Palish

See, when you get to be 30 you realize some things

2006-02-26T16:09:00.000-05:00

We went to Ireland for a week and I ran smack into the following truth about myself. I have always held myself up, proudly, as the type of person who would fly to London at a moment's notice, travel around the world if money or time allowed, learn multiple languages, etc. Now, with my French skills limited to dog commands, I've admitted something: I don't like cities. I mean, I love cities, but learning a new one, negotiating directions and museum hours and pub etiquette in the rain while trying desperately not to look like a pathetic American, takes much, much, much too much energy. Dublin, small and grey and expensive, humbled me. Dublin!

New/old friends: which is worth more on the black market?

2006-02-10T21:01:00.000-05:00

Two things happened this week:

A very new friend, made at a conference last month, called to ask if she could fly up to Boston to hang out with us over spring break. What could be any better than meeting someone willing to subject herself to a small apartment, one wife, one pot head brother, one overly affectionate pooch, and two cats, one of whom cries in the night for no reason? I tried to warn new friend that for us a night out means a well-timed Netflix delivery and thai food. Get this: she still bought the ticket.

A very old friend, one of the three remaining who knew me in adolescence (and lived to tell the tale), called to invite us to her wedding in LA in August. She flew to mine on short notice two years ago. Why? Because sometimes love lasts a lifetime, readers. Especially in the case of a dancer/actress and teacher/librarian with nothing in common but the cast of Oklahoma!, circa 1993.

Ver-crappin'-onica

2006-02-03T19:58:00.000-05:00

When you're me, you pay close attention to The New York Times best books list. Why? Well, you're a snob who never finished a PhD, became a writer, or had sex with someone who did, that's why. This year, however, the NYT did me wrong in the form of Veronica.

I freely admit that I complain a lot about the books I read, mostly out of spleen. This book, however, is the real deal. Utter crap. Circuitous, masturbatory, navel-gazing former-model with hepatitus shit. I walked into work the other day and said, "I'm reading a book that I hate." My co-worker replied that she, too, was reading a book she hated. The book? Veronica.

The last sad dirty vestige of your youth

2006-01-26T17:02:00.000-05:00

You know how when you were twenty and you started reading The New Yorker? Maybe you fantasized about your future career as a reporter/essayist/poet/Anthony Lane? Maybe you thought about writing a kick ass letter to the editor, who would be so bowled over by your wit that s/he would fly you to New York to share an office with Sasha Frere-Jones?

sigh. Even the letters are fake.

Hucksters, or, non-fiction is the new fiction

2006-01-10T09:32:00.000-05:00

JT Leroy might not even exist. Never trust a child prostitute turned novelist.

James Frey probably made up a lot about his horrible life. Take that, Oprah.

History of Love by Nicole Krauss

2005-12-31T08:53:00.000-05:00

I think that the novel is an inflexible medium. As much as writers seem to yearn to find new ways to show language on a page, to create multiple perspectives, to fuck with punctuation and syntax, I hold that the novel wants to tell a story, to move from beginning to end. Otherwise, reading begins to feel something like watching a pooly cut film.*

Krauss is married to Jonathan Safran Foer, and wealthy young New York writing couples are obnoxious. Now, after reading her novel, I'm closer to bored with the whole thing. The concept is solid: man writes a novel about his true love. War separates him from both the art and the girl. The book resurfaces, published. How? Why? The problem lies in Krauss's decision to create multiple eccentric narrators, scene hogs who tell their stories in very different ways. I started to dread the shift between perspectives, feeling a little like John Cusack in Being John Malcovich ending up on the freeway. Other stylistic irritations include a series of pages containing only a single paragraph or sentence. I understand that space signifies distance, Nicole, but it's such a tired trick.

One last thing: "But" is not a sentence. Stop doing that.

One more last thing: I understand that this report smacks a little of Victorianism. That's funny considering I am plenty bored by many of the long, classic examples of the genre (except Dickens. I love Dickens. And French novels are the best. Madame Bovary and The Red and Black deserve to be read.) Anyway, what I've come to sneeringly refer to as "concept novels" take all the joy out of language becuase they try too hard. See any novel by Jeanette Winterson.

