I like broccoli. By no means is it my favorite vegetable that honor belongs to brussels sprouts, but I rank it high above green beans. Sometimes I just move the broccoli around on my plate until I am ready to eat it. Sometimes, especially in stir-fry, I just leave it on my plate for no reason other than I would rather eat the carrots and bell peppers. Sometimes I come back to it. Sometimes I don't. Sometimes I need a little cheese or butter to make the broccoli go down a little better. Broccoli is good for me and really is a fine tasting vegetable.
My feelings towards broccoli can also be applied to my experience reading Out Stealing Horses by Per Petterson, a literary work that nourishes me with both a compelling narrative and a nuanced literary style. But, like my desire for broccoli, my enthusiasm levels for this book wane substantially. Sometimes I want to devour and sometimes I want to leave it. Sometimes I prefer something with a different flavor. But, every time I come back it, Petterson's prose sustains and enriches me.
Out Stealing Horses is not a quick beach read or even a practical novel for busy moms who do not have long stretches of time to read. Fortunately, due to the brevity of this detailed-filled and weighty book, not many long uninterrupted sessions are needed, but sporadic readings do not work well with this novel, a slow and quiet work of literary fiction.
Petterson's novel develops as slowly and quietly as the secluded and tranquil environment in Eastern Norway that becomes home for Trond Sander, a 67-year-old city dweller, who no longer has an interest in society after the death of his second wife and his sister. His plans to cure his loneliness and melancholy through solitude, communing with nature and by engaging in hard physical labor. He shows no remorse about not communicating with his two adult daughters from his first marriage and has no interest in making new friends. He is content listening to World BBC on his radio and re-reading Charles Dickens novels, a life-long passion. He functions adequately with his emotional malaise until one night he meets his (many miles away) neighbor and his past comes back to hit him with the same force of the car accident the killed his wife three years prior.
The man who steps out of the shadows is Lars, the brother of his best childhood friend. Their encounter disrupts Trond's tranquility and gives him an emotional jolt of remembrance. Seeing Lars catapults him back to the summer of 1948, when he was fifteen-years-old and participated in the playful game of stealing horses, which is simply borrowing the neighbor's horses for a joyful gallop across the countryside with his favorite childhood companion, Jon. But the glory of the pastoral summer did not last long when Trond and Jon's game of stealing horses ultimately leads to Lars accidentally shooting his twin brother by the name of Odd; this tragedy triggers Trond's coming of age as well as the loss of both his best friend and his father.
Petterson slowly allows the story to unfold through subtle alternating between Trond as an old man, who is tightly-wound, spiritually vacant, and emotionally numb and Trond as a young man, who is coming to terms with his forced manhood and the issues of sexuality, adultery, wage-earning, and war time activities. When chronically listing the events of the story, there are many intense and action filled moments in this novel. But, Petterson prefers to tell the story in way that conceals any excitement or adventure. He conveys the details of a shooting during an act from the Norwegian Resistance Movement after World War II with the same snail pace as he recounts timbers falling in the forest. Nothing moves swiftly in this book, which is part of its charm and its tediousness. (I recommend reading this book in an upright position and armed with caffeine. Read only at bedtime, if you want to fall asleep immediately).
Much like my ambivalent feelings towards the novel's pacing, I have mixed feelings about the protagonist. On one hand, he is a tragic man who evokes sympathy and empathy. He is a victim. As a boy, he is abandoned by his father. He is a man scorned by his first wife and becomes a mourning hermit after his second wife's death. He knows pain and sadness. But, is that pain and sadness a good enough excuse to repeat his father's mistake of disappearing without making his children aware of his location, situation or intentions? Trond as an old man is emotionally impotent. When he had the chance to resolve the mystery of his childhood by asking Lars: "Did you take the place that was rightfully mine? Did you have years out my life that I should have lived?" He didn't do it. When he had the chance to make things right with his daughter, the most he could do was promise her that he would get a telephone. Trond is a man of inaction and leaves his past and present unsettled perhaps purposefully, perhaps intentionally but most likely out of fear. Because of his hesitation and reticence, Trond's story plays out nothing like the Dickens' novels that inspire him. There is no nice and neat Dickensian ending, where all the characters end up where they should be and with the good people who love them. Trond remains alone and unsettled -- very Norwegian and Post-Modern.
Overall, I appreciate this novel for its artistry and restraint in language (this probably should be attributed to the English translation), and its compelling story. But, I did not fall in the love with this novel because I failed to connect to the characters, setting or time period. This novel falls in three major genres: a boys' coming of age tale, a father-son drama, and a personal history (told from an old man's perspective). Truthfully, as sexist as it may be, I tend to not embrace stories with male protagonists; probably the reason why I didn't like Moby Dick or Catcher in the Rye. Perhaps I would have been more likely to latch onto this story if it was told from a feminine perspective. I certainly have an obsession with mother-daughter tales, and Moll Flanders remains my favorite bildungsroman. I love to fall in love with books; it just didn't happen in case. Out Stealing Horses is a nice book with adequate flavor; it is a book that I will not savor for very long or have any desire to re-visit. But like broccoli, it wasn't the best or the worse thing to consume. So if you have nothing else on your plate that interests your palate, give Per Petterson's novel a try.
Author's Note: For our book club thumbs up/thumbs down survey, I give it a firm thumbs in the middle. Ladies, have a productive and entertaining meeting without me. I'll be back for July's meeting to discuss The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo. I am starting the book today and am dreading going so far outside of my comfort zone with crime fiction, but the reviews are good and it has won awards. So, I am not taking that big of a risk. Thank you so much for not torturing me Twilight.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
A Beautiful and Artful Balancing Act: Review of Let the Great World Spin by Colum McCann
Cocaine and naked bodies -- When I got to this unconventional love scene in the gloriously dizzying novel and National Book Award Winner for Fiction, Let the Great World Spin by Colum McCann, I scribbled in the margins of the book, "Will write something that I erotic before I die." Re-read the scene about two more times. Crossed out my words and wrote, "Will do something that erotic in my lifetime." So, goes my interactive adventure with a novel that made me want to write, cry, laugh, and send the author a box of chocolates, my bra, and a note of my endearing love.
McCann's latest novel has no plot in sight, complex character development, a non-linear timeline, no consistency in voice, tone, or narrative style, and prose that flows like poetry with cleverness and tender tragedy underpinning each sentence. Let the Great World Spin is as flawless, delicate and magical as Philippe Petit, the French acrobat who on August 7, 1974 walked across a tightrope between the World Trade Center Towers. His gravity defying, law-breaking spectacle connects the fibers of about a dozen diverse narratives that unfold in the foreground of a decaying, corrupt, debaucherous New York City, loaded with prostitutes, drugs, and anti-Vietnam sentiment.
On that hot summer day, spectators were mesmerized by a man more than a quarter-mile above the streets of Manhattan, who appeared in a the sky "like a pencil mark, most of which had been erased." He did not just walk but danced on top a tightrope seven or eight times before finally handing himself over to the police. For a moment, his gesture of artistic recklessness silenced and captured the imagination of a city that does not stop moving. While his act of defiance and beauty is being performed miraculously in the metropolitan skyline, more subtle events of love, loss, and forgiveness, redemption take place below as the lives a dozen or so characters violently crash into each other or gently bump each in a brief moment of happenstance.
New York serves as the perfect setting to hold and sustain an eclectic cast of tragically beautiful characters who are as dynamic and unsettled as the city itself. McCann writes of the Big Apple, “It was a city uninterested in history. Strange things occurred precisely because there was no necessary regard for the past. The city lived in a sort of everyday present. It had no need to believe in itself as a London, or an Athens, or even a signifier of the New World, like a Sydney, or a Los Angeles. No, the city couldn't care less about where it stood." Much like the city, this characters are too busy seeking redemption and rebuilding their lives to dwell on the past; and it is through their desire to move forward and to get beyond loss that their lives overlap.
Two Irish immigrant brothers, a monk and a quiet drifter who live in the projects and minister to the downtrodden, befriend a mother-daughter prostitute team whose lives tragically intersect with a strung out bohemian married couple, who after a catastrophic event seek out a loving, well-educated black single mother who has a special relationship with a pampered but damaged Park Avenue mother who is mourning the loss of her son in Vietnam and is married to the judge who sentences both the tightrope walker and the prostitutes.
