So last summer when I was working at Emma Willard, we showed the girls Hitch, and while the movie isn't exactly one of Mr. Smith's best films, I am grateful for its soundtrack. Can you imagine these little kiddies' lives without the joys of Heavy D and the Boyz? Or "Don't You Worry About a Thing"? Granted we get John Legend's version, not Stevie Wonder's, but it's not a bad cover at all.
Note to self: you don't like crepes and you never will, no matter how highly a creperie may come recommended; just give it up and stop getting them.
I had a highly productive literary day, which is why I am posting this. Also, I watched a little TV online because I haven't been watching it on TV. It's nice. Who needs Tivo, when you have the Internet? Smita finally defeated me at Blokus, though she took 20 minutes for every move. That's how I got so much reading done. I was so irritated that I didn't even try. Not to take anything away from her victory...
Back to Sarasota tomorrow, and hopefully I'll see my other sister, Allie, who is at her roommate's grandparents' timeshare for spring break near Tampa, getting a tan because her skin is genetically different from mine and doesn't go straight from ivory to crimson like the rest of us. I think it's gotta be the Native American drop of blood because the rest of our ancestry is very much Northern European albino. I, on the other hand, look precisely like the Irish horse thieves that make up the brunt of our long and distinguished line....
Tuesday, March 6, 2007
I Have a Title!
For my book! Hoorah! And it's perfect!
But I'm not going to tell you what it is just yet. I'm just going to say that I'm very much a fan of it.
I finished Equus and The Motorcycle Diaries yesterday. Equus wasn't what I expected, and I hope that helps inform my writing. It's an interesting play. If I lived in London, I would definitely go see it, despite my apathy towards Mr. Radcliffe.
But I'm not going to tell you what it is just yet. I'm just going to say that I'm very much a fan of it.
I finished Equus and The Motorcycle Diaries yesterday. Equus wasn't what I expected, and I hope that helps inform my writing. It's an interesting play. If I lived in London, I would definitely go see it, despite my apathy towards Mr. Radcliffe.
Monday, March 5, 2007
A Few Hours Later...
I would say Factotum composer Kristin Asbjornsen is like a Nordic (Norwegian?) Fiona Apple.
I read the first third of his collection Sometimes You Feel So Alone… just now at B&N, which fascinated me. Here is a writing style similar to most high school kids who are just angry and don’t want to be hemmed in by all that sonnet garbage or anything, they just want to say what they want to say and hell with the rest. In every class there’s that bitterness, the poor have it, the middle-class, and I’m sure the rich kids, who are the most pitiful of all because they’re the ones who, if they have any sense of self, really have to prove themselves not to be undeserving bratty heirs. You can’t be a good writer without a bit of struggle, and you can’t go looking for struggle, because then it’s fake, and what the hell is wrong with you anyway? I’m not saying Bukowski writes like a high school student; he doesn’t. He just takes this form that poets reject because they have it so mentally interwoven with the really awful crap they wrote back in their pre-college days that the form becomes tainted. What he does is remove the self-consciousness that plagues most poets, teenagers or otherwise, and writes instead a semi-autobiographical poetry (not confessional, which is so often bullshit) of absolute candor – and its mostly commentary not emotional tear-mongering… which is good. The one problem I have (and I guess I do always have some problem or other) is the disjointed quality of his poem, that he doesn’t mind repeating himself or having a bit of unnecessary sprawl. Which is very L.A., but still. I suppose that despite the prolific amount of writing produced, a lack of craftsmanship is what makes him so popular, so “real.” It’s funny that hard living makes for such good reading (or writing, for that matter). I used to be defensive about this because I’m so clean, I squeak if you rub me the right way, but I wonder now if it’s not that modern writers exploit themselves for an “edge,” so much as people living on the edge often have no way of keeping themselves from falling off without the steady grip of a pen in one hand and a notebook in the other.
So that’s interesting.