* Exceptions exist, of course, and I could roll out all the big dogs of high modernism. Joyce and Woolf make it work, and I love them for it.

Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro

2005-12-21T20:41:00.000-05:00

So, it's a clone novel.

I write this sentence as if "clone novel" represents a genre of note, the mere mention of which sets a classroom of graduate students to nodding. I have nothing against clones, Philip K. Dick, or conspiracy theorists and moral compasses the world over. I do, however, get irritated by anything I consider to be a cheap literary conceit. In this case, Ishiguro doesn't reveal that the narrator working through her adolescence is a clone. The word doesn't appear until two-thirds of the book has been read. You could imagine, I think, that you were reading Prep or something like it until vaguaries like "student," "donor" and "programme, " once explained, take on a new, horrible meaning. After that point, reading this novel harks back to how I felt when I watched episodes of V. as a child.

It's a good, well-written read, but I wish the gloves had come off earlier in the game. After all, this brave new word business is where the money is, right?

Go out and meet some new blogs.

2005-12-20T06:02:00.000-05:00

Inspired by the essay in last Sunday's New York Times Book Review which coincided with the end of the semester (free! I'm free!), I've spent some time the past few days poking around at new (for me) blogs. Yes, I'm woefully behind, I know, but I hope that someone, somewhere, knows less than me.

My new favorite is Maud Newton, who besides having a fantastic name, plays smart with the literary gossip. I've also been spending some QT with Dooce, a recovering mormon who lives in Utah, which is funnier than it sounds.

Now go out and waste some time.

The Year of Magical Thinking

2005-12-15T10:54:00.000-05:00

If you could be any writer, who would you be? I, my friends, would be Joan Didion.

In any other circumstance, I would be hard pressed to finish a memoir about grief. Here, however, Didion's combination of rock-star writing (the syntax!), research (she cites medical textbooks and poetry), and self deprecation resulted in both elation (such books exist) and depression (I will never write one).

So what if she's bony and privleged and Californian. I have vague memories of loving Play It As It Lays in college and plan to send some time with Didion over the holiday break. You should too.

Prep

2005-12-15T10:46:00.000-05:00

Isn't it fitting that an author by the name of Curtis Sittenfield would write a novel about a prep school, a novel in which the narrator's crush has the name Cross Sugarman? Sittenfield, a woman by gender, (I checked) reads like a hybrid of Donna Tartt and Helen Fielding. The narrator's experience will darken your perspective of the self-selecting world of New England boarding schools (where the class prefect always goes to Harvard), but you'll still want her to kiss the boy, despite the hard-set lines of class and popularity. In the end Prep falls well within the fish out of water/coming of age genre. But after all, who needs to go to an excluisve school to feel alienated?

The New York Times named this novel one of the ten best of the year, and I'm not sure I agree. Lee, the narrator, moved through her traumas episodically, and the plot has no real climax or conclusion. It's like watching a BBC TV program.

Pride and Prejudice (film review)

2005-11-25T09:02:00.000-05:00

Due to forces beyond our control (ie. Vermont and the fucking snow) we stayed in Boston for Thanksgiving. After a great meal, we went to see Pride and Prejudice, verson Kiera Knightly. I have the following points to make:

1. the film seems more historically acurate than other Austen adaptations. You remember Gwyneth Paltrow (and even Emma Thompson) looking, well, laundry detergent commercial fresh throughout those films. In P&P, the women are a little oily, a little less good looking, and the ball scenes are crowded and stuffy.

2. I read a review (New Yorker?) that accused the film of Brontifying Austen. God, it's true. When Darcy, open-shirted, strides across the meadow to claim Elizabeth, the film crosses Bronte and ends up in Harlequein Romance territory.

3. The end of the film drags on.

4. When carefully enunciating, Kiera Knightly looks horsey.

Still, recovering English majors will enjoy the film, and it was a nice end to a lovely Thanksgiving. This year, I'm thankful for literary adaptations.

