@dena33

Behold the Maira Kalman-illustrated Elements of Style. A book I love.

The Annual.

Christ. I just remembered I (used to) have a blog. I need to write again. I need to write something other than emails and tweets, status updates and ad proposals. I need to think...

Fearless.

Talking books and movies with smart people. Seriously, what else does one need? Well, tequila actually. And maybe some really good guacamole. Spent a wonderful evening out with some new friends and spent lots of time talking about favorites.

I found myself defending sci-fi and encouraging a skeptic! Just passing on what I've learned after living many years with a bona-fide sci-ficionado. Start with William Gibson; that's my advice. Dive into his engaging cyber-punk Sprawl Trilogy with Neuromancer, Count Zero, and Mona Lisa Overdrive. If you're heading to the beach this winter toss these slim paperbacks in your pack and go.

Then if you are still feeling brave, dip your toes into the world of graphic novels with The Watchman (Alan Moore).

Social Order.

Oh, yes, I've most definitely been neglecting the blog for Facebook. The instant gratification is titillating and I can't seem to carve out enough time to put two thoughts together. Facebook satisfies the single serving thought just fine, thank you very much.

Watching the social networking evolution has been amazing and it's fun to see how people use it or don't use it. I have an interesting mix of professional, personal and past all mixed up in my "friends" list and the ongoing experiment of how my seemingly separate lives overlap has been illuminating. There is certainly an element of exhibitionism in play but it's much more than that. The camaraderie during the presidential debates, the comments on election night, and just the everyday details of even, or maybe especially, people you don't get the chance to connect with in real life just simply makes me happy.

Tonight I cooked a meal on Facebook. As I went through the process of putting together lasagna Bolognese I tried to update my status at various intervals and then had a great time peeking back over the 6 hours I worked to see who was "watching" me and read the comments. Had I been able, I would've fed friends in Minneapolis, Denver, Duluth, and Maine.

I started by dicing a $10 slice of imported prosciutto di Parma to flavor my Bolognese, went on to wilt spinach for the pasta, roll out the dough, and finally the wait while the whole thing baked. I ended with a final glass of good red wine and a full belly. Even these simple details along the way engaged people and some poured themselves a glass of something to drink while they waited for "our" dinner.

I think playing with Facebook particularly appeals to readers and writers. Just crafting one interesting, clever, funny, sad, or vague-but-perhaps-telling sentence a few times each day satisfies a deep need some of us have. And of course who can resist reading and commenting on what others come up with! I've followed people with their children on a Saturday, traveling for business and pleasure, dining, sitting in traffic, and dealing with the death of a loved one.

We catalog movies, music and books we love and share all of these things nearly daily. People post their photos, videos and artwork. Friends create invitations to parties, art openings, and events of every stripe and then not only invite, but encourage invitations be shared.

To me eating with friends is the ultimate social activity so sharing tonight and almost every restaurant experience on Facebook is weirdly satisfying. When I have a great experience I have always loved sharing my enthusiasm and writing a quick line about whatever I happen to be eating, drinking and or cooking is a blast.

Heads and Tails.

Two sides to everything, right? Harder to admit when we are in the midst of an election year. Being in the Twin Cities and watching the hoopla escalate daily around the RNC is daunting. And then a moment at the State Fair when by way of a couple of adorable two-year-olds I found myself talking to a lovely woman who introduced the tiny girl gripping Calder's arm and smiling. This daughter was from the Philippines and just adopted by their family four months ago. We talked about the kids and then my eyes dropped to her shirt and her giant John McCain button. My heart skipped (the enemy!) and then I looked back at our children gazing at each other with beatific smiles. It was a good reminder that the rancor is handed down. Not that we'll ever all agree, and that would be a bad thing anyway, but we can still treat each other with respect and by way of example, by far the most powerful teacher, hand that down to our kids.

After reading A Thousand Splendid Suns (Khaled Hosseini) I realize how lucky we are to be able to spend our time focusing on the intricacies of political posturing over the weather. Snug in the center of our huge country, and not having children old enough to enlist, we remain untouched by war. We can switch off CNN anytime and go on about our lives. Contrasted with the realities of life in Kabul through these past six years it is stunning that we are looking at the same situation from such different places.

