Doin' it for the Books

Oh look, fan art.

I never know what to tell people when, after hearing I work at the CDC, they gush: "Oh my gosh, I am sooo jealous! You guys do such great wooork!" Usually it's a pathetic half-smile and a "yeah..." Working at the CDC WAS great. But it's been the 1770s every day for the past three years--the same patterns, the same instructions, the same petty dramas, pathetic inside jokes...

So what keeps me going? Well, the paycheck, the awesome benefits, and the fact that I can listen to my iPod all day long. I have a subscription to audible.com, and I've been downloading the Aubrey/Maturin books one per month. It takes about two and a half days to listen to each book, and I usually listen to them several times (eighteenth century dialogue + wicked awesome literary talents make them a joy to listen to) before it's time to listen to the next one. Also, I check out audio books from the library. So, although I lament the lack of time I have to crack an actual paper book, I'm getting my literary fix quite nicely.

Books, once again, come to my rescue.


Oh, remember the bear that I dressed for the Salvation Army Christmas bear drive? One of the women who is on the Army's board called me up last night and wants me to make one for her son...who's graduating from the Fife and Drum Corps this July. Huzzay!

which it will be READY when its READY

Friends, I am in the throes--the throes, I tell you--of a serious Patrick O'Brian infatuation. The last month or so I have been doing nothing but reading, sleeping, thinking and dreaming Aubrey/Maturin. And now, thanks to the book "Lobscouse & Spotted Dog" I will soon be eating and drinking it as well. I am so obsessed with these books I've even picked up steward Killick's habit of inserting the word "which" at the beginning of sentences. One of my favourite things about these books are the loving descriptions of the food. But there are no receipts, a glaring omission that "Lobscouse" rectifies.

I checked the book out from the library today just to get a flavor of it (flavor, you twig? har!)--far easier to follow than my Wmsbrg Cookery, with its oven settings and measurements in modern cups and tablespoons--but with a lot of the original nineteenth century sources cited. Wistful thinking about cooking on a spit over an open hearth became wistful no more when I looked up and saw our brick fireplace--with a lovely large hearth just begging to be roasted upon. And I can think of no better delicacy to bring home to this year's Christmas feast than a Christmas pudding...although if I was to do it absolutely correctly, I should start it now and let it hang unmolested in the corner for the next three months. And then light it on fire. Wheee.

I don't know why all of a sudden I'm so obsessed with historical cooking (why I'm obsessed with Aubrey/Maturin is perfectly obvious) except I think it's something to do with the hearty, historical way receipts are put together. Lard, flour, eggs, suet, all combining to create something glorious. The tastes aren't as rich or as subtle, but they're easier to appreciate. You put rosewater in custard and by God, it tastes as rosy as a spring morning. I'm looking forward to mastering pudding...not only because as an Anglophile it's a duty, but because apparently it's Patrick O'Brian's favourite dessert.

One Way or another

Yesterday, Kismet safely ensconced at playcare, I found myself with a bonus hour at the end of the working day. I went to the library. I cannot remember the last time I was there. Wandering the stacks, letting one interest leading to another, kneeling on the ground in front of bookshelves pulling out tomes and flipping through them. The smell of dust and ink. The Williamsburg Regional Library is quite awesome for a small-town library, full of books generously donated by enthusiastic readers. I was there, ostensibly, to garner some research material that will assist me in putting together an "impression" of an eighteenth-century woman of the lower-middling sort. There's a lot to learn, apart from the clothes. History of my people, history of the area, just what sort of things would I know? Sewing, yes, cooking, yes, folk remedies, yes, but can I read? Do I comprehend the politics and the policies that are irreversibly pulling the Commonwealth away from the homeland? Items on the to-do list include building a Diderot bedgown and a cap, but they also include learning how to bake Sally Lunn bread over an open fire (sparked with flint and steel, of course) and learning some useful knots.

So in addition to several books about the history of Virginia and the ways that her early settlers entertained themselves, I also got a few novels and a couple books-on-CD which are a godsend at work. I never thought that I'd get bored of my musicals, but even I can only stand so many repetitions of "The Last Five Years." Right now I'm "reading" The Resurrectionist, which is great. The reader is having a little trouble differentiating the various characters, but the story--well, stories, really--is utterly engrossing. And so work went by quickly today. A good thing, since the temperature got into the eighties, and all I wanted to do was head outside and frolic.