Julia and Julia

2005-11-23T10:40:00.000-05:00

We're deep enough into the age of blogs that a few of the early, best examples have been turned into books. I have mixed feelings about this notion , because shouldn't blogs be there to exist, rather than to lead to publishing contracts? Anyway, I gave up and read Julie and Julia by Julie Powell. In the midst of a turning-thirty-with-nothing-to-show crisis (sigh.), Powell decides to cook her way through Julia Child's Mastering the Art of French Cooking. This task requires leaving squeamishness and American cuisine behind (see the duck deboning and brain cooking episodes). What makes the book a good read is the author's cheeky good humor. Not only did I admire her, I wanted to go to her house for dinner.

The Reemergence of the Pale

2005-11-23T10:37:00.000-05:00

Really, it's been a crazy fall. Not so interesting to any readers out there, but true. Lately, however, I've been making time for my public library and that has lead to a reading glut. Some of it has been pretty decent. To that end, let the book report renaissance begin.

London

2005-07-08T17:48:00.000-04:00

I hate political rants, really, but wanted to post briefly about the bombings yesterday in London. Being pale, and hyper aware of class markings, and, mostly, having lived in Britain when I was 10, I feel close ties to London. It's my city (though I wish I could claim a cooler metropolis, like Paris or New York). The inflated prices, the bland food, the sense of grey bustle and history, it all sits very nicely with my soul.

I wish Tony Blair would tell Bush to fuck off. Really, I do. We watched Love Actually the other night, and I almost applauded Hugh Grant as Prime Minister telling Bill Bob Thornton to watch his skeevy self. Such a thing in real life probably wouldn't have saved 50 or so Londoners from dying, but I can't help but feel like someone should at least try to stop this mess.

It'd be nice if it was Britain that put on the brakes.

What Malcolm Galdwell wants you to read

2005-06-27T10:24:00.000-04:00

The Harvard Bookstore askedauthors to recommend summer reading.

Note: David Sedaris chose a book he edited. See earlier post.

This is dedicated to the one I love

2005-06-22T18:42:00.000-04:00

Some of you know of (or share) my long-standing adoration of Anthony Lane, film critic for the New Yorker. When my magazine arrives (usually Wednesday), I flip to the back, ignore the last page now that it's wasted on a cartoon caption contest (can't you just see the editorial meeting that led to that brilliant idea--"Hey guys, I know how to appeal to the really rich retired readers!"), and find the film reviews. David Denby is fine, but it's Mr. Lane who makes my heart go pitter pat. I've laughed out loud while reading his reviews (see his take on Yoda-speak from May), but mostly I smirk right along with his witty, often spot-on, observations. He makes me feel smart.

Anyway, Sally Potter has a new film, titled Yes. Is your pretension o'meter not buzzing yet? Let me add that the dialogue is written in rhyming couplets. Throughout.

How does Anthony Lane handle such a thing? He writes a review, my children, in rhyming couplets. Here's a teaser:

"The latest Sally Potter film, called “Yes,
Describes a love affair. I must confess
Her other work—“Orlando,” starring Tilda
Swinton, so uptight I could have killed her,"

Oh Anthony Lane, how I love thee.

David Sedaris isn't funny

2005-06-22T11:11:00.000-04:00

Reason #1 why writers should never give interviews, and why I should never, ever read them.

I heart Craig

2005-06-21T08:07:00.000-04:00

Craigslist rocks.

We've bought a desk and a car, sold a (different) car, a computer, and a kitchen table. Every time the whole transaction took about 24 hours. The people we've bought from or sold to have been responsible and nice (and carry cash). The guy who bought our 1996 Honda Civic had met Craig at a conference, and reported that he is nerdy and normal, and has a passion for "citizen journalism." Traditional outlets for advertising (like newspapers) hate him. I think he's the best.

Oh, and a recent New Yorker article mentioned that it's easy to find someone to have sex with you on in the personals section of the List.