It is amazing to see a situation from the other side; to gain even a little perspective and compassion. The way I felt reading this book reminded me so much of the same feelings while reading Stones from the River (Ursula Hegi) which tells the story of World War II in Germany through the eyes of a young girl. Getting a peek from the other side can be breathtaking.

Hosseini tells this story through the women, the mothers. The two main, overlapping stories of Mariam and Laila have many similarities but of course the power lies in the differences. The change from one generation to the next and in the attitudes and expectations of the women in this culture of men. Through Mariam and Laila and the raising of children, we see the possibilities of a new generation. The secondary story lines, Mariam's mother Nana and Laila's mother Fariba, give us a glimpse at how being mothers, parents, also has the potential to cripple us.

The two sides, over the backdrop of the war, is traditional culture and modernity. This fascinating story weaves the two together beautifully and explores how they are inescapably tangled, for better or worse.

And the pitch.

I'm into the Murakami again. Summertime always brings me to Windup Bird Chronicle (Haruki Murakami) and it's lazy, lulling pace. I think this is my fourth time through; my fourth summer with this odd, elegant, magical story. I swear something happens to me, to my brain itself, the weeks I spend with it. Hence my inevitable return. I'm an unapologetic addict and this is my drug of choice.

Bookshelf.

Dog days.

The very same day I found out my Weimaraner, Greta, has lymphoma and is terminal; an amazon.com box arrived containing a copy of The Dying Animal (Philip Roth). I ordered this title on a complete whim after seeing mention in The Week about a movie coming out based on the book and I've always wanted to read Roth. Why now? Why that book? The world is a very strange place.

It has been a week of endings as I also finished both Half Broken Things (Morag Joss) and A Long Way Down (Nick Hornby). There were some really very disturbing parallels between these two novels and again I wonder how particular things find us at particular times. Of course, it is just human nature to make such leaps. The chaos of the universe is immense and so it is very easy to latch on to random details and in our scrabbling, grasping way try to make some sense of them. No matter how horrible.

The Roth happens to be fantastic. It is a short, taut read and should probably be consumed in one sitting (oh, if only such things were still possible!) as it is written without a single pause; without break or any kind of respite. It is as if he just heaved this whole life onto paper in a single go. Incredible.

Suicidal Tendencies.

I feel like a dabbler of late. A literary dilettante. I roam from title to title as the stack at my bedside grows taller by the day. I shift restlessly and get to the meat of nothing. The combination of an intense two-year-old and the busiest month of the year at work may have something to do with my lack of focus.

I've picked away at Half Broken Things (Morag Joss) which came recommended by my friend Sarah. I'm about half (ha!) way through and stalled out. It has it's moments but overall the characters are a really unlikeable bunch. They are a frustrating lot but also oddly intriguing. I do need to find out where this is going...

Along the way (hey look! something shiny!) I veered off into A Long Way Down (Nick Hornby) which, coincidentally, is also populated with some really annoying personalities. Both books deliver accidental compatriots into a completely bizarre situation and then let the reader watch them squirm. Hornby's version is just slightly less dark, almost funny sometimes, and I think that is the current attraction for me.

No, really.

Seriously, seriously horrible.

Lame.

I am the worst blogger ever.

Shaken to the core.

I'm stuck. I just finished How to Talk About Books You Haven't Read (Pierre Bayard). And I am disturbed. All of my reading life I've felt my mortality keenly in the knowledge that there are billions of books I will never read. Have you ever done the math? It's terrifying.

It also puts me in mind of a really unsettling travel moment. On impulse I popped into a book store in a small town in France and without a thought wandered over to a shelf...as you do. And then it hit me. I can't read. All of these lovely books undiscovered. I can't read. So on top of the old fear of all of the books in English I will never read...now this. And then that math.

And then the other horrible suspicion I've been contending with of late...translations. Who are these people? Do they wield their power for good or evil? Is a complete reinterpretation really considered the same book? Remember that episode of Northern Exposure when the elfin shop owner decides she can't die until she is able to read Dante in Italian? Ugh. I'm going to bed.

H-I-P. H-O-P. H-E-A-D.