This week hasn't been easy, however. Monday we found out that our part-time employee was going to be let go. Her last day was on Wednesday, so we had a little potluck party for her. It was awkward, but I think she appreciated it. Our boss' boss was torn up over having to eliminate a position when she's been fighting so hard to keep us all. We also found out on Monday that another of our employees was involved in a serious car accident, requiring three surgeries on her ankle, knee, hip and spleen, variously. She's out of the ICU, but there hasn't been any discussion about when she'll be going home. So this week has been kind of tense.

I really like working for CW. The company is a fantastic company to work for. Despite recent cutbacks, I still believe they care about their employees, and they encourage a family atmosphere to permeate both the historic area and we behind the scenes. But lately, more and more, I've been coming to accept that I can't stay here. Not in my current capacity. Mostly it has to do with the salary I'm drawing: if I ever want to have a prayer of owning my own home or doing more traveling, I need to make more money. Some of it has to do with the drama of the people I work with. I would love to work in another area of CW, but the mighty hiring freeze continues. Projects I've been presenting to people and ideas I've been nursing have been shot down one after another with the now all too familiar phrase "There's no money." Fair enough. The "economic crisis" (o overused phrase!) will lessen, however, and I will need to be moving on. I don't know what will happen...but something needs to give.

words, words, words

Somehow, Neal Stephenson looks exactly like and yet nothing to what I imagined he looked like. If you've read any of his books, schlepp on over to The Onion and read the interview with him. If you haven't--go out and read Snow Crash RIGHT NOW. I warn you though, it is highly addictive, hence the nickname "crack book."

I'm so excited about the prospect of a new Stephenson book. Even though the Baroque Cycle felt like reading technical manuals in Japanese sometimes, I love his books. Shamefully, part of the reasons I like his books so much is because they are huge. This new on, Anathem, is apparently 997 pages long. DROOL. I love long books--the bigger the better. And if they're huge books in a series? I am there. (Harry Potter, anyone?) Part of the reason I picked up Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell in the first place was because Cosmo cautioned against reading it in bed...because if you fell asleep and dropped it on your head, you'd probably suffer a concussion. AWESOME. I love big fat books. They make me feel smart when I carry them around--more than that, I love meeting characters and learning about them, and following their adventures through several hundred pages. All my favourite books are big and fat--Gone with the Wind, the aforementioned JS & Mr. N, one of my Nelson biographies (I have three, okay?)--or involved in series, like the Aubrey/Maturin series. (which I would be reading right now, except I owe the library so much money it would probably be cheaper to buy the rights to the books and print my own copies. Sigh.)

All this is to say I love books. I only have about a third of my library here, and when I'm lonesome, I'll sit in front of my bookshelf and reminisce with them about the ones who are still waiting for us in Green Bay. My fondest wish is to someday have furniture made out of books--well, shelves to hold my books, since I'd never commit tomecide just to have some place to sit. Every now and then I pile all my books up on the floor of my room and roll around in them, barking happily. Sigh. I love books.

Nothing else to report. Just over here hearting books. Happy sigh.

Save Bitch!

I know most of you think I read Bitch just for the thrill of carrying around a magazine called "Bitch" but they really are a great, intellectual response to the pop-consumer-culture that surrounds us everyday. Great My Little Pony debates aside. And they're struggling. I have less than no money, but if you're able, I would really encourage you to donate to keep this brilliant rag alive. Think of it as an easy way to get my birthday pressie out of the way.

More updates later...my plug shipped from Hong Kong today, so hopefully I'll be back on my own machine soon.

I'm still here...

...but I'm exhausted.

he's....EVERYWHERE

So much for Moby Dick being a Nelson-free read...

"...the wall which formed [the pulpit's] back was adorned with a large painting representing a gallant ship beating against a terrible storm off a lee coast of black rocks and snowy breakers. But high above the flying scud and dark-rolling clouds, there floated a little isle of sunlight, from which beamed forth an angel's face; and this bright face shed a distinct spot of radiance upon the ship's tossed deck, something like that silver plate now inserted into the Victory's plank where Nelson fell."