Here's a recent article about Craigslist and Ebay, thanks to B.:
Randall Stross in the New York Times

Your perfect baby here

2005-06-20T13:56:00.000-04:00

not a real baby
Originally uploaded by Whitrae.

For those of us who have remained childless, there looms an idea of the dream baby; you know, the child that fulfills our secret (shameful) narcissitic desires.

I have met my perfect baby. His name is Luca. He lives on...,eh, never mind.
He's the three year old son of a French man and his American wife, who have lived for the past few years in the hippy-heaven that is Montpelier Vermont. In August, they're moving to France.

Now, lots of us wish for a smart, charming, precocious bebe. Luca is bilingual. This earns high points on the pretension-'o-meter, but the best part is that he's totally fluid in his use of either English or French. A question posed in French might be answered in either language. It's his own damned choice, merci beaucoup.

Luca also owns a top hat and castanets, items that can be used separately or in conjunction as he sees fit. By the end of my evening with Luca, I not only wanted a child like him, I wanted to BE him. If only I had been raise by a French speaking family! If only I had had a top hat and castanets to be used separately or in conjunction!

I'm fully aware that my own child, should there ever be one, will wear Barbie night gowns and speak only English. Such limitations are apparent, even now, before said infant exists. Still, I think it's useful to imagine (or meet) your own ideal child, even if you know that, like your ideal life, it (or he) might be someone else's.

Set your books free

2005-06-17T08:51:00.000-04:00

Lately, several novels have come into my possession by the pass-it-on method. One person buys (or receives) a paperback, reads it, and then gives it to someone else. Since my friends often have better taste than I do, I've received some of my favorite novels of the past year that way. The Time Traveller's Wife and The Dogs of Babel are two examples.

I had earlier passed over both novels based my assumptions about their plots. Time travel doesn't do it for me (nothing that smacks of sci-fi does, really), and I stay away from anything that could possibly involved a dog's death (see post about my relationship with my own dog). I can never turn down a free book, however, so they came home with me. Both novels were surprising, and gripping, and, rare of all generalizations, well-written.

So, I've decided to start a movement. Buy a paperback (or dust one off from your bookshelves). Think of someone you know who might like it. Give it to that person. It's a great way to prove to your friends that you know them better than they know themselves.

Mr. and Mrs. Smith

2005-06-16T11:03:00.000-04:00

Love the boots
Originally uploaded by Whitrae.

We're suckers for summer blockbusters, I admit, and last week provided the season's first tingle of high budget/low moral value anticipation. It was hot in Boston (really hot), and Mr. and Mrs. Smith opened. Broadsided as the public has been with Brangelina, it follows that the film made over $50 million last weekend. Just think: two hours of searching the screen for evidence of marriage-wrecking sexual tension.

Aside from the gossip element, my expectations were low. David Denby of the New Yorker damned it with faint praise, and other reviews I've read have been of the "eh, it's summer, what'd'ya expect" variety.

Surprise #1: it's funny.
Surprise #2: it's smart(er) than you'd expect. A shootout takes place in a Home Depotish environment (He says, "I love this store" before opening fire.)

In the end, it's a silly film, with a lot riding on Jolie's pout and Pitt's trademarked look of endearing (to some) imbecility. The audience loved him, at least at the screening we attended, even when all he did was stare stupidly right out of the screen.

Most important, of course, is the sex. Jolie has enough sexual chemistry on her own to carry a love scene (or five), but the two do seem, well, involved throughout. I kind of wish they hadn't cut the film to fit a PG-13 rating. I guess all we can do is hope for a sex tape.

The New York Times hates Coldplay

2005-06-10T12:34:00.000-04:00

Isn't despising Chris Martin like killing duckings? The music is innocuous, the musicians forgettable; I mean, who cares? Wouldn't this vitriol be better directed elsewhere? How did they even muster the energy to write like that, when listening to Coldplay usually makes me nothing more than pleasantly numb?

Experience the condescension.

UPDATE: Gawker excerpts a string of articles influenced by Parale's NYT rant.

I finally listened to X and Y. It does suck.