...been since 1-9-8-3. Well, in my case, it was 1985. (But I couldn't resist throwing down the Jurassic 5 quote.) Although that's not exactly true either since my first genuine exposure to hip hop was accidentally seeing the Beastie Boys when they opened for Madonna on her Like A Virgin tour. (No, I'm not kidding. It's true! Horribly, irrevocably, true. Look it up!) So at age 17 I stood in Met Stadium with my mouth agape watching three unbelievably strident, skinny white boys leap around the stage screaming "You gotta fight! For your right! To paaaaaaar-tay!" What. The. Hell?! I had absolutely no idea what I was seeing. I hated it. All I was interested in was that idiotic material girl. Ahh, the 80s.

Of course 1986 brought the release of Raising Hell (Run D.M.C.) and the rest is hi(phop)story. To say a lot has happened in the genre since then is beyond understatement. And last night I had the privilege of listening to one of the veritable godfathers of hip hop, Chuck D, talk about it all at the Fitzgerald Theater for the last in The Current's Fakebook series. He is erudite and funny and as I sat up in balcony two I wished every person I know who turns up their nose when confronted with rap was there to hear him.

So. It's time I come out. I've been listening almost exclusively to hip hop for the last couple of years. Well, exclusively is a bit strong but at least to the point of annoying various friends and very probably my husband. I don't personally know many people who are fans so I've stumbled along in the dark eagerly following the bright lights of Wu-Tang Clan, Missy Elliott, Roots Manuva, Jurassic 5, the Beastie Boys, and Public Enemy (word); with side trips over to a bunch of the Frenchies ( like MC Solaar) and the Cubanos (like Orishas), Das/EFX and Mos Def; finally graduating to the likes of Common, Nas and Rakim.

I've made discoveries on film soundtracks. Most notably Wu-Tang and especially RZA after seeing Ghost Dog: Way of the Samurai (Jim Jarmusch). Or I've fallen in love with a voice I've heard in some more accessible (to me anyway) band, like finding Chalie 2Na of Jurassic 5 doing vocals on a Gorillaz song.

But why the love? I realize a big part of it for me is simply words. I'm a reader. A lover of text and language and no one, no one, plays with words with such abandon as rappers. I can't help but make the very early connection to the first time wordplay made me laugh out loud and made the hair on the back of my neck stand up in the same way hip hop can: Amelia Bedelia books (Peggy Parish). (Oh, Chuck D! Tell me you loved them, too!) I know it's a cliché to cry poetry! about rap, it's been done, but only because it is often absolutely true.

Now I'm not talking about gangsta rap here (although there a few I find sort of humorous but most is nasty and pointless). I think a huge part of the bias against hip hop comes from the very unfortunate success of a few shallow pop/rap stars (I ain't hatin' I just heard better) who make way too much money and waaaay too much news. But look at any popular stars and you see the exact same thing. Madonna (there ya go). Britney. Lindsay. The rap/pop stars of the world are no different. We can't condemn all popular music because of a thin layer of whipped cream on top of the real deal.

Great art isn't going to be delivered into your lap with a pretty bow on top. You need to do the work to learn about it and rush out to meet it half way. Rap isn't easily accessible to some of us. Neither is opera.

Chuck D is an artist in every sense of the word; and he invented a few of his own. To hear him speak of music, art, politics, activism, his family (and his '94 Montero), and growing old and gettin' corny (own it!) and giving back was inspiring. He has stood his ground throughout his career and set an example for those coming up behind him and for us all.

Still dubious? I suggest taking a closer listen. So much of hip hop is just joyous. Smart. And some of the most fun you'll ever have. And if you doubt the talent of some of these guys...pick pretty much any rap and try to learn it. Try to deliver that flow with any kind of smooth coherence. It is daunting. And dang if you don't feel awesome when you finally get it!

Truthiness.

Truman Capote deserves credit for pretty much single-handedly inventing literary journalism. And re-reading In Cold Blood is reminding me of all the other books in this form that I love. I think authors like Joe McGinnis owe TC a huge debt. I very highly recommend McGinnis' The Miracle of Castel di Sangro. (A big shout out to Ivar Johnson, not a regular reader of 'novels and the like' who picked this up on a whim in an airport and broke down in tears over it-and it's mostly about soccer-on the flight. He gave me his copy.)