The interconnectedness between the characters isn't always obvious and sometimes blindsides the reader, but waiting for the nuanced ways that McCann interweaves the characters lives leads to the suspense and artfulness of his yarn. As one of the Irish brothers explains, "...everything in New York is built upon another thing, nothing is entirely by itself, each thing as strange as the last, and connected.”
Very much a story of six degrees of separation, the disparate stories are brought together by chance and sentiment more than complicated plot or a strong main character that drives the story and brings colorful supporting characters along for the ride. There is no main character in this novel. Each one of these characters are strong enough to have their own novel; they are individual narratives; stand-alone vignettes that are woven together in a detailed mosaic that glows and resonates. There is no "about" that unifies this book; no all encompassing theme or motif. Love, loss, fear, risk-taking, redemption, family, politics, crime, and re-invention abound equally in this novel. It is very much a book that encompasses the fleeting nature of art. Not just art in the aesthetic sense but art in the everyday articulation of life. This can be see in the way the aerialist transforms himself "....into a statue, but a perfect New York one, a temporary one, up in the air, high above the city. A statue that had no regard for the past.’’
Much like the wire walkers's ephemeral statue, I too have created a temporary expression of art inside the margins of this wonderful book that I must erase. My co-workers at the library get really pissed when I write in books. Although my scrawlings must be erased, my love for this triumph of a novel will remain as I continue to recommend this awe-inspiring work to my library patrons.
McCann's latest novel has no plot in sight, complex character development, a non-linear timeline, no consistency in voice, tone, or narrative style, and prose that flows like poetry with cleverness and tender tragedy underpinning each sentence. Let the Great World Spin is as flawless, delicate and magical as Philippe Petit, the French acrobat who on August 7, 1974 walked across a tightrope between the World Trade Center Towers. His gravity defying, law-breaking spectacle connects the fibers of about a dozen diverse narratives that unfold in the foreground of a decaying, corrupt, debaucherous New York City, loaded with prostitutes, drugs, and anti-Vietnam sentiment.
On that hot summer day, spectators were mesmerized by a man more than a quarter-mile above the streets of Manhattan, who appeared in a the sky "like a pencil mark, most of which had been erased." He did not just walk but danced on top a tightrope seven or eight times before finally handing himself over to the police. For a moment, his gesture of artistic recklessness silenced and captured the imagination of a city that does not stop moving. While his act of defiance and beauty is being performed miraculously in the metropolitan skyline, more subtle events of love, loss, and forgiveness, redemption take place below as the lives a dozen or so characters violently crash into each other or gently bump each in a brief moment of happenstance.
New York serves as the perfect setting to hold and sustain an eclectic cast of tragically beautiful characters who are as dynamic and unsettled as the city itself. McCann writes of the Big Apple, “It was a city uninterested in history. Strange things occurred precisely because there was no necessary regard for the past. The city lived in a sort of everyday present. It had no need to believe in itself as a London, or an Athens, or even a signifier of the New World, like a Sydney, or a Los Angeles. No, the city couldn't care less about where it stood." Much like the city, this characters are too busy seeking redemption and rebuilding their lives to dwell on the past; and it is through their desire to move forward and to get beyond loss that their lives overlap.
Two Irish immigrant brothers, a monk and a quiet drifter who live in the projects and minister to the downtrodden, befriend a mother-daughter prostitute team whose lives tragically intersect with a strung out bohemian married couple, who after a catastrophic event seek out a loving, well-educated black single mother who has a special relationship with a pampered but damaged Park Avenue mother who is mourning the loss of her son in Vietnam and is married to the judge who sentences both the tightrope walker and the prostitutes.
The interconnectedness between the characters isn't always obvious and sometimes blindsides the reader, but waiting for the nuanced ways that McCann interweaves the characters lives leads to the suspense and artfulness of his yarn. As one of the Irish brothers explains, "...everything in New York is built upon another thing, nothing is entirely by itself, each thing as strange as the last, and connected.”
Very much a story of six degrees of separation, the disparate stories are brought together by chance and sentiment more than complicated plot or a strong main character that drives the story and brings colorful supporting characters along for the ride. There is no main character in this novel. Each one of these characters are strong enough to have their own novel; they are individual narratives; stand-alone vignettes that are woven together in a detailed mosaic that glows and resonates. There is no "about" that unifies this book; no all encompassing theme or motif. Love, loss, fear, risk-taking, redemption, family, politics, crime, and re-invention abound equally in this novel. It is very much a book that encompasses the fleeting nature of art. Not just art in the aesthetic sense but art in the everyday articulation of life. This can be see in the way the aerialist transforms himself "....into a statue, but a perfect New York one, a temporary one, up in the air, high above the city. A statue that had no regard for the past.’’
Much like the wire walkers's ephemeral statue, I too have created a temporary expression of art inside the margins of this wonderful book that I must erase. My co-workers at the library get really pissed when I write in books. Although my scrawlings must be erased, my love for this triumph of a novel will remain as I continue to recommend this awe-inspiring work to my library patrons.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
My Brain Is Melting. My Brain Is Melting.
My brain will soon be mush, and I will be in a hospital bed next to my five-year-old, who is recovering beautifully from brain surgery. He will grow into a handsome, productive man who will forever be burdened with his mother, a vegetable. Yes, it is true, my days of lucidity are numbered. I soon will be rendered completely brain dead from listening to excessive amounts of Miley Cyrus. If overexposure to crappy music can kill? I am a goner.
"...I got my hands up/They're playin my song/I know I'm gonna be ok/Yeah, It's a party in the USA/Yeah, It's a party in the USA." Up and down the hallway five times a day, a physical therapist cheerfully dances along the rehabilitation wing of a leading pediatric hospital. Behind her follows a chubby fourteen year old girl, who is recovering from traumatic brain injuries and is learning how to walk, talk and eat again. I know I should be supportive and sympathetic and encouraging of a young girl trying to regain her independence. But, I simply cannot muster up compassion while I am watching brownish-orange wax drip on my hand as my ears slowly decompose bit by bit.
If the girl was one of my library patrons, I would gleefully give her more Miley Cyrus, Stephenie Meyer, Erin Hunter and Jeff Kinney than her feeble arms could hold. By trade, I am media crap facilitator. With no questions, no judgment and a big smile, I give the masses a rubbish they desire. I hand out Twilight the way relief workers in third world countries hand out rice and Penicillin. But, I am at the hospital not the library, so I am under no professional obligation to hold up Intellectual Freedom in cases where listening to atrocious music can result in the diminishment of brain cells.
There are times where censorship is a necessary evil. Time to call in Tipper Gore and the Parents Music Resource Center (PMRC). Tipper, where are you when I need you? You've been dumped. Al has no use for you, so please be useful to me. Go on Oprah, mention the pole dancing incidents at Miley Cyrus concerts and demand that parents confiscate everything Hannah Montana/Miley Cyrus related. Do exactly what you did in 1984 when you appeared on Donahue and convinced my mother to take Purple Rain and 1999 away from me. In my case, the moratorium only lasted for a day, but I will never get back those lost 12 to 14 hours of listening pleasure. So, you owe me, Tipper. Time to make it right. Nikki masturbating with a magazine hurts no one. Music from a singer with too many raisins stuck up her nose causes brain cells to be lost permanently. Please help me save lives, Tipper. Twenty-five years ago, you and your censorship brigade managed to get the "Parental Advisory: Explicit Content" label. Now I am asking for to seek the warning message: "If You Buy a Miley Cyrus Album: You Will Wish Your Brain Damage Resulted from Crack Cocaine Usage Instead."
Just one small favor, Tipper, for the betterment of humankind.
"...I got my hands up/They're playin my song/I know I'm gonna be ok/Yeah, It's a party in the USA/Yeah, It's a party in the USA." Up and down the hallway five times a day, a physical therapist cheerfully dances along the rehabilitation wing of a leading pediatric hospital. Behind her follows a chubby fourteen year old girl, who is recovering from traumatic brain injuries and is learning how to walk, talk and eat again. I know I should be supportive and sympathetic and encouraging of a young girl trying to regain her independence. But, I simply cannot muster up compassion while I am watching brownish-orange wax drip on my hand as my ears slowly decompose bit by bit.