Damnit. He's everywhere.

There's no way that Melville could have known about the silver plate unless he had visited the Victory at some point, which gives me the warm fuzzies. Not only have I stood upon the deck where Nelson fell, I have also stood upon the deck where Melville stood gazing down upon the spot where Nelson fell. Hee.

Things I Know About Moby Dick

I've never read Moby Dick, but it's such a cultural bedrock that I'm familiar with the basic facts. The names of some of the characters--Captain Ahab, Queequeg, "call me Ishmael" and Starbuck--not the coffee. I know it's about one man's mad obsession with the white whale. The ship is called the Pequod. It takes place in the 1840s. And it wasn't received very well during Melville's lifetime, although many people consider it his best work.

And it's my dad's favourite book.

Dad's not what you might call a "literary person." He reads, but mostly stuff related to his beloved Packers--once he asked me how I managed to keep so many musical librettos straight in my head. "The same way you keep all those Packer stats straight, dad." Smiles of comprehension. So I was very surprised, when I asked him what his favourite book was, to hear Moby Dick. He told me that he read it in high school and it had stuck with him. I was only in high school then myself, and I didn't especially feel up to reading Melville (especially not after reading Billy Budd, thankyouverymuch Mrs. Krchmar...) but it was always on my list of books to read.

So now that I'm into the "research" phase of Bell Hollee, I've decided to read it. I need to branch out into other nautical literature that doesn't involve the British navy. I'm about ten pages into it, and I like it already. It felt strange to see those "familiar" words--"Call me Ishmael"--leading into the body of a story for a change. I like it because Ishmael gets depressed and he goes to sea--exactly what I like to do when I get down. Although, I'm not sure I'd be up for whale-hunting, but I certainly like to drown my sorrows in the nearest body of water. He calls his sadness "hypo" which is short for hypochondriasas, the medical term for depression in the mid-nineteenth century, which is also, incidentally, what Lincoln described his melancholy as.

And already I'm getting that familiar thrill as I read (and occasionally fail to recognise) the nautical words, coming aboard a ship via lines of prose is as familiar to me as a gangway is to Ishmael. I can't wait to see what happens, even though thanks to the permeation of the book I already know how it ends, but I'm looking forward to signing on for the ride.

Crack Book: Noun

While still in Point, some of my friends and I came up with the term "crack book" to describe a book that was literally too good to put down. You know--the book that is so good, you go to bed an hour early just so you can lie there reading it? The first crack book was Snow Crash by Neal Stephenson, and since then, few others have entered the hallowed pantheon. Crack, of course, it the illegal but highly addictive substance, which, when applied to literature, suggests a certain metaphor. For example: if Snow Crash is addicting like crack, then perhaps other books are other edible substances. Romance novels are cookie books--so bad for you, but hard to resist and easy to consume in large quantities. Gone With the Wind could be like foi gras--delicious, but think too long about where it came from and you start getting uncomfortable. Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell, on the other hand, is like a seven-course banquet with all your favourite foods, one that you could eat over and over (and over) again. I'm using my favourite books as examples, but I'm sure you could come up with some of your own.

I was musing on this, because I had a conversation the other night with a friend where I described Patrick O'Brian's books as "--crack books, but, pure, unadulterated crack, like--crack but better than crack" and she helpfully suggested "ah, no black tar heroin for you, this is pure china white," causing me to shout "yes!" (Only after we hung up did I start to wonder how she knew the difference between black tar heroin and china white, but never mind)

Patrick O'Brian is the author behind the eighteen Jack Aubrey/Stephen Maturin novels. They are set aboard the British navy during the time of Napoleon and they are so wonderful, so evocative, so funny and heart-wrenching that I have been forced to ration myself, or else you, dear readers, would find me in my apartment, Trainspotting-like, jabbering on about spars, Sophies and Boccherini. As soon as I finished HMS Surprise on the train back to Williamsburg, I immediately broke out into a sweat, jonesing for my next fix. Then again, that could have been the cold. Nevertheless! These books are Pure. Bliss. In. Novel. Format. Page after page of delectable naval jargon, broken up only by a description of Stephen Maturin diving naked into the Indian Ocean or Jack Aubrey queuing his hair. I wish that I could rub the pages on my eyeballs and absorb them directly into my bloodstream.