The same visceral vibe crosses over into a lot of historical fiction and a couple of my favorites in that realm include Pulitzer-prize winning The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay (Michael Chabon), Devil in the White City (Erik Larson), and a fabulous book based on the life of Virginia Woolf whose title is completely escaping me at the moment. (I just know this will be keeping me up tonight.) I had a copy signed by the author which in my excitement (and like an idiot) I lent to someone I didn't know very well; and alas... No doubt the title will hit me in the wee hours and I'll be up editing.

(And yes I was watching Stephen Colbert and blogging at the same time. I must earn some kind of special nerd patch for that, no?)

Quid pro quo.

When I was little my babysitter, Donna, lived right next door. Most days after she got home from school I would pull together a hefty stack of books and march across the lawn to her back door. Donna invariably answered my call and would spend seemingly endless amounts of her precious teenager free time reading to me. Blessed with book-obsessed offspring, my mom calls it payback.

With the almost-six-year-old well into his own stack of reading, (except for nightly bed time stories read to him by my husband because "he can do all the voices") I was just waiting for the almost-two-year-old to make that story connection. This weekend he did. In spades.

There is now a stack of about 14 board books, all with conveniently-shortened-to-one-word titles; like "Uh oh" for We're Going on a Bear Hunt (Michael Rosen) and "Fly" for The Very Lonely Firely (Eric Carle) next to the comfy chair in my living room. Rest assured (or actually, not), I know when I walk in the door this evening I will be greeted with "Mama! Hand. Walk. Sit. Read!"

Drunken, frisky pagans.

Is that a beautiful phrase, or what? I totally stole it from Chuck Terhark's (hi, Chuck!) intro to the feature story in the April issue of METRO magazine. He's a clever lad who manages to reference both Pump Up the Volume and Fight Club coherently in the span of two paragraphs. If you think you know everything about the Twin Cities, think again. And go buy a copy of METRO! (You can't miss it. Just look for the gigantic, fuschia, snakeskin shoe on the cover. Yikes!)

This month's feature is a collection of bits about everything from lunatics who surf Lake Superior to Minneapolis' up and coming graffiti (outdoor?) artists. Most notably, John Grider, who is incredibly talented and very, very brave. Though mention of the jump from the street into galleries just made me think immediately of Jean-Michel Basquiat (a/k/a Samo) who accomplished this feat and far more before he died of a heroin overdose in 1988.

Quick story tangent: I worked at a certain Beverly Hills hotel in the 80s and Basquiat stayed there while in town for an art show. He removed all of the "paintings" from the frames in his room and rehung them empty. He denied maids or anyone else access and when he departed, they opened the room to find that he had kept all of the windows open and welcomed in numerous pigeons. (I also have stories about Emo Philips, Michael Jackson, Vidal Sassoon, Mickey Rourke, Milton Burle, Willem Dafoe, Tone Loc, one of the Princes of Saudi Arabia, and Billy Idol. It really is in your best interest to buy me cocktails.)

There is a lovely film about Jean-Michel's life and death done by New York painter and director Julian Schnabel. Schnabel also directed the absolutely stunning Before Night Falls and the surprising Le Scaphandre et le Papillon (The Diving Bell and the Butterfly) which was nominated for four Academy Awards this year.

We're not in Kansas anymore.

A while since the last post, I know. Spent a week in Mexico where normally I would accomplish quite a lot of reading between the plane rides and laying around in a lounge chair but my son is nearly two. Need I say more? Luckily, he naps. And pool+beach+sunshine equals tired babies so when I could keep my eyes open long enough (the above formula works on grown-ups, too) I was also able to get in a chapter or two after kiddo bedtime.

I brought along and finally finished What the Body Remembers (Shauna Singh Baldwin). It was our first book group selection this year and I just couldn't get into it. Yet there it sat, leering at me from my 2008 Reading List and I just couldn't in good conscience leave it there unread. Baldwin's lush descriptions grew on me and like any book, once I got to know and understand her style and came to appreciate it I enjoyed it immensely.