If the girl was one of my library patrons, I would gleefully give her more Miley Cyrus, Stephenie Meyer, Erin Hunter and Jeff Kinney than her feeble arms could hold. By trade, I am media crap facilitator. With no questions, no judgment and a big smile, I give the masses a rubbish they desire. I hand out Twilight the way relief workers in third world countries hand out rice and Penicillin. But, I am at the hospital not the library, so I am under no professional obligation to hold up Intellectual Freedom in cases where listening to atrocious music can result in the diminishment of brain cells.
There are times where censorship is a necessary evil. Time to call in Tipper Gore and the Parents Music Resource Center (PMRC). Tipper, where are you when I need you? You've been dumped. Al has no use for you, so please be useful to me. Go on Oprah, mention the pole dancing incidents at Miley Cyrus concerts and demand that parents confiscate everything Hannah Montana/Miley Cyrus related. Do exactly what you did in 1984 when you appeared on Donahue and convinced my mother to take Purple Rain and 1999 away from me. In my case, the moratorium only lasted for a day, but I will never get back those lost 12 to 14 hours of listening pleasure. So, you owe me, Tipper. Time to make it right. Nikki masturbating with a magazine hurts no one. Music from a singer with too many raisins stuck up her nose causes brain cells to be lost permanently. Please help me save lives, Tipper. Twenty-five years ago, you and your censorship brigade managed to get the "Parental Advisory: Explicit Content" label. Now I am asking for to seek the warning message: "If You Buy a Miley Cyrus Album: You Will Wish Your Brain Damage Resulted from Crack Cocaine Usage Instead."
Just one small favor, Tipper, for the betterment of humankind.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
I Like the Way You Hold Your Sign
Dear Mr. Dancing Sign Holder on College and Harmony:
Thank you for bringing a touch of happiness to my day with your phenomenal dancing. Unlike the damn sign holding fools with spastic, convulsion-like moves in front of Ultimate Electronics (who I fear would bite me if I got out of my car), you actually know how to dance although you are not very mindful of your sign. Upside down, sideways, backwards, above your head, below your feet. I have been watching you for over a year, and I don't know if you are peddling plumbing, painting, electronics, or furniture. Really doesn't matter to you or your audience, who sit in their cars for many minutes at the busiest intersection in town that happens to be benefiting from impeccable planning on the part of city, county, and transportation officials. Smart move to tear up both the busiest street and second busiest street in the city, right at point where they intersect. This way, there are now double the amount of the construction workers to stand around and give instructions to the one man who is actually working -- the non-sunscreen wearing worker with the yellow hard hat, orange vest and severe limp.
Mr. Sign Holding Dancer, you are far more entertaining to watch than a few hot, taut construction workers. Once you get past the muscles, nice tan, and occasional gesture of extraordinary strength, what's there to watch? You, on the other hand, give a show with your nice tan, athletic legs, mysterious eyes and boyish smile that illuminates every time you do a four step moonwalk or a fancy knee lift-ankle turn that is reminiscent of Michael Jackson. When I first saw you last April, I said in a conversation with myself: "It is like he is channeling Michael Jackson. No. That makes no sense since you can't channel living people." Then, two months later, MJ was dead. At that moment, I think your dancing got better, and you added the black hat, bunched up socks and loafers to your attire. However, the hat really interferes with your sign holding. You should consider ditching the sign. Your loyal fans won't tell your employer.
Or, should I say, loyal fan. I might be the only one in town who notices you. Or, maybe I am the only one you notice, noticing you. I am the frazzled mom (perhaps a cougar of the librarian variety) in the red mini-van, who ignores her four children and listens to Prince at a volume that makes her children scream in agony, forcing me to turn it up even louder to drown them out. I can tell by the way your moves don't match my tunes that you don't have any Prince on your play-list that only you can hear. Sometimes you smile and wave at me. I smile and wave back. Damn. Am I really becoming the "bored, lonely, horny-for-college-boys housewife" that my husband excuses me of being every day? No. I don't think so. Well, maybe. But, not in this case.
You, my favorite sign holding dancer, bring a little art to my daily life. You remind that you don't have to be on a stage or a contrived reality show to be a dancer. You are dancer in every sense of the word, even if your paycheck comes from sign holding, not dancing. Your art on the corner of College and Harmony, right in front of the McDonald's, inspires me. You are fearless, artistic and confident. Thank you for adding a little joy to my day and giving me a jolt of much needed motivation.
Best Wishes,
Garbageman's Daughter
Friday, June 25, 2010
Exceeding Expectations
The doctors said he would be in Pediatric Intensive Care Unit for four to six days after his brain surgery. He was there for a day. They said he would be paralyzed on his left side for a month. He was walking after six days. They said his hand would be nothing more than an inactive helper hand (a.k.a. paper weight extremity). He picks up objects and stretches his fingers. They said he would be seizure free. He is seizure free!
Thursday, June 24, 2010
A Comeback Through Death
Dying was his only option. His only option for peace and some form of redemption. The only option to be a successful, lucrative, performer again. His only method for a comeback of sorts.
Death was Michael Jackson’s salvation.
Prior to his passing on June 25, 2010, Michael Jackson was a ruined man professionally, physically, financially and, some might say, morally too. Years of indulgent overspending, left the real life Peter Pan, mired in debt, and numerous plastic surgeries transformed the once spunky all-American, black phenom from Gary, Indiana into a frightening and unrecognizable version of his younger self. Then, there were all the molestation charges, which ultimately destroyed his career and public image. His legal troubles distracted from his recording and touring; devoured his bank account; and devastated the image of the King of Pop. Although never convicted, Jackson could never get past the stigma of being an accused pedophile, leaving him a broke recluse with no hopes of a complete and successful comeback.
A year after his death, Jackson is back. Most of his troubles have died with him and he has regained the status of icon. A renewed interest in his music has put him back on the charts and a movie that chronicles his last performance has made millions. New projects are in the works, as the Michael Jackson estate continues to negotiate lucrative deals that have been putting his finances back in the black and re-setting his public image back to the wholesome and shy twenty-something with his one glove, flood pants, sparkling socks, and black loafers that magnified that magnificent moon walk that forever changed the entertainment world.
With Michael Jackson now gone, his music can be celebrated and separated from his tragic image. It is time to lift your Michael Jackson music moratorium and put some "Beat It" back on family play list and let a little "Shake Your Body (Down To The Ground)" blast from your car stereos.
Death was Michael Jackson’s salvation.
Prior to his passing on June 25, 2010, Michael Jackson was a ruined man professionally, physically, financially and, some might say, morally too. Years of indulgent overspending, left the real life Peter Pan, mired in debt, and numerous plastic surgeries transformed the once spunky all-American, black phenom from Gary, Indiana into a frightening and unrecognizable version of his younger self. Then, there were all the molestation charges, which ultimately destroyed his career and public image. His legal troubles distracted from his recording and touring; devoured his bank account; and devastated the image of the King of Pop. Although never convicted, Jackson could never get past the stigma of being an accused pedophile, leaving him a broke recluse with no hopes of a complete and successful comeback.
A year after his death, Jackson is back. Most of his troubles have died with him and he has regained the status of icon. A renewed interest in his music has put him back on the charts and a movie that chronicles his last performance has made millions. New projects are in the works, as the Michael Jackson estate continues to negotiate lucrative deals that have been putting his finances back in the black and re-setting his public image back to the wholesome and shy twenty-something with his one glove, flood pants, sparkling socks, and black loafers that magnified that magnificent moon walk that forever changed the entertainment world.
With Michael Jackson now gone, his music can be celebrated and separated from his tragic image. It is time to lift your Michael Jackson music moratorium and put some "Beat It" back on family play list and let a little "Shake Your Body (Down To The Ground)" blast from your car stereos.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Facebook Demographics
According to my husband, there are three main user groups on Facebook:
1. Gay guys.
2. Lonely, bored middle-aged women. (Pretty sure he was lumping my friends and me in this category).
3. People with limited punctuation skills. (I might be in this category too).
People who are not on Facebook, according to Garbageman's Daughter:
1. Cynical, anti-social, unfun, disillusioned grumpy middle-age men with beer bellies, jelly arms, and receding hairlines.