I bought a remaindered Baudolino because I’ve never read any Eco, and I felt I should. I bought Peter Carey's My Life as a Fake for the exact same reason. I also feel I should read Malamud, not to mention a sweeping array of others. And I will. Soon. How is one supposed to manage a real job and still read the books necessary to be a complete person? I ask you…
I read the first third of his collection Sometimes You Feel So Alone… just now at B&N, which fascinated me. Here is a writing style similar to most high school kids who are just angry and don’t want to be hemmed in by all that sonnet garbage or anything, they just want to say what they want to say and hell with the rest. In every class there’s that bitterness, the poor have it, the middle-class, and I’m sure the rich kids, who are the most pitiful of all because they’re the ones who, if they have any sense of self, really have to prove themselves not to be undeserving bratty heirs. You can’t be a good writer without a bit of struggle, and you can’t go looking for struggle, because then it’s fake, and what the hell is wrong with you anyway? I’m not saying Bukowski writes like a high school student; he doesn’t. He just takes this form that poets reject because they have it so mentally interwoven with the really awful crap they wrote back in their pre-college days that the form becomes tainted. What he does is remove the self-consciousness that plagues most poets, teenagers or otherwise, and writes instead a semi-autobiographical poetry (not confessional, which is so often bullshit) of absolute candor – and its mostly commentary not emotional tear-mongering… which is good. The one problem I have (and I guess I do always have some problem or other) is the disjointed quality of his poem, that he doesn’t mind repeating himself or having a bit of unnecessary sprawl. Which is very L.A., but still. I suppose that despite the prolific amount of writing produced, a lack of craftsmanship is what makes him so popular, so “real.” It’s funny that hard living makes for such good reading (or writing, for that matter). I used to be defensive about this because I’m so clean, I squeak if you rub me the right way, but I wonder now if it’s not that modern writers exploit themselves for an “edge,” so much as people living on the edge often have no way of keeping themselves from falling off without the steady grip of a pen in one hand and a notebook in the other.
So that’s interesting.
I bought a remaindered Baudolino because I’ve never read any Eco, and I felt I should. I bought Peter Carey's My Life as a Fake for the exact same reason. I also feel I should read Malamud, not to mention a sweeping array of others. And I will. Soon. How is one supposed to manage a real job and still read the books necessary to be a complete person? I ask you…
Sunday, March 4, 2007
Games & Other Forms of Torture
Smita, tutor to the equestrian stars, and I have been playing rounds and rounds of Blokus. Despite my intense hatred for the game, which is a spatial/visual tile game, I am undefeated. Then we played "Word Sweep!," a dictionary game, which I felt I should be good at, but lost 2/3 of the time. I think the time element worked to my disadvantage. Also, I didn't know such words as "grok," "grommit," "keno," "retrench," and "kenosis," among other words (actually, none of these were mine). Smita can't pronounce Blokus, and yet, she kicked my ass at the game involving words.
Anyhow, I hate playing games. I have a terrible competitive streak, particularly with word games and games that last a long time. I feel if I have to put in alot of time or I feel the game is intellectual, that I should win, or at least not have the worst score. So I'm a pain in the ass. It's totally genetic, and it's also a problem I have encountered in MANY Yalies.
What else?
I didn't bring sneakers (WHAT?!!) and have developed painful blisters from all the walking in flip-flops I've been doing. Smita thinks I'm a wuss because she cultivates blisters like violets. We walked to Palm Beach (you have to go over a bridge) to sit on the beach on the Eastern side, facing the full-on Atlantic (as opposed to the Intercoastal Waterway) and watched the lunar eclipse. We missed most of it, but it was quite nice sitting in the sand.
On the way back, a mysterious creature ran across our path. It looked like a weasel the size of a large dog. Or a coyote with bobcat characterstics. We can't come up with anything, so I've been guessing far-fetched things like an escaped dingoose (dingo-mongoose hybrid) created by some mad too-rich Australian scientist. Smita is appalled by the idea, probably because she is old and lacks imagination. Then again, she thinks it is probably a R.O.U.S., which is from The Princess Bride, so she is clearly delusional and should not be trusted.