The story tracks the Punjabi peoples in India through Partition: Muslims, Hindus, and Sikhs. I couldn't ignore the parallels to the current war in Iraq and America's complete disregard of the history, customs, and beliefs of three very distinct cultures. The story is eerily relative and I think is a chilling look at what may be in store for a country "created" by a distant, arrogant and criminally ignorant nation. (Ooh, did I say that out loud?)

Roop's personal story is so small by comparison. And yet it's intimate nature allows the reader to really move through this foreign world with some sense of reality and understanding. Singh Baldwin leaves us touch stones along the way that give us the ability to become invested in Roop and Sardarji in a way the occupying English never could. This irony is not lost on the careful reader.

To follow this up with The Yiddish Policeman's Union (Michael Chabon) brought some interesting insights. One of the many underlying themes is the fictional reversion of the state of Alaska from a forced Jewish refugee settlement back to America. Going from India's Partition to Alaska's Reversion has an odd and unexpected synchronicity which I totally dig.

Yet Chabon's prose couldn't be more different from Singh Baldwin's. His writing is tight, clever, and when wielded via hammer blows pounding out a pseudo-historical noir thriller, it is downright heart stopping. His prose is gorgeous and to steal my best friend Sarah's line once again, makes my brain tingle. It reads like the love child of Raymond Chandler and Thomas Pynchon.

I was hoping to spend some quality time relishing Chabon's words over Easter but between a trip to Duluth and then the incensed "toto" (Calder's work for chocolate)-induced hilarity after the bunny's visit I'll have to work a little harder this week. Though I think it will be no effort at all to push through this page turner and move on to In Cold Blood (Truman Capote) before next book group on April 2nd.

Oscar buzz.

This Sunday I watched the 80th Academy Awards in the lobby of the Hilton El Conquistador in Tucson while on a business trip. It was really fun to chat with strangers I'll never see again about movies, dresses (what was with all the red? I think Diet Coke and their heretical "heart health awareness" campaign is behind it), and good v. bad acceptance speeches.

I happened to be in the middle of reading Atonement (Ian McEwan), our March book group selection and a Best Picture nominee. (I made a point of not seeing the movie until I finished the book.) By the way, I am violently opposed to novel covers pumping a movie. I steadfastly refuse to buy any book with actors on the cover and did actually have to go to two bookstores before I could find a copy without those horrid words "Now a Major Motion Picture." (Have you ever noticed it's always major?) Bad enough that the version I did find, though a lovely black cover with a black & white image, still says "In theaters soon. Read the book before you see the movie!" But at least that's a sentiment I can get behind.

I was halfway down the very last page just as my plane touched down in Minneapolis. Perfect timing. How odd it was to see the clip for the Best Supporting Actress nominee, Saoirse Ronan, and then come to that "scene" in the book and have that moment of "ah, that's what she was talking about." I loved the story. I had inklings along the way of what was coming--tingles--and was completely enamored of Ian McEwan's process. A great book, a great ending, and I can't wait to discuss. (Important note to book group members: be sure to finish this one or you will be pissed! You do NOT want this one spoiled.)

During the Oscars there was a totally overwhelming montage of the previous 79 Best Picture winners and it was interesting to see Truman Capote's In Cold Blood, our April book group pick, noted. It was nominated for four Academy Awards in 1967, the year I was born: Cinematography, Directing, Music (Quincey Jones!) and Screenplay-based on another medium. That interesting coincidence put the idea in my head to watch all of the Best Picture Oscar winners from 1967 on, and write movie reviews! I'll let y'all know when I find some extra time for that little project! (Don't hold your breath or anything.)

Beautiful dreamer.

Reading Vanity Fair this morning and this just tickled me. "Guinness heir Garech Browne at Luggala, the family estate in County Wicklow, Ireland, where he has put white sand around his black lake so that it resembles a glass of Guinness." Isn't he wonderful?

For more, check out the Vanity Fair web site.

Book end.

I just had to follow up the quote from John Irving (see post Cause célèbre) and say that if he thinks he most likely could never write a better first sentence, then he most certainly will never best the last 111 pages of A Prayer for Owen Meany. I found myself going so slowly. Savoring his construction. Watching the water rise--as the answers came one by one from a great distance--filling in the brittle cracks until a smooth sea met the horizon.