2. Friends and family who are not considerate of my time. Do you really think I want to talk you, call you or email you? Please join the 21st century, read my blog or get on Facebook. One on one correspondence is highly overrated.
1. Gay guys.
2. Lonely, bored middle-aged women. (Pretty sure he was lumping my friends and me in this category).
3. People with limited punctuation skills. (I might be in this category too).
People who are not on Facebook, according to Garbageman's Daughter:
1. Cynical, anti-social, unfun, disillusioned grumpy middle-age men with beer bellies, jelly arms, and receding hairlines.
2. Friends and family who are not considerate of my time. Do you really think I want to talk you, call you or email you? Please join the 21st century, read my blog or get on Facebook. One on one correspondence is highly overrated.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Time to Wash the Clothes
"I don't what I would do without laundry facilities here," said the woman, holding a clear trash bag of little boy clothes. "My son pulled out his feeding tube three times today."
"I hear ya. My son just threw up on his blanket and his friends," I said. Normally, I shy away from or dry heave during any mention of vomit. But, puke stories seemed to be part of my initiation. No sorority sisters in sight, just a group of moms with brain damaged children.
As I lifted the washing machine lid and threw in Foxy Fox and Red Panda, I asked the woman if she needed a dryer sheet. She replied: "No thanks. I just never expected to be here. We are now on day 26."
"Really?"
"I was just playing in the park with my five-year-old and a three-hundred pound concrete statue fell on him. He had a severe, blunt traumatic brain injury. He has a metal plate in his head, cannot talk, eat or swallow. We will be here most of the summer."
Before I had a chance to reply, Erica, who is two doors down from us on the hall, came back to get a blanket that she washed for her fifteen-year-old son, who has had seizures since he was three. They drove from Montana to have her son's head cut open by one of the best pediatric surgeons in the country. A section of his skull was removed and 236 electrical wires were placed directly onto his brain to map seizure activity and determine an exact location for brain matter removal. Two weeks later, he still hasn't had a seizure.
"I folded it for you," I said.
"Thanks. See you at breakfast in the morning," she said.
She left and the buzzer went off. Time to move the fury friends from the washer to the dryer. No time to fuss and dwell on what has been lost when there is so much laundry to do.
"I hear ya. My son just threw up on his blanket and his friends," I said. Normally, I shy away from or dry heave during any mention of vomit. But, puke stories seemed to be part of my initiation. No sorority sisters in sight, just a group of moms with brain damaged children.
As I lifted the washing machine lid and threw in Foxy Fox and Red Panda, I asked the woman if she needed a dryer sheet. She replied: "No thanks. I just never expected to be here. We are now on day 26."
"Really?"
"I was just playing in the park with my five-year-old and a three-hundred pound concrete statue fell on him. He had a severe, blunt traumatic brain injury. He has a metal plate in his head, cannot talk, eat or swallow. We will be here most of the summer."
Before I had a chance to reply, Erica, who is two doors down from us on the hall, came back to get a blanket that she washed for her fifteen-year-old son, who has had seizures since he was three. They drove from Montana to have her son's head cut open by one of the best pediatric surgeons in the country. A section of his skull was removed and 236 electrical wires were placed directly onto his brain to map seizure activity and determine an exact location for brain matter removal. Two weeks later, he still hasn't had a seizure.
"I folded it for you," I said.
"Thanks. See you at breakfast in the morning," she said.
She left and the buzzer went off. Time to move the fury friends from the washer to the dryer. No time to fuss and dwell on what has been lost when there is so much laundry to do.
Monday, June 21, 2010
The Unexpected Hall Walker
The girls on campus were scared, but still felt comforted by the tranquility of our a quaint, private campus tucked away in a poor town in the Appalachian Mountains. There was a "Peeping Tom" reported to be prowling the halls of the all-girls dormitory. A brief description of the predator was posted on the bulletin boards in all campus buildings. Female students were told to stay in groups.
I knew the warnings, but oppressive deadlines from my local newspaper editor took precedence of a possible run-in with a guy looking for quick thrills by peeking into the girls' locker room. Seeking an extra jolt of energy that would be great for staying up late to write about township sewers and city ordinances, I headed straight from the cafeteria to gym on a Friday evening. Other than my regular aerobic class and occasional walk around the mezzanine with my roommate, the gym was a foreign land for me. A land that was not particularly pretty or interesting. Stationary bike. Boring. Treadmill. Out of breath, exhausted and perplexed by the concept of running really fast to nowhere (a.k.a. growing up in a small town). Arm machines. Too complex, too much work, muscles too hopeless. Three cups of black tea and nine Kit Kats would be equivalent to a mile run, so why bother smearing my mascara, frizzing out my hair and risking a blister by using my sneakers as more than a fashion accessory? I was moving towards the gym exit until the leg machine caught my attention.
My look of determined interest and sincere ignorance evoked pity from a tall, skinny athletic man in rayon short-shorts. He had neatly trimmed brown hair and closely shaved, clean skin. The thin lines around his eyes and lips indicated that he was not a typical college student and did not go to school with me since he wore navy blue Franklin Marshall soccer jacket, which is in a different state. Since "townies" crawled all over campus, seeing a stranger in the gym was not that unusual.
He asked, "Do want some help?" I declined his offer, but he approached machine the anyway. We were the only two people in the gym. He adjusted some of the levers saying that would provide extra resistance. I thanked him, trying to make minimal eye contact, concentrating on my exercises and watching the door for someone else to arrive. Leaving abruptly didn't seem like an option. He watched my every leg lift, moved closer, and put his hand on the top of my thigh, telling me to kick with calf forward. I followed his instructions and his hand moved towards my inner thigh. As he squatted to get closer to my thighs, I could see that he wasn't wearing underwear. Startled, I continued to flash a congenial smile while I came up with a plan, which never fully developed. Finally, two soccer players, who I knew, came into the gym. I shot them a distressed look. They didn't read my message and just started using the equipment. Their presence made the man uncomfortable. He said: "Do you want to go to the bigger gym with the mats to work on sit-ups?" I said: "Sure." We started to walk to the gym together. I suddenly pivoted towards Tim and Frank. I whispered: "Call security. That's the pervert." The man left the room and disappeared into the hallways. Tim asked me if I was okay, and left me to chase the guy. Frank headed to the security office.
Alone. Something about my solitude ignited my feet. I ran through the hallway, out the door, down the sidewalk, up concrete steps, through the dormitory door, up four flights of stairs until I was on my floor. I stepped about a third of the way into the door, breathing heavy. With my body stopped but mind still playing out all the scenarios that I just escaped, I yelled: "Help me." Then, collapsed to the floor. My roommate, Beth, and our dorm neighbors, Tia and Debbie, came running down the hall to rescue me. As they lifted me up, the door opened. Black boots crossed the door way. The top of the boots were covered by camouflaged pants, which lead up to his Army green coat with a stiff collar and some name and rank badges on the pocket. A rounded camouflage cap sat on top his bald head, and intensified the green speckles in his hazel eyes. His mustache framed his down turned lips as he asked: "What's wrong?" I hugged him and wept like he just returned from war.
"Why are you here, Dad?"
"I came to drop off some money on the my way home from my National Guard meeting," he said, "Tell me what's going on."
He stayed with me until all the crying stopped, tucked me in bed, kissed my forehead, and left $60 on my desk. Then, drove 53 miles back home.
I knew the warnings, but oppressive deadlines from my local newspaper editor took precedence of a possible run-in with a guy looking for quick thrills by peeking into the girls' locker room. Seeking an extra jolt of energy that would be great for staying up late to write about township sewers and city ordinances, I headed straight from the cafeteria to gym on a Friday evening. Other than my regular aerobic class and occasional walk around the mezzanine with my roommate, the gym was a foreign land for me. A land that was not particularly pretty or interesting. Stationary bike. Boring. Treadmill. Out of breath, exhausted and perplexed by the concept of running really fast to nowhere (a.k.a. growing up in a small town). Arm machines. Too complex, too much work, muscles too hopeless. Three cups of black tea and nine Kit Kats would be equivalent to a mile run, so why bother smearing my mascara, frizzing out my hair and risking a blister by using my sneakers as more than a fashion accessory? I was moving towards the gym exit until the leg machine caught my attention.