Like I said: china white.

I am rationing partly because Mr. O'Brian is sadly no longer of this world and so there are a finite number of Aubrey/Maturin novels, and there is nothing like encountering a good read for the first time. I've been holding my rapaciousness at bay by reading other Napoleonic navy books. Apparently, this is a giant sub-genre I was completely unaware of. And so far I have yet to encounter anything that satisfies as well as Mr. O'Brian's books, but, like the sport of sailing itself, there is no such thing as a bad work of naval fiction. CS Forrester's Horatio Hornblower series goes quickly, very rigidly, very by the book, no pun intended. Dudley Pope's Nicholas Ramage series, on the other hand, is not as well written, but the story lines are certainly evocative. According to these authors, there were no actual people involved in the major naval battles, just lots and lots of fictional characters. I just picked up Mr. Pope's first book and was thrilled--nay, ecstatic to see lists and lists of other Napoleonic naval titles on the inside front cover, waiting for me to snort them up my nostrils.

So, if anyone is wondering what to get me for an apartment-warming present in July, the answer is: book store gift certificates.

Or the number of a really good twelve-step program. Either way.

Everyone Needs to Read This Book

People I know have professed amazement when they learn that I can sit down and read for three, four hours at a time--occasionally switching books like I'm channel surfing. This doesn't happen too often, but when the stars are aligned just right (or I have no TV) I get through books at a pretty regular clip.

And right now I'm reading the most fascinating book I've picked up in a long time. I first heard about it on The Daily Show over a year ago, and it's been in my mind ever since then. "Power, Faith and Fantasy: America in the Middle East, 1776 to Present" by Michael B. Oren is just the kind of history book I like. It starts out in the past and works its way into present day, explaining events in easy to understand language that doesn't talk down too much. It assumes a basic knowledge of American history, but it also assumes that the reader is up to having their assumptions about our relations with the Middle East changed.

One thing I was really surprised to learn is how friendly the US has been with the Middle East, right up until we weren't. That shift happened as our need for oil started to outweigh our propensity for not imperialising in the Middle East. But before that, countries in that part of the world constantly looked to us for help as the European powers attempted to further their agendas and carve up the Ottoman Empire. I dimly recalling learning something about "the sick man of Europe" back in History 107, but learning how America's involvement in that area mostly extended to missionary schools and hospitals was astonishing. How did our attitudes change, that instead of sending doctors we sent soldiers? I'm only up to about 1945, so the question of Israel/Palestine is looming large, and I'm starting to recognise more names and places. And I'm starting to understand the traditional social attitudes towards that part of the world.

Mr. Oren also posited an interesting theory, saying that the Constituion was written because America needed a strong central government so it could build a navy to ward of Barbary pirates. I don't know how much of that I believe, but still: pirates. Everyone has this image of Thomas Jefferson wandering around, being all interested in republican ideals, but I never realised he was determined to eliminate the scourge of pirates from the Mediterranean as well. Cool.

Working hard

Today's nautical word is "futtock" as in "futtock shrouds" which are much better explained by the intelligent seafaring updaters of Wikipedia.

Futtock is a great word...apart from sounding slightly naughty, it's not exactly an every day word, so it's great for impressing the ladies at parties.

And by impressing I mean showing off, not making them be sailors in the British navy.

Ha.

I've been listening to "The Golden Ocean" by Patrick O'Brian, which is his first book. It's not an Aubrey/Maturin novel and is about an actual voyage that took place in 1740. So in addition to being helplessly lost with the nautical dialogue and various intricacies, I now have no idea if anything is well-done, since there are no references to "Nelson would have approved." It's still an incredibly good story though. I'm only worried I'm going to run through all of O'Brians books in a matter of weeks and then be without suitable reading material for the rest of my life. Dear, dear, I shall have to pace myself...