Thus far, The Motorcycle Diaries isn't as moving or detailed as the film, though the young Che is just as handsome (though in a different way) as Gael Garcia Bernal.
Right-o, I think you've had enough.
Anyhow, I hate playing games. I have a terrible competitive streak, particularly with word games and games that last a long time. I feel if I have to put in alot of time or I feel the game is intellectual, that I should win, or at least not have the worst score. So I'm a pain in the ass. It's totally genetic, and it's also a problem I have encountered in MANY Yalies.
What else?
I didn't bring sneakers (WHAT?!!) and have developed painful blisters from all the walking in flip-flops I've been doing. Smita thinks I'm a wuss because she cultivates blisters like violets. We walked to Palm Beach (you have to go over a bridge) to sit on the beach on the Eastern side, facing the full-on Atlantic (as opposed to the Intercoastal Waterway) and watched the lunar eclipse. We missed most of it, but it was quite nice sitting in the sand.
On the way back, a mysterious creature ran across our path. It looked like a weasel the size of a large dog. Or a coyote with bobcat characterstics. We can't come up with anything, so I've been guessing far-fetched things like an escaped dingoose (dingo-mongoose hybrid) created by some mad too-rich Australian scientist. Smita is appalled by the idea, probably because she is old and lacks imagination. Then again, she thinks it is probably a R.O.U.S., which is from The Princess Bride, so she is clearly delusional and should not be trusted.
Thus far, The Motorcycle Diaries isn't as moving or detailed as the film, though the young Che is just as handsome (though in a different way) as Gael Garcia Bernal.
Right-o, I think you've had enough.
Saturday, March 3, 2007
West Palm Beach and "This Week in Culture"
What up, tigers?
My friend, Miriam, sent me this week's "Best Headline Ever," courtesy of the Washington Post, "Swiss Accidentally Invade Lichtenstein." You know, after all these years of neutrality, you thought they would have aimed a little higher with their first invasion. Like, Luxembourg even. Or my grandmother's house.
If you've never been to West Palm Beach, you should go. I got here last night, driving down Route 70 (I highly DON'T recommend that) from Sarasota to St. Lucie, Route 1 to Jensen Beach (cute little town) where I met up with S, and then down the Florida Turnpike to downtown West Palm. She lives right next to Cityplace, which is the reason all these high-rent condo highrises are being constructed. Cityplace is like a Disney/Rodeo Drive esplanade of shops, restaurants, a gelatery, a movie theater, a music hall, and a lighted outdoor piazza where live music plays on weekend evenings (possibly more often). The first time in weeks I've been around people my own age, eating awesome mashed potatoes for the first time at The Cheesecake Factory (who knew it had real food?), and getting gelato at Bacio (that's kiss in Italian).
Saw Zodiac last night at Muvico (the aforementioned movie theater). Not shockingly, it's more akin to Se7en than Fight Club. Fincher made an excellent film, extremely watchable, violent, well-acted (you may not know Anthony Edwards is in it, because he didn't get top billing, but he's got a big part, and he's very good), well-shot, everything is pretty much perfect, particularly Mark Ruffalo's softened voice and Robert Downey Jr.'s hair... but it's not something I'd watch again. Despite the violence of Fight Club, there was a cool, funny edge to it that you wanted to see again and again. A single viewing didn't feel complete. The case-reality of Zodiac and its presentation worked both for it (it's a movie set in a very specific time) and against it (if you're not from California, I imagine it doesn't resonate as much). This is an issue I have with all films that are true stories. They don't have re-watch value with me.
Same goes with Flags of our Fathers. Its extreme focus on these three guys and the infamous Flag of Iwo Jimo photo is both necessary to what Eastwood and the writers wanted to (and could do, considering this is based on the book of the same name) and ultimately to its detriment. There is no added fiction, no subtlety, no nuance. It is an account, and thus, a film worth watching once -- but only once.