My look of determined interest and sincere ignorance evoked pity from a tall, skinny athletic man in rayon short-shorts. He had neatly trimmed brown hair and closely shaved, clean skin. The thin lines around his eyes and lips indicated that he was not a typical college student and did not go to school with me since he wore navy blue Franklin Marshall soccer jacket, which is in a different state. Since "townies" crawled all over campus, seeing a stranger in the gym was not that unusual.
He asked, "Do want some help?" I declined his offer, but he approached machine the anyway. We were the only two people in the gym. He adjusted some of the levers saying that would provide extra resistance. I thanked him, trying to make minimal eye contact, concentrating on my exercises and watching the door for someone else to arrive. Leaving abruptly didn't seem like an option. He watched my every leg lift, moved closer, and put his hand on the top of my thigh, telling me to kick with calf forward. I followed his instructions and his hand moved towards my inner thigh. As he squatted to get closer to my thighs, I could see that he wasn't wearing underwear. Startled, I continued to flash a congenial smile while I came up with a plan, which never fully developed. Finally, two soccer players, who I knew, came into the gym. I shot them a distressed look. They didn't read my message and just started using the equipment. Their presence made the man uncomfortable. He said: "Do you want to go to the bigger gym with the mats to work on sit-ups?" I said: "Sure." We started to walk to the gym together. I suddenly pivoted towards Tim and Frank. I whispered: "Call security. That's the pervert." The man left the room and disappeared into the hallways. Tim asked me if I was okay, and left me to chase the guy. Frank headed to the security office.
Alone. Something about my solitude ignited my feet. I ran through the hallway, out the door, down the sidewalk, up concrete steps, through the dormitory door, up four flights of stairs until I was on my floor. I stepped about a third of the way into the door, breathing heavy. With my body stopped but mind still playing out all the scenarios that I just escaped, I yelled: "Help me." Then, collapsed to the floor. My roommate, Beth, and our dorm neighbors, Tia and Debbie, came running down the hall to rescue me. As they lifted me up, the door opened. Black boots crossed the door way. The top of the boots were covered by camouflaged pants, which lead up to his Army green coat with a stiff collar and some name and rank badges on the pocket. A rounded camouflage cap sat on top his bald head, and intensified the green speckles in his hazel eyes. His mustache framed his down turned lips as he asked: "What's wrong?" I hugged him and wept like he just returned from war.
"Why are you here, Dad?"
"I came to drop off some money on the my way home from my National Guard meeting," he said, "Tell me what's going on."
He stayed with me until all the crying stopped, tucked me in bed, kissed my forehead, and left $60 on my desk. Then, drove 53 miles back home.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
All About Dad
A middle seat again. To the left of him, a forty-something redhead from Louisiana with a skirt too short for the thickness of her legs and with hands too friendly --part natural curiosity, but mostly her wandering fingers are loosened by an extra stash Southwest drink coupons she stumbled upon. To the right of him, a crumbling, old man on oxygen who extends his arms and feet far across the unspoken boundaries of polite flight decorum. The middleman puts in earphones and closes his eyes. No music or audio-books playing. His body language resonates "don't talk to me" louder than any noise coming from audio-visual devices. No pleasure in this trip. Business as usual. Monday though Friday. Every week. Every month. East Coast. West Coast. North America. South America. Europe and Asia. He travels the world but only sees computers and office chairs that look the same no matter what language appears on their manufacturer labels. Always the same day, just a different place. At each new place, he gets a magnet for the family refrigerator and t-shirts for all four kids and his wife. Sometimes he carries home candy, exotic loose leaf teas and roses for the mother of his children for no reason at all.
He is a traditional dad. He speaks with a deep voice and expects the children to always say, "Yes, Sir" He sacrifices his time with the family, so they can live in a place with fresh air, great schools and arguably the best potato burritos on Earth. His methods are unconventional, too. He turns a blind-eye to ice cream breakfasts, calls the middle boy with seizures "butt-shake boy" (which always brings a much needed family laugh) and lets the kids stay up as late as they want on weekends. He is the DJ for the family's play-list that accompanies Rummikub and Uno tournaments. He takes the oldest boy to baseball practice at 9 a.m. on Sunday mornings to join the players who find peace on the field instead of in a pew. He gives the claw to his toddler, bringing about a squeal that wakes up all the neighborhood dogs, and he tickles his daughter until she reveals a mouth in need of extensive orthodontics. The whole house moves at the beat of his pulse when he is home and when he is absent, things keep moving at a pace to make daddy proud. Here or there, daddy is the the authority, inspiration and force that keeps the family of six together.
Happy Father's Day, my Handsome Husband. Thank you for the sacrifices you make to give us a great life.
He is a traditional dad. He speaks with a deep voice and expects the children to always say, "Yes, Sir" He sacrifices his time with the family, so they can live in a place with fresh air, great schools and arguably the best potato burritos on Earth. His methods are unconventional, too. He turns a blind-eye to ice cream breakfasts, calls the middle boy with seizures "butt-shake boy" (which always brings a much needed family laugh) and lets the kids stay up as late as they want on weekends. He is the DJ for the family's play-list that accompanies Rummikub and Uno tournaments. He takes the oldest boy to baseball practice at 9 a.m. on Sunday mornings to join the players who find peace on the field instead of in a pew. He gives the claw to his toddler, bringing about a squeal that wakes up all the neighborhood dogs, and he tickles his daughter until she reveals a mouth in need of extensive orthodontics. The whole house moves at the beat of his pulse when he is home and when he is absent, things keep moving at a pace to make daddy proud. Here or there, daddy is the the authority, inspiration and force that keeps the family of six together.
Happy Father's Day, my Handsome Husband. Thank you for the sacrifices you make to give us a great life.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Thank You
“Mom, are you sure that people made fun of you when you were in school? You have a lot of friends.”
Yes, I do. Wonderful friends who have picked me up when I have fallen down so many times over the past few months. Thank you, MOMS, for the unbelievably generous gift for my family and for all those great snacks. However, I won’t be reading the story about the Twilight boy on the cover People although I appreciate your effort to convert me.
A special thanks to Jill S. for watching my kids, cleaning my house and helping out with book club. Thanks Jen K. for watching my kids and helping me with my board and book club duties. Thank you Mindy G. for watching my kids. Thank you Michelle H. for watching my kids and all those little things you do to keep me sane. Thanks Stephanie W. for the encouragement and laughs through constant correspondence. Thank you, Sarah B. and Maxine J. for encouraging me to write even when I didn’t have the energy or interest. Thank you Aunt Brandi, Nanny, and Papa for being here for my kids, cleaning my house, doing my laundry, taking my little athletes to games, and doing so much to keep Tom and me functioning.
The prayers and positive thoughts have been much appreciated and please continue to send them our way. Things are going great so far, and we hope the progress will continue. If all continues to go well, you will see me soon and I’ll be back picking books from “authors who try to hard” and filling your email with demanding service project requests. (By the way, your charity vote is due no later than Monday, June 21, so get that in please.)
Keep reading. I am slowly making my way back.
Much love,
Garabageman’s Daughter
Yes, I do. Wonderful friends who have picked me up when I have fallen down so many times over the past few months. Thank you, MOMS, for the unbelievably generous gift for my family and for all those great snacks. However, I won’t be reading the story about the Twilight boy on the cover People although I appreciate your effort to convert me.
A special thanks to Jill S. for watching my kids, cleaning my house and helping out with book club. Thanks Jen K. for watching my kids and helping me with my board and book club duties. Thank you Mindy G. for watching my kids. Thank you Michelle H. for watching my kids and all those little things you do to keep me sane. Thanks Stephanie W. for the encouragement and laughs through constant correspondence. Thank you, Sarah B. and Maxine J. for encouraging me to write even when I didn’t have the energy or interest. Thank you Aunt Brandi, Nanny, and Papa for being here for my kids, cleaning my house, doing my laundry, taking my little athletes to games, and doing so much to keep Tom and me functioning.
