty Bloomers also hung upside down and swallowed a coat hanger... which was a little gross when she bent it inside her esophagus... but then there were a number of points in the show when the MC would say "Do you want to see (blank)" and we would all scream "YEEEAHHH" and then we would all scream "NOOOOOOO!" (i.e. Jellyboy drinks wine from a tube wrapped around his head, through his nose, out his mouth, around his head and into his mouth again. Yum. Yum. Yum.)
However, she also did a beautiful fire eating act that had everyone completely entranced. Not that it's difficult to entrance drunk people, and having a) a beautiful girl, b) magical music, and c) fire, helps, but it really was sort of breathtaking and amazing.
During intermission Gal Friday raffled off a hand made tote bag full of B Movies, home made pasties, a whoopie cushion (perfect for date night?) lots of candy, a signed pin-up and lots of other goodies. Of course, the winner was the one Bachelorette in attendance with her horde of pink-tiara'd companions. I would say the drawing was rigged but even Albert Cadabra was like, "you? Oh god. Of course."Sorry we didn't get any pictures of the burlesque... I guess we were distracted.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
I want to be Fleshy and Comfortable.
I haven't done a book review in a very long time and I probably won't get to do one, at least not one purely based on my own fancy, for a while. I *like* what I'm reading in Grad School but it's not the same as the complete euphoria I felt at getting to collect my own library and read whatever I wanted, really, for the first time ever.
I've read a lot of stuff since my last book post, but a lot of it was for my book club. Fully 50% of the people who read this blog (I imagine) are in that book club, so I'm not going to bother reviewing those books. The book club is a totally odd creation because we always go into it with such enthusiasm and try to stick with it, but without the wine and cheese and good company it sort of fizzles out (let's be honest).
This year we read, or at least attempted to read, the following books + (Three Word Review):
The Enchantress of Florence, by Salman Rushdie (Not His Best)
The Witches of Eastwick, by John Updike (Movie Ends Better)
My Lobotomy, by Howard Dully (Lobotomies are Fascinating)
and
Pygmy, by Chuck Palahniuk (Talk Funny Terrorist)
The problem now is that I have a read a lot of books in the time since I last posted and I have a lot to choose from, but I won't overburden you with silliness. Some things will just have to go into the vault. Now, the the wheat (as opposed to the chaff).
East of Eden
by John Steinbeck
First let me say that I have never read something by John Steinbeck that didn't reach into the very roots of my soul and take up residence there. With that out of the way, this book is so wonderfully American. It is the story of families and individuals in relation to the Salinas Valley in California (of course), but what's wonderful about it is the multitude of vignettes and character studies that fill the book. The overarching story of the Hamiltons and the Trasks is grand, but I absolutely love the amazing little stories he tells about the characters. The book is very fleshy and comfortable. It's serious and sad and sweet, but Steinbeck drives me completely crazy because I find myself saying, "God, that is so true. There is so much truth in this."
"In uncertainty I am certain that underneath their topmost layers of frailty men want to be good and want to be loved. Indeed, most of their vices are attempted short cuts to love. When a man comes to die, no matter what his talents and influences and genius, if he dies unloved his life must be a failure to him and his dying a cold horror. It seems to me that if you or I must choose between two courses of though or action, we should remember our dying and try so to live that our death brings no pleasure to the world." p. 412-413
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn
by Mark Twain
This is a rediscovery. Over the Fourth of July I got into the habit of calling Tim "Huckleberry", and in Colorado I picked the book up and started reading the Modern Library Classics introduction to the text by George Saunders, which has section headings like, "The Ending, OH MY GOD, the Ending" and "Let's Burn It, Then Ban It, Then Burn It Again." To me, if you cannot laugh at Mark Twain, or with him, rather, your days must be very stressful indeed.
I highly prefer Huck Finn to Tom Sawyer (although, honestly, if I was one of them I'd probably be Tom) because Huck looks at the world the way it is and reacts to it normally. Tom lives in a book and, to the detriment of those around him, tries to squeeze the world to fit his fantasy. As a 13 year-old high school kid reading this for the first time, I didn't get any of this, and I didn't care. Ok, ok, there's a raft on the Mississippi and this crazy kid who's naked all the time, and this guy Jim, whatever... but read it again. It's so much better now.
The Lord of the Flies
by William Golding
This too, I re-read for probably the third or fourth time. I picked it up because I felt like my life was completely insane at the time and like everyone I knew was trying to throw everyone else I knew off of a cliff. After re-reading this, I'm sort of astonished and maybe proud that we hand this American middle schoolers and say, "here, process this in your wee brains." If the book was not required reading in your middle or high school, know that it is the story of an airplane full of young boys, about 4 years to 16 years old who crash land on a tropical island with no surviving adults and only Piggy to serve as their slightly tubby and asthmatic voice of reason. If I would be Tom Sawyer, I would also be Simon. Which would not work out so well for me.
The Collected Works of Billy the Kid
by Michael Ondaatje
This is a very short collection of poems from the author of The English Patient. The different styles and points of view, the photographs and even interviews put together a fascinatingly jumbled, but also, sometimes, deceptively crystal clear portrait of this larger-than-life figure and also of Pat Garrett--because you can't have a hero without a villain and vice versa.
It's not an easy read. The poems aren't simple or "fun." But they're intriguing. Also, I'm in love with the cover.