Candy Freak: an update

2005-06-10T12:27:00.000-04:00

Peanut, my favorite
Originally uploaded by Whitrae.

Last month I blogged about Candy Freak, and I can report that a whiff of sugar has lingered since I finished the book. We hunted down the Five Star Bar, lauded by the author as the epitome of candy bars. I agree, especially when it comes to the peanut variety.

It's awesome and can be found at Whole Foods markets. Or visit the store in Burlington, VT.

Chick on dog action

2005-06-10T12:06:00.000-04:00

Molly
Originally uploaded by Whitrae.

So, I'm in love with my dog.

This, I've come to realize, is less unusual as you might think. In fact, lots of people have relationships with pets that border on, well, weird. Really. Curious about your own status as pet-lover? Here's a short quiz:

1) When you say "I love you," who is the statement most often directed to?
a) significant other
b) pet

2) Who do you greet first upon returing home from work?
a) significant other
b) pet

I could continute, but you probably get the point. When we first adopted Molly, I had a conversation with a friend who said that she knew (actually had dated) several people whose "most emotionally intimate relationship was with a dog." At the time I thought this bunk, but now, after a few glasses of wine, I'll blather for hours about the dog, her personality, and the squirrel carcass she rolled in yesterday.

Yes, yes, I know this all has something to do with a fear of adult (human on human) relationships. Fine. Still, I wonder what it is about dogs that opens us up so completely.

Want One

2005-06-05T14:26:00.000-04:00

One of the disappointing things about being an adult is the shifting scale of desire. Satisfaction is fleeting, and pursuing the next big thing will only lead to the next next big thing. I have a nice apartment. It's small, but big enough for two people and their pets. I have a car. It's oldish but still runs well, and being a Honda, would run until the end of the world if we asked that of it. Problem? I want a house. We had dinner with friends at their single family with a yard in the suburbs last night, and, my god, the space. There were empty rooms! A basement! Two bathrooms! A driveway! All of which led to a little wistfulness on our part.

At 30, real estate seems as remote as it did when I was 20, especially since we live in Boston. Our real estate lust has redirected itself into new car lust, because, damn it, we can afford a Subaru. To be honest, we could care less about a new car, but a new something would show the world that We Can Buy.

I imagine, sometime in the future, that we will have a house and a new car (or two). and kids. and a second dog. What, I wonder, will I want then? What unreachable goal will present itself as the road to contentment? Is this pursuit of happiness via high ticket items particularly American? Or is it human to want what we don't have, whatever the scale? I honestly don't know, but I'd love to have a BMW X5 before I'm 40.

Book Report #2

2005-06-02T19:57:00.000-04:00

I have a sin to confess: I couldn't bring myself to finish Atonement, Ian McEwan's last novel. I found it mean-spirited, which is not to say that everything I read fluffs and sparkles.

I picked up Saturday ready to make it all up to myself, McEwan, and all the friends I'd lied to. Saturday follows one man through one day, which is an old tune, I know. We like to think that the quotidian can be art, and writers have done their best to bring grace to the every day. Here, McEwan's hero, a neurosurgeon, lives through hours that swing from meaningful to trivial. Each moment lays on top of the next, revealing the character to the reader. He does revisit the past (especially in the figure of his ill mother), but, mostly, Henry Perowne looks to his children's lives and their futures.

Now, parts of this novel irritated me. Perowne's life functions too well, at least in the beginning of the novel. He's very wealthy, loves his wife, has two attractive and artistically gifted children. He doesn't strain against anything, as much as shift against the growing weight of age. When the crises comes, you will be as shocked as the characters are.

Everything rubs up against a large anti-war demonstration in London. Some of the most interesting moments of the book find Perowne, wealthy and satisfied, struggling with the situation in Iraq both philosophically and materially (being stuck in a traffic jam). His wavering is sincere, helpless, and all the more poignant given the reader's vantage point.