The prayers and positive thoughts have been much appreciated and please continue to send them our way. Things are going great so far, and we hope the progress will continue. If all continues to go well, you will see me soon and I’ll be back picking books from “authors who try to hard” and filling your email with demanding service project requests. (By the way, your charity vote is due no later than Monday, June 21, so get that in please.)
Keep reading. I am slowly making my way back.
Much love,
Garabageman’s Daughter
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Sleep
Doctor Dog sleeps upside down with his puffy black nose pressed under a velvety monkey blanket and his left paw against the boy’s left leg. The boy, who is in the soccer pajamas, can barely be seen underneath Little Monkey, Big Monkey, Matt the Jaguar, and Gar Gar the Leopard and his new red panda with a raccoon tail that has yet to be named. Beneath the plush zoo rests an intricate jig-jaw puzzle of flesh and bone pieced together with zigzag stitches, tinged in young blood. From below his earlobe around to the back of his head, straight up to the tip of his forehead, until a lightning bolt accents his purplish-bluish-greenish skin. He is not Harry Potter. His story is real. A story that will grow as he grows. Motorcycle accident? Knife fight? Thrown from horse? Trampled by soccer cleats? As many possibilities, as there are stitches. The stories will be sewn and woven in time, but for now, he sleeps. No shakes, seizures, twitches, trembles, shudders, shivers, quivers or quavers. A body at peace, at last.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Going Down the Mountain
Stop hiding behind those tall hats and dark shades. Take a trip 70 miles down the mountain to visit the boy who burns his toast to conceal the staleness and spreads imitation butter against the grain. He drinks from a faded black mug with three chips around the mouth and a faint crack at the base, holding onto the handle that was glued back on when everything fell apart. He learns his catechism from putting charcoals on the butcher paper that he gets at the corner from Tony's Meats. He skips rocks at the pond on a partly cloudy day and chases the girl with the curly pigtails and the dimple in her chin that is too big for her visage. He never catches her for long and prefers to go fishing. When the pond fails to inspire him, he goes to the roaring spring where the water invigorates and enlightens him. Follow him there. Take a hard sip from the spring. Put your sunglasses in your pocket and your hat in your hand. Go back up the mountain with a confident gait and the posture of remembrance.
Monday, June 7, 2010
Why I Identify with an Androgynous Black Man
At the age of nine when I first discovered Prince, I knew nothing about challenging normalized conventions and pushing the conditions of possibilities. I didn't even know what he looked like. Although I was technically part of the MTV generation, we didn't have cable, which meant no music videos for me. All I had to relate to were his clever lyrics set to a funky beat. I still remember the moment I became hooked. I was in a bakery with my mother and grandmother and "Delirious" was playing. The melody was so catchy that I said that I had to go to the bathroom just to keep us in the store till the song concluded. In that moment, my twenty-eight year love affair with the man started, although over the years it has ebbed and flowed.
So, what could a nine-year-old white daughter of garbageman from rural central Pennsylvania have common with a twenty-four-year-old black musician, who is a son of a musician, from Minneapolis, Minnesota? Weirdness and creativity. Still today when I still listen to "Delirious," I hear it as being a song about embracing individuality, having fun with it and loving who you are. This is a great message for a kid, and the notion that I find in his music that I love the most. Granted "Delirious," like the bulk of his early music, is really about sex as seen in the line: "Cuz if U don't I'm gonna explode/And girl I got a lot," But I was far too young to understand the sexual overtones. Quite frankly as a parent now, I can't believe that at the age of nine, I had a cassette that contained line "...I'm not sayin' this just 2 be nasty/I sincerely wanna fuck the taste out of your mouth." (Still my favorite Prince line of all time closely followed by "U didn't have the decency 2 change the sheets " followed by "I got a spooky feeling/U just want me 4 the sex" followed by Every Christmas night 4 7 years now/I drink banana daiquiris 'til I'm blind" and so on.)
Although Prince's music is primarily known for having two purposes: shagging and dancing, for me there is a third purpose -- writing. When I listen to him, I hear creativity, fearlessness, individuality, and diversity. These are components that should come alive in art and are plentiful in Prince's work. His music inspires me, pushes and excites in all different directions. Sure, those components are found in the works of many great novelists, poets, essayists, and playwrights, but after a long marathon session of reading E.B. White (believed by some to be the best essayist ever), I tend to curl up in a fetal position weeping. A pity-party tends to slow down one's writing as it is quite difficult to type from a fetal position with a bottle of Ambien in hand and tear-filled eyes. So, instead of having a pity-party, I bring on the dance party. My writing process is just as physical as it is cerebral, marked by substantial pacing and a little dancing. While my actual writing may be influenced by the authors who I am reading, Prince influences my spirit, energy and enthusiasm and causes the phrase, "Mom, stop dancing" to be one of the most commonly used locutions in our home.
Sadly, since people mostly know Prince for his dance hits like "Kiss," and "Get Off," his wonderful play pop confections like "Raspberry Beret" and "Starfish and Coffee" and his sex-laden songs like "Little Red Corvette" and "Darling Nikki," they miss most of Prince's complexity and versatility. Not too many people know about his eerie, Edgar Alan Poe like, Gothic inspired song "Others Here Among Us" (which remains officially unreleased but has been circulating for years), or the very dark, experimental, and hauntingly gorgeous song about sex and murder, "Wasted Kisses" (from the New Power Soul album, which was done with the New Power Generation when he had a symbol for his moniker), or the complex multi-layered rock opera "3 Chains o' Gold" (Love Symbol album) or his beautifully heart-breaking song about adultery, "I Love U, But I Don't Trust U Anymore" (Rave Un2 the Joy Fantastic), or the dreamy, other worldly, seemingly drug-inspired tune "Boom" from his most recent album Lotusflow3r. These are treasures that motivate me although I don't mind breaking out "Kiss', "The Beautiful Ones' and "Raspberry Beret" every once in awhile.
But no song encapsulates my connection with Prince better than "Purple Music," which is a very strange unreleased song from a spontaneous jam session during the 1999 era (which actually took place in 1982). I would not recommend it for anyone, except hardcore fans. For me, it sums up what draws me to Prince -- a shared compulsion for the creation of art. This song is all about art being a drug and its conception inducing a natural high:
Don't need no reefer, don't need cocaine
Purple music does the same 2 my brain
And I'm high, so high
Don't need no cymbals, no saxophone
Just need 2 find me a style of my own
And I'm high, so high....
Ain't got no theory, ain't got no rules
I just let the purple music tell my body what 2 do
And I'm high, so high
Gaming with the Great American Exaggerator
So, I did a Google search for “David Sedaris and drinking games” and no relevant hits appeared. What a missed opportunity. If you took a drink every time he made a self-depreciating comment about his looks, dissed his father, or cussed, you would be passed out in 47 minutes. If you added shots each time, you read the word “Greek” or “gay,” you would die of blood alcohol poisoning. If you took a drink every time, he introduced something novel or challenging into his writing, you would be a very sober reader.
Most likely the David Sedaris drinking game won’t take off, but as parent, I probably shouldn’t be role modeling the practice of doing shots while reading anyway. Instead, I’ll just play my new favorite David Sedaris game: Guess which essays were published in the New Yorker? (With a name that catchy, try not to be jealous that you didn’t think of it first).
Most likely the David Sedaris drinking game won’t take off, but as parent, I probably shouldn’t be role modeling the practice of doing shots while reading anyway. Instead, I’ll just play my new favorite David Sedaris game: Guess which essays were published in the New Yorker? (With a name that catchy, try not to be jealous that you didn’t think of it first).