I finished Perfume as well. I'm not sure how to critique it because I knew the ending beforehand, which may have caused me to be anxious for it to move along. However, even if I hadn't known how it would end, I would still have felt the pain of padding in the slim 250-page novel. The seven years in a cave may have resonated for others, but for me it just felt like Suskind was afraid to get on with things. Sometimes I think the novel would have been better as a long short story or novella. Then again, this one may be all on me. I still recommend the book, though. When it's good, it's very very good.
My friend, Miriam, sent me this week's "Best Headline Ever," courtesy of the Washington Post, "Swiss Accidentally Invade Lichtenstein." You know, after all these years of neutrality, you thought they would have aimed a little higher with their first invasion. Like, Luxembourg even. Or my grandmother's house.
If you've never been to West Palm Beach, you should go. I got here last night, driving down Route 70 (I highly DON'T recommend that) from Sarasota to St. Lucie, Route 1 to Jensen Beach (cute little town) where I met up with S, and then down the Florida Turnpike to downtown West Palm. She lives right next to Cityplace, which is the reason all these high-rent condo highrises are being constructed. Cityplace is like a Disney/Rodeo Drive esplanade of shops, restaurants, a gelatery, a movie theater, a music hall, and a lighted outdoor piazza where live music plays on weekend evenings (possibly more often). The first time in weeks I've been around people my own age, eating awesome mashed potatoes for the first time at The Cheesecake Factory (who knew it had real food?), and getting gelato at Bacio (that's kiss in Italian).
Saw Zodiac last night at Muvico (the aforementioned movie theater). Not shockingly, it's more akin to Se7en than Fight Club. Fincher made an excellent film, extremely watchable, violent, well-acted (you may not know Anthony Edwards is in it, because he didn't get top billing, but he's got a big part, and he's very good), well-shot, everything is pretty much perfect, particularly Mark Ruffalo's softened voice and Robert Downey Jr.'s hair... but it's not something I'd watch again. Despite the violence of Fight Club, there was a cool, funny edge to it that you wanted to see again and again. A single viewing didn't feel complete. The case-reality of Zodiac and its presentation worked both for it (it's a movie set in a very specific time) and against it (if you're not from California, I imagine it doesn't resonate as much). This is an issue I have with all films that are true stories. They don't have re-watch value with me.
Same goes with Flags of our Fathers. Its extreme focus on these three guys and the infamous Flag of Iwo Jimo photo is both necessary to what Eastwood and the writers wanted to (and could do, considering this is based on the book of the same name) and ultimately to its detriment. There is no added fiction, no subtlety, no nuance. It is an account, and thus, a film worth watching once -- but only once.
I finished Perfume as well. I'm not sure how to critique it because I knew the ending beforehand, which may have caused me to be anxious for it to move along. However, even if I hadn't known how it would end, I would still have felt the pain of padding in the slim 250-page novel. The seven years in a cave may have resonated for others, but for me it just felt like Suskind was afraid to get on with things. Sometimes I think the novel would have been better as a long short story or novella. Then again, this one may be all on me. I still recommend the book, though. When it's good, it's very very good.
Thursday, March 1, 2007
regarding snails and my life of crime
According to a livescience.com article, British scientists discovered that in order to conserve valuable energy, snails sometimes follow the existing mucus trails laid down by other snails to get around, meaning they only have to create a fraction of the mucus needed to make a new trail.
This is a snail I followed around on Inishmor (I think that's the right Inish) one day. You may notice a lack of mucus behind it. Well, I have a confession to make. The amount of mucus my nose and throat occasionally produces is not enough for me to slide around on. So I stole this snail's mucus. I'm not proud of that, but now that I know other snails do it all the time, I feel much better.
The next thing I'm going to steal? Jack Nicholson's sunglasses.
Happy March
Tomorrow's my half-birthday. I'm sure I'll be too depressed to write anything.
Actually, I'm going to West Palm Beach this weekend to visit Smita. Hoorah!
Actually, I'm going to West Palm Beach this weekend to visit Smita. Hoorah!
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