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.

Winners and also-rans.

I almost made it. I read in bed until the book slid off onto the floor. I read in the kitchen in nine minute spurts between batches of cookies. I read yesterday at work in between clicks as my computer was oddly slow. But my torrid love affair with Calamity kept me from Owen for too long. I fell short by about 60 all-important pages. I accepted my punishment with aplomb. Hearing The Ending. The good parts before I got there on my own. Serves me right. (but damn!)

Group was a full house and so much fun. Of course any time I have anyone over to eat (as I write that I'm not entirely sure I've ever really had anyone over ever and not had food), no matter how much prep and planning I may or may not accomplish (come on...this group was on a Monday! With a full weekend before I really have no excuse) my 10x12 turns totally Kitchen Stadium in the hour leading up to my guests ETA. And let me tell you, I am nothing like Zen master Chef Masaharu Morimoto! I think I'm a tad closer to the total Mario Batali freak out. Nah, that's not really fair to Batali. I probably most closely resemble (only more short-tempered) that bizarre host! The Chairman. (Well, he's really an actor. Best known, to me anyway, as the total hottie in Le Pacte des Loups. Yes yes. Just put it in your Netflix queue.) Watch the opening sequence of Iron Chef and you'll get the picture.

I think every thing I made was right out of Everyday Food. (It sounded easy.) Three or four "dips" for crostini. (The favorite being a blend of chevre, dried mission figs, rosemary, and a bit of lemon juice...although I'm quite sure one could blend chevre with dryer lint and it would be fantastic.) Some roasted, spicy chickpeas. And then peanut sauce and chicken satay. No really, it sounded easy! And really, it was...just all last moment for me in Kitchen Stadium.

After our discussion we slogged through the voting and I've posted our twelve chosen ones for the next year at right in the Book Group Bull Pen. Some of the also-rans I am excited about include Persepolis (Marjane Satrapi) now also a major motion picture, Damage (Josephine Hart) also a major motion picture from 1992, The Yiddish Policeman's Union (Michael Chabon), The Bridge of San Luis Rey (Thornton Wilder), Blink: The Power of Positive Thinking (Malcolm Gladwell), and King Lear (well, you know.)