Blindness
by José Saramago
The very definition of "not simple, fun, or easy to read." The words are easy enough, sure (despite the fact that the style will make you feel the urgency of the story, with its almost utter lack of periods and paragraphs). But this is surely one of the most disturbing pieces of contemporary fiction I know. The premise is simple: one day, everyone in the world begins to go blind. But because the process is gradual (over the course of a few weeks, rather than instantly or over a few years), those with sight throw the rapidly increasing population of the blind into quarantine. This is mainly the story of one group, in quarantine in an abandoned mental asylum, stricken by the horrors not only of a world totally without sight, but without any sort of real provisions.
Like American Psycho, I have to say that the book is a good book. I'm fairly certain there's something about the style and concept that borders on brilliance--it won the Nobel Prize for God's sake. But there are parts of the book that are so disturbing. You will want to scrape your mind clean with a brillo pad, but unfortunately, it's very hard to unlearn something once it's been learned.
I've read a lot of stuff since my last book post, but a lot of it was for my book club. Fully 50% of the people who read this blog (I imagine) are in that book club, so I'm not going to bother reviewing those books. The book club is a totally odd creation because we always go into it with such enthusiasm and try to stick with it, but without the wine and cheese and good company it sort of fizzles out (let's be honest).
This year we read, or at least attempted to read, the following books + (Three Word Review):
The Enchantress of Florence, by Salman Rushdie (Not His Best)
The Witches of Eastwick, by John Updike (Movie Ends Better)
My Lobotomy, by Howard Dully (Lobotomies are Fascinating)
and
Pygmy, by Chuck Palahniuk (Talk Funny Terrorist)
The problem now is that I have a read a lot of books in the time since I last posted and I have a lot to choose from, but I won't overburden you with silliness. Some things will just have to go into the vault. Now, the the wheat (as opposed to the chaff).
East of Eden by John Steinbeck
First let me say that I have never read something by John Steinbeck that didn't reach into the very roots of my soul and take up residence there. With that out of the way, this book is so wonderfully American. It is the story of families and individuals in relation to the Salinas Valley in California (of course), but what's wonderful about it is the multitude of vignettes and character studies that fill the book. The overarching story of the Hamiltons and the Trasks is grand, but I absolutely love the amazing little stories he tells about the characters. The book is very fleshy and comfortable. It's serious and sad and sweet, but Steinbeck drives me completely crazy because I find myself saying, "God, that is so true. There is so much truth in this."
"In uncertainty I am certain that underneath their topmost layers of frailty men want to be good and want to be loved. Indeed, most of their vices are attempted short cuts to love. When a man comes to die, no matter what his talents and influences and genius, if he dies unloved his life must be a failure to him and his dying a cold horror. It seems to me that if you or I must choose between two courses of though or action, we should remember our dying and try so to live that our death brings no pleasure to the world." p. 412-413
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain
This is a rediscovery. Over the Fourth of July I got into the habit of calling Tim "Huckleberry", and in Colorado I picked the book up and started reading the Modern Library Classics introduction to the text by George Saunders, which has section headings like, "The Ending, OH MY GOD, the Ending" and "Let's Burn It, Then Ban It, Then Burn It Again." To me, if you cannot laugh at Mark Twain, or with him, rather, your days must be very stressful indeed.
I highly prefer Huck Finn to Tom Sawyer (although, honestly, if I was one of them I'd probably be Tom) because Huck looks at the world the way it is and reacts to it normally. Tom lives in a book and, to the detriment of those around him, tries to squeeze the world to fit his fantasy. As a 13 year-old high school kid reading this for the first time, I didn't get any of this, and I didn't care. Ok, ok, there's a raft on the Mississippi and this crazy kid who's naked all the time, and this guy Jim, whatever... but read it again. It's so much better now.
The Lord of the Flies by William Golding
This too, I re-read for probably the third or fourth time. I picked it up because I felt like my life was completely insane at the time and like everyone I knew was trying to throw everyone else I knew off of a cliff. After re-reading this, I'm sort of astonished and maybe proud that we hand this American middle schoolers and say, "here, process this in your wee brains." If the book was not required reading in your middle or high school, know that it is the story of an airplane full of young boys, about 4 years to 16 years old who crash land on a tropical island with no surviving adults and only Piggy to serve as their slightly tubby and asthmatic voice of reason. If I would be Tom Sawyer, I would also be Simon. Which would not work out so well for me.
The Collected Works of Billy the Kid by Michael Ondaatje
This is a very short collection of poems from the author of The English Patient. The different styles and points of view, the photographs and even interviews put together a fascinatingly jumbled, but also, sometimes, deceptively crystal clear portrait of this larger-than-life figure and also of Pat Garrett--because you can't have a hero without a villain and vice versa.
It's not an easy read. The poems aren't simple or "fun." But they're intriguing. Also, I'm in love with the cover.
Blindness by José Saramago
The very definition of "not simple, fun, or easy to read." The words are easy enough, sure (despite the fact that the style will make you feel the urgency of the story, with its almost utter lack of periods and paragraphs). But this is surely one of the most disturbing pieces of contemporary fiction I know. The premise is simple: one day, everyone in the world begins to go blind. But because the process is gradual (over the course of a few weeks, rather than instantly or over a few years), those with sight throw the rapidly increasing population of the blind into quarantine. This is mainly the story of one group, in quarantine in an abandoned mental asylum, stricken by the horrors not only of a world totally without sight, but without any sort of real provisions.
Like American Psycho, I have to say that the book is a good book. I'm fairly certain there's something about the style and concept that borders on brilliance--it won the Nobel Prize for God's sake. But there are parts of the book that are so disturbing. You will want to scrape your mind clean with a brillo pad, but unfortunately, it's very hard to unlearn something once it's been learned.
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