Nostalgia

2005-05-27T12:34:00.000-04:00

It's been two years since I've been to a concert. Now that I'm 30, I feel free to admit this fact: I rarely leave the house after 9pm, unless my dog has the runs. Last month, however, our Chicago friends visited, bringing with them indie-rock and a whiff of what we might be missing. Inspired, we bought tickets to the Decemberists, a clever concept band from Portland, OR.

Once we got to the show, however, I had some misgivings. Art school students make me especially squeamish, and the concert was swarming with them. I was feeling a little sensitive and sad (and not a little irritated) when up the stairs bounded a young performance art type wearing an Elliott Smith t-shirt (the one with the cover of Figure 8). Now, there are few things in this world that belong to me. Smith is one, and to see this Thing wearing that shirt (probably purchased post suicide) made me boil. I hated her for the shirt and felt even sadder at the thought that I won't get to see Smith play live again, as I did twice in the late '90s (once in New York, which is the coolest thing I've ever done).

Feeling sour, I never really let myself be seduced by the band, though they are cute and clever (but a little smug, so it seemed to me). It occured to me that I am too old to be a fan, and I understand why, for my dad, once the Beatles and the Beach Boys (late Beach Boys, that is) disappeared, everything went down hill for him.

Fee Fi Foe Fum

2005-05-21T19:47:00.000-04:00

The Chronicle of Higher Education ran an article last week about Foetry. In short, Alan Cordle, a research librarian, grew tired of the frequency with which major poetry prizes are won by the former students/lovers/houseboys of the judges. For those of us with any passing connection to the writing world this comes as no surprise, but, funnily enough, this guy really pisses off a lot of people, including Jorie Graham (who compares his accusations to a lynching. Nice.).

I love this guy (despite the awful pun. I also forgive him for the fact that he refers to writers on his most wanted list as "foets"). First, he's a librarian. Second, he's got a whole generation of poets and the graduate students who love them running scared. Maybe I should by him a ticket to MLA next year??

Sideways

2005-05-19T09:15:00.000-04:00

I finished book #1, The Mermaid Chair by Sue Monk Kidd yesterday and I have a few suggestions for authors, filmakers, and cultural gods out there.

1. Midlife crises don't always include adultery. Or do they? Someone?
2. Not everyone has a crazy and/or dead parent.
3. Vacations needn't be metaphors.
4. Oprah is important. She gets people to read, to lose weight, and to explore their feelings. That said, she is not the epicenter of all things. Please don't write with an eye to the book club audience. No matter what your agent says.

(spoilers here)

Despite my complaints I read the book quickly. I have a weakness for island and coastal settings (especially the non-tropical kind). Love stories still get to me. But this book wraps up in a way that irritated me to no end. No bang, no whimper, no nothing. Just what struck me as resignation packaged as a new beginning. If you're going to give a first person narrator a crazy religious parent, a dark family secret, and an affair with a CLERYGYMAN, then, please, don't end things realistically. Stick with the high drama.*

*See The Thorn Birds

Baby names or I am my demographic

2005-05-17T15:15:00.000-04:00

Have you ever had a moment when you knew, without a doubt, that you were unoriginal? For me, the inkling of my utter sameness came when people my age started producing children. I expected a series of Jennifers and Matthews and Sarahs. Instead, I got every damn name I've ever felt might belong to my future progeny: Ella. Isabelle. Grace. Jack. Oliver. What the hell? I mean, who wants to be Chloe M.?

The climax of my baby name angst came in the form of Luke, my favorite boy name. In the past few months, we've known or heard tell of multiple Lukes (and one Luca, but he's French and doesn't count). Now, these are the offspring of friends and friends removed and I wish them no harm, but I fear a lifetime of last initials awaits these children.

I'm overreacting? Here's Massachusetts' top five girls names in 2004:

Emily-577 babies
Emma-552 babies
Olivia-544 babies
Isabella-432 babies
Abigail-427 babies

Since childhood, I have had either a doll, a character in a story, or an imaginary horse/dog/cat with each of these names, with the exception of Abigail. The world is populated with Victorian monikered infants, all ringlets and posture. And I will be forced to name my child Susie or Nancy or Jean in an attempt to pre-empt the next name craze.