I originated this game while reading “This Old House” from When You Are Engulfed in Flames. The essay originally appeared in the New Yorker on July 9, 2007 and chronicles Sedaris’ wacky stay in a boarding house in Chapel Hill, North Carolina. It is perfection from start to finish with fascinating supporting characters, great pacing, interesting plot twists, surprising revelations, humor, and tenderness. Finding all these elements in one Sedaris essay is highly unusual. Sedaris’ tales normally move rapidly from punch line to punch line with little plot development, flat characters and almost no use of traditional essay elements, which always leaves me yelling at the pages. His blatant disrespect of the humor essay as an art form doesn’t stop his books from appearing on the New York Times Best Sellers List and Library Journal’s The Books Most Borrowed in U.S. Libraries List, nor does it stop the overwrought comparisons of him to Mark Twain. Most book critics are not essay connoisseurs, so they might not distinguish between a humorist and essayist. Twain was the rare combination of humorist and an essayist. Sedaris' works fall short of earning him the moniker of an essayist, except when his writings appear in the New Yorker.
No matter if he is called an essayist, humorist, or memoirist, people are more interested in the veracity of his stories opposed to how the editing process changes or improves the quality of his work. In the essay, This American Lie, Alex Heard contends that Sedaris’ essays are not really truthful or all that personal. He insists that Sedaris is a fraud who creates fiction when the truth fails to be funny and exploits his family for laughs. Heard has made it his personal mission to fact check Sedaris' stories. What kind of stick do you have to have up your ass to even take on a project like that? Sedaris is not a journalist and is not obligated to follow any code of ethics other than his personal values. Sedaris has admitted repeatedly that his works are “realish” and he exaggerates for effect. Heard’s objection is not that exaggerates but that he embellishes his work too much for it to retain the label of non-fiction.
If there is a problem with the non-fiction and fiction distinction that is an issue for the Library of Congress to resolve, or individual libraries can re-catalog his items (which completes screws up OCLC records but that is a rant for another day). Sedaris is a humorist not a librarian, so Melvin Dewey is not his problem or a problem for the critics.
The problem for critics arises when Sedaris’ reputation goes from Great American Exaggerator to Great American Essayist. If this grand distinction is ever bestowed upon him, there should be an asterisk placed by his name because having your work polished by the editors of the New Yorker is like having Bobbi Brown as your make-up artist and Rachel Zoe as your stylist, they can make anyone look good.
An Art Intervention: Saving the World's Hapless Anime Artists
Clearly, the artist of this drawing has never been with a woman or stepped foot in an art school. I am not sure if his grossly disproportionate rendering should be blamed on his lack of sexual experience, bad artistry or unreal expectations that will inevitably land him in jail when he realizes women typically do not have booties made out of steel or lasers in their breasts. This guy is predestined for sexual fetish therapy or divorce court even before he earns enough money to pay for a woman or cons an artist groupie into believing he has talent.Sadly, an intervention did not take place before this man created such an offensive travesty that will neither help his career nor his sex life. There is no hope for this artist, but I am here now to help future anime and magna artists and their readers.
Let's start with the magna readers because their reconditioning is as simple as replacing all their magna graphic novels with issues of Playboys and switching out their anime films with soft-core porn. If these boys are going to have unrealistic sexual expectations, they should be the kind of fantasies fashioned by plastic surgery and minor air-brushing instead of fetishized pen and ink drawings. Although not fully based in realism, at least, Playmates exist in this realm of Earthly disappointment and unfilled desires. Keeping your son physically, emotionally, socially and sexually connected to a brick and mortar reality may be the first step in preventing Magna expectations from destroying his relationships and never giving you the grandchildren that you desperately want.
Now that I may have saved a few boys from spending an asexual life in their mom's basement, dreaming about busty, big-bootied, bug-eyed bubble heads that would tip over or deflate upon contact, I can focus my attention on the wretched artists, who create these ill-conceived fantasies and repugnant mockeries of the female body.
There is no better way to re-educate pseudo-artists than with the history of art. With many lessons to learn about female anatomy and so many beautiful depictions that can be used for didactic purposes, it is difficult to choose a starting place. But for today, we’ll start with the “nudity isn’t always best" lesson, demonstrated by comparing Francisco Goya’s Nude Maja to his Clothed Maja.
The brazen sexuality and aggressiveness that confronts viewer in the Naked Maja becomes more coy, subtle, mysterious and appealing in the Clothed Maja. Anime artists should take note that there is nothing wrong with stirring up a little mystery and desire to see more later. (Also, a good lesson to teach your daughters about not putting out on the first, second or tenth date).
If you are going to show the female form in its unbridled beauty, try to learn the correct anatomical proportions for a female body before you twist the form to meet your lustful urges. A good place to start is Alexandre Cabanel's The Birth of Venus (pictured below). This example of a well-received, exceptionally conventional but meticulously rendered painting from the 1863 Salon shows academic painting at its finest. This painting is aesthetically pleasing in its traditionalism. While not breaking new ground, it teaches a valuable lesson: You need to know the rules before you can break them.
Once you know how to render accurate proportions, it is time to start breaking the rules through the subject's pose and gaze as exemplified in two Édouard Manet's most famous paintings: Olympia (top) and Déjeuner sur l'Herbe or Luncheon on the Grass (bottom).
The use of the unconventional color and unexpected geometric shapes can also be used to challenge traditional renderings of the female body without objectifying it as in the case of Henri Matisse's Blue Nude, or Souvenir de Biskra (below):
After studying the unembarrassed, confrontational glances of Manet and the sensual distortions by Matisse, it is time to study an artist who puts all together to produce glorious sensuality. Amedeo Modigliani's moderate distortions and models with provocative and confident expressions produce sexy and appealing images that do not establish unrealistic expectations of superpowers in the bedroom, as seen in the Reclining Nude.
Books and Boys
Flipping through my reading journal, I realized that I have read very few bad books for the same reasons that I have never held onto a bad boyfriend. If they were not interesting, were not smart, did not amuse me, did not satisfy me, and, generally sucked, I moved on. However, holding onto good boyfriends always did pose a special problem for me since I had a predilection for reading books that were not in the library, where I promised to be studying. And, if my diverse readings interests weren’t the problem, they later discovered that I was a bad read, returned me, and checked-out another book immediately. Luckily after a few years on the shelf, I found a slow reader with discerning literary taste, who reads me well and often. I am now the beloved, old book with the worn cover on the nightstand that still gets broken in like fresh fiction, hot off the presses.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
The Cut of Infidelity
Never cheat on your hair stylist with someone who has an open spot on a Saturday afternoon. The cut will be too short, too deep and too damn unfulfilling. Your life will become one hellish bad hair day for months.
Sucking Up the Dirt
My vacuum cleaner is officially smarter than me. I wish everything in life came with a green light telling me when things were clean enough to move on to the next spoiled area.
Rock On
I am the angry rocker chick minus the tattoos, the body piercings in delightful places, the black lipstick, the guitar, a singing voice, or any musical talent whatsoever.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
The Force Field of Librarianship
I must confess that I have a magnet in my butt that causes me to be sucked into the magnetic field of the reference desk, firmly planting my bottom in the seat behind the formidable structure that gives me credibility and stature. The desk screams “Ask Me” even louder than the huge “Ask Me” button that I wear. People are drawn to the power of desk because it is an easy to find, safe place to go when in need of assistance in the library. Reference desks and librarians are synonymous. The irrevocable link between reference librarians and their furniture may contribute to my hesitation towards roving librarianship. At the same time, I am fascinated by any possibility of reaching more users and increasing the quality of library service that could stimulate both reference statistics and the number of item check-outs.
Just in case you have been too far buried into Stieg Larsson’s trilogy or too busy with your repair/review carts to have read a library journal in the past five or six years, roving reference is relatively new service approach that requires library staff to get out from behind the desk and go onto the floor, into the stacks, and around the computers to assist patrons more directly and closely at their points of need. For instance, if a patron is going up and down the aisles with a lost look on his face, a librarian would approach and ask, “May I help you find something.” The librarian would help the patron retrieve the book from the shelf, or if it was not there, other steps would be taken to acquire the item for the patron. By having librarians in the stacks, patrons are served immediately at the moment when they need assistance instead having to go to the reference desk for help, which some patrons may never do and ultimately leave frustrated and empty handed. So, roving librarianship goes a long way in providing customer-centric service. This trend is catching on in academic and public libraries throughout the country and appears to be increasing levels of customer satisfaction and escalating patron contact statistics even while traditional reference questions that require more than a minute or two of research are steadily decreasing.