Note: As I was writing this post, I got a phone call. A librarian for whom I interned at MIT had a baby girl last week. Name? Olivia.

Library Binge

2005-05-17T08:06:00.000-04:00

To celebrate the end of the semester (two classes! two jobs! One parent's health crisis!), yesterday I went on a book spree. Luckily, Simmons College buys lots of new novels (unfortunately called the "Diversions collection," which sounds like cheap perfume). Since the undergraduates have gone away, I pretty much cleared the joint of anything interesting. Here's what I'll be reading:

Saturday, Ian McEwan
recommended by the inestimable Jenny M.,who introduced me to McEwan years ago.
Kite Runner, Khaled Hosseini
Geographically remote (i.e. outside of Britain), politically relevant novels generally turn me off, but I'll give it a try.
Lighthousekeeping, Jeanette Winterson
I used to love Winterson (especially The Passion), but I also used to love Tori Amos. I'm willing to try this one, however, because it's gotten strong reviews.
The Mermaid Chair, Sue Monk Kidd
Chosen mostly by title, cover, and the vague notion that I've heard that it's good. I'd be a publisher's dream if I actually bought books anymore.
Blink, Malcolm Gladwell
I teach parts of The Tipping Point and really like the logic behind Gladwell's analysis. Plus he has excellent hair.

I plan to report on each of these books as I plow my way through them. I start summer classes in a month, so I have about that long.

Cookie or toast: Proust's snack

2005-05-12T14:13:00.000-04:00

madeleine
Originally uploaded by Whitrae.

Slate published a great article about Proust's madeleines. It combines literary hero-worship with culinary detective work. Delicious!

Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants vs. Sweet Valley High: Teen Book Deathmatch

2005-05-09T17:52:00.000-04:00

Being in library school, I run into a lot of people with a sincere interest in children's books. Since my childhood was fueled by a voracious interest in bad supermarket novels ( The Thornbirds and Flowers in the Attic chief among them), mostly because they were long and had sex scenes, I've always thought books written for adolescents wasted my time, but I did go through a short Sweet Valley High phase. Sweet Valley High featured blond Californian twins who had a red convertible and boyfriends. Each book in the series began with a description of their honey colored hair and size six bodies (or something like that). Needless to say, this was not life as I knew it.

I picked up The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants expecting a cloud of Ya-Ya noxiciousness. Instead, I found four characters that were actually developed (though this-close to stereotypes, I admit). One is the daughter of hippies turned professionals, one has a dead mother (suicide, not cancer), one is latina, and one is Greek. Their problems are realistic enough and they think alot about sex. Best of all, only one is described as being beautiful, though the pants of the title accentuate each girl's best parts (providing confidence).

I say, hurrah for progress. Imagine what my daughter (or son) will have to read by the time I get around to having one.

Sunday New York Times

2005-05-08T16:59:00.000-04:00

Sunday's Arts section features a long piece about big-scale high school musicals. One school they profiled has spent upwards of $160,000 on a show, the price of which is covered by tickets, advertisements, and fees paid by participating students. It's good to see that nepotism isn't lost in that display of cash: notice that the lead in Into the Woods is played by the daughter of the Drama teacher.

Call me sentimental, but as a former drama geek myself I felt a pang of loss for our low-budget, old fashioned shows. Though to be clear, the opening notes of "Oklahoma!" still break me out into a cold sweat.

Anyway, it's an interesting article.

Candy Freak

2005-05-07T15:56:00.000-04:00

I just finished Candy Freak by Steven Almond. I like these lightweight history of/as books, and this one combines David-Sedaris-like family anecdotes (note the Amy Sedaris blurb on the cover), anti-corporate screeds and paeans to lost candy bars. My mom loved Abba-Zabbas, which I had forgotten, but as soon as they are mentioned in the book I remembered exactly what the wrapper looked like and how singular the texture of the peanutty the filling is. How Amero-Proustian.

Me, typically.

2005-05-06T19:25:00.000-04:00

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Originally uploaded by Whitrae.