But, is there the possibility that by deserting our desks in favor of exploring and wondering that we are abandoning our patrons who go to the reference desk as a safe haven, only to find that no one is there to help them navigate through their information overload? For example, during one of my shifts at a retail style library that has replaced traditional goliath reference desks with slender, counter height computer stations, I returned to the desk after a lengthy stroll around the library just in time to find a customer comment card that said “I came to ask and no one was here to listen,” punctuated with a frowning face. In this case, I threw out the book with the book jacket when I abandoned my patron by abandoning the desk.
This example reaffirms my commitment to a hybrid method of roaming/traditional reference. Let’s have staff venture into the aisles to offer great service, but let’s keep a librarian at the desk all the time to catch those confident library users who aren’t too shy or unsure to use the reference desk. This way no magnetic fields will be broken, seats will stay warm; library assistants will earn their wings in the stacks, and happy customers will abound.
Just in case you have been too far buried into Stieg Larsson’s trilogy or too busy with your repair/review carts to have read a library journal in the past five or six years, roving reference is relatively new service approach that requires library staff to get out from behind the desk and go onto the floor, into the stacks, and around the computers to assist patrons more directly and closely at their points of need. For instance, if a patron is going up and down the aisles with a lost look on his face, a librarian would approach and ask, “May I help you find something.” The librarian would help the patron retrieve the book from the shelf, or if it was not there, other steps would be taken to acquire the item for the patron. By having librarians in the stacks, patrons are served immediately at the moment when they need assistance instead having to go to the reference desk for help, which some patrons may never do and ultimately leave frustrated and empty handed. So, roving librarianship goes a long way in providing customer-centric service. This trend is catching on in academic and public libraries throughout the country and appears to be increasing levels of customer satisfaction and escalating patron contact statistics even while traditional reference questions that require more than a minute or two of research are steadily decreasing.
But, is there the possibility that by deserting our desks in favor of exploring and wondering that we are abandoning our patrons who go to the reference desk as a safe haven, only to find that no one is there to help them navigate through their information overload? For example, during one of my shifts at a retail style library that has replaced traditional goliath reference desks with slender, counter height computer stations, I returned to the desk after a lengthy stroll around the library just in time to find a customer comment card that said “I came to ask and no one was here to listen,” punctuated with a frowning face. In this case, I threw out the book with the book jacket when I abandoned my patron by abandoning the desk.
This example reaffirms my commitment to a hybrid method of roaming/traditional reference. Let’s have staff venture into the aisles to offer great service, but let’s keep a librarian at the desk all the time to catch those confident library users who aren’t too shy or unsure to use the reference desk. This way no magnetic fields will be broken, seats will stay warm; library assistants will earn their wings in the stacks, and happy customers will abound.
Friday, June 4, 2010
The Church of Creation
On Easter Sunday, one of my friends posted as her Facebook status: “My version of church, a five-mile run and a cup of coffee.” This rings true for me too every morning as I do a different kind of running – sometimes running forward, sometimes running backwards, mostly running in no direction with bad form.
Through the creation art and the appreciation of other people’s art in all forms: books, essays, plays, poetry, visual arts, photography, architecture, sculpture, and music, I spend hours looking for inspiration, answers and peace.
Unfortunately, art has failed me as much as God and science.
Through the creation art and the appreciation of other people’s art in all forms: books, essays, plays, poetry, visual arts, photography, architecture, sculpture, and music, I spend hours looking for inspiration, answers and peace.
Unfortunately, art has failed me as much as God and science.
The Uninvited Guest
My unquenchable desire for seeking highs in dirty places leaves a bitter taste in my mouth and gives me a hangover that pounds with regret and embarrassment. Please forgive me for dancing on your table topless and throwing up on your shoes. Do not worry; I will not crash your party again. Despite your pleasant cordiality, your beer tasted flat.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Honey, You Need a New Thesaurus
Congratulations, Kristen Stewart, for managing to piss off every women’s group and sexual crime awareness organization on the planet as well as most of womankind and probably a lot of men too. If you are not too busy chasing vampires or bitching about your life to reporters, you need to find a new thesaurus because rape and fame are not the same thing. Rape is a violent crime. Fame is the thing that is fleeing expeditiously from you.
However, there are more lessons to learn here than merely rape sensitivity. Let’s first start with a very well-known fact: Reporters are not trustworthy and have the power to be vindictive. Complaining to reporters about others reporters is not likely to win you much sympathy or a positive spin. When you say stupid shit, they will publish it to sell magazines – the simple economics of stupidity.
Second, you need to hire a handler that will first prevent you from saying stupid shit and will fix it immediately when you fuck-up. Yes, you need a fuck-up preventer.
Third, never use illness, disabilities, sexual assault, the Holocaust, slavery, or war as metaphors. These politically sensitive topics will do nothing but tick off activist groups and draw unsavory attention.
So for now Kristen, the best thing to do is keep your mouth shut; continue to make those grumpy “get out of my space” faces for the camera, and wait for your star to fade. Your wish will come true around the same time that publishers stop giving Stephenie Meyer money to write ghastly books. In a year or two, you’ll be making a sex tape, auditioning for Dancing with the [Washed-Up] Stars , or doing a stint on Celebrity Rehab to reclaim the fame that you abhor.
May all your wishes of obscurity come true, sweetheart.
However, there are more lessons to learn here than merely rape sensitivity. Let’s first start with a very well-known fact: Reporters are not trustworthy and have the power to be vindictive. Complaining to reporters about others reporters is not likely to win you much sympathy or a positive spin. When you say stupid shit, they will publish it to sell magazines – the simple economics of stupidity.
Second, you need to hire a handler that will first prevent you from saying stupid shit and will fix it immediately when you fuck-up. Yes, you need a fuck-up preventer.
Third, never use illness, disabilities, sexual assault, the Holocaust, slavery, or war as metaphors. These politically sensitive topics will do nothing but tick off activist groups and draw unsavory attention.
So for now Kristen, the best thing to do is keep your mouth shut; continue to make those grumpy “get out of my space” faces for the camera, and wait for your star to fade. Your wish will come true around the same time that publishers stop giving Stephenie Meyer money to write ghastly books. In a year or two, you’ll be making a sex tape, auditioning for Dancing with the [Washed-Up] Stars , or doing a stint on Celebrity Rehab to reclaim the fame that you abhor.
May all your wishes of obscurity come true, sweetheart.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Watch Out Graffiti Artists
Hey Graffiti Artists:
My carpet is not a canvas for your red acrylic paint and red markers; the walls in the toddler’s room do not need a touch of brown and pink crayon; the kitchen counters are granite and do not need to be enhanced with baby blue chalk; and, if you continue to color your legs green to look like the Hulk, you will continue to wear jeans in 95 degree weather to cover up what you call body art and what the softball moms would call bad parenting.
So, Guerilla Children, I have used OxiClean, Spot Shot and Magic Erasers for the last time; the companies have denied my requests for stock options based on my high-volume purchases, so I am doing the rational thing and stifling your artistic tendencies. All paint, chalk, crayons, markers, pencils and pens have been hidden. Time to go find a new way to express yourself; I hear music is cathartic and non-messy.
Sincerely,
Your Mother, a supporter of the arts anywhere but on my stuff
My carpet is not a canvas for your red acrylic paint and red markers; the walls in the toddler’s room do not need a touch of brown and pink crayon; the kitchen counters are granite and do not need to be enhanced with baby blue chalk; and, if you continue to color your legs green to look like the Hulk, you will continue to wear jeans in 95 degree weather to cover up what you call body art and what the softball moms would call bad parenting.
So, Guerilla Children, I have used OxiClean, Spot Shot and Magic Erasers for the last time; the companies have denied my requests for stock options based on my high-volume purchases, so I am doing the rational thing and stifling your artistic tendencies. All paint, chalk, crayons, markers, pencils and pens have been hidden. Time to go find a new way to express yourself; I hear music is cathartic and non-messy.
Sincerely,
Your Mother, a supporter of the arts anywhere but on my stuff
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