My good friend Martin

A few years ago I started working on a play that was about a white sociologist professor and her black photographer boyfriend. In one of the scenes, the professor came home after spending all day in the office, only to learn from her boyfriend that it was Martin Luther King Jr. Day. Embarassed, she said, "Well, do you want to go out for dinner? Or--get something for the grill? Or--I don't know--what does one do on Martin Luther King Jr. Day?"

I couldn't tell if that scene was funny or not, I hoped that audiences would recognise that MLK Day is a weird holiday and laugh along gently. I only know it's MLK Day on Monday (although today is King's birfsday) because there was a sign on my bank saying it would be closed. So apparently it's a national holiday. But unlike President's Day, there are no sales, unlike Memorial Day, there are no home-repair projects and barbequeing. What does one do on MLK Day? I've never observed it, never had a special meal or done anything particularly memorable, and that's when I realised I don't really know much about MLK other than he was involved in the civil rights movement and he was shot.

So Monday, at the library, I checked out a biography of Dr. King. I was a little trepidatious, because biographies tend to be dry, but this author has completely balanced a good account of King's life with a genuine admiration for the man, sprinkled with King's speeches and horrifying accounts of living in the sixties. Ironically, I was reading it on the train, sitting next to a black man who was sprawled out next to me, invading my personal space. Instead of being annoyed, as I usually am (there would be so much more room on the L if people would just SIT WITH THEIR KNEES TOGETHER) I was marveling to myself about how if this man had invaded my personal space this badly fifty years ago he might have been thrown from the moving train. So the juxtaposition of history and now was very immediate. I don't know if I can say "oh, how attitudes have changed!" but the steps we've taken are certainly in the right direction. Institutionalised racism is now unacceptable, and it is the personal racism we have to work on, as opposed to fifty years ago, where individuals might be kind, but institutionally, racism was accepted.

Still working on it though.

As for me, after I finish this book, I think it's time to go back and read American history from the other perspective. Perspectives.

resolution: broken

So my New Year's Resolution to be nicer to people was officially broken at about 12:08 tonight when I was on the train and a lad of about twenty-one got on carrying a copy of "War and Peace" --complete with Post-Its sticking out, should he care to go back and ruminate over certain passages--and I had to literally stuff my mitten into my mouth to stop myself from laughing out loud. Seriously? "War and Peace?" I mean--you're on the train, mate, who are you trying to impress? Or is this for protection, seeing as how it's the big red hardcover? *snort* I shouldn't laugh, since the most serious book I've tackled lately was the "Sweeney Todd" insert that came with my CD, but...seriously? Come on...

Meanwhile: here's a short story I wrote this afternoon. Is very short. Enjoy.

Mary’s New Bedroom
By: Nicole M. Lemery

Mary had wanted to cover her husband’s eyes as she led him up the stairs, but he towered over her, making the effort impossible. She had to settle for walking behind him, guiding him with his eyes closed, trusting that he wouldn’t peek between his dark lashes. Their sons gamboled on the stairs, giggling, rustling her skirts and poking one another, falling into each other like a litter of puppies. Mary opened the door and carefully levered her husband—who had obediently put his hands over his face—into position, so that he would get the full effect as soon as he opened his eyes.
“Now!” she exclaimed. “Surprise!”
The boys jumped on their parent’s bed as their lanky father removed his hands and opened his eyes. Surprise moved quickly across his face, to be replaced by an emotion that was harder to read. Astonishment? Incredulity? Dislike? Mary fingered a tasseled curtain nervously. “What do you think?” she said.
“Well, I…I don’t know. Do you like it?”
“It’s very fashionable,” Mary patted the blue wallpaper. “These are the latest colors, in from New York. You won’t see colors this bright anywhere west of Ohio. Oh! You know I can’t resist whenever I spot something pretty.” Mary was becoming nervous. “I thought I might do a new coverlet for our bed, which led to a discussion on curtains, and then I commented on how faded our wallpaper has become and, oh-- And Mr. Decateur assures me that the curtains are the very latest fashion. He showed me a catalogue from New York.”
“Ah yes, well, if this is how they do things in New York…”
Mary felt a quick upswing in emotion. Embarrassment vied with anger until she spotted the tiniest twinkle in her husband’s eye. The boys spotted it a second later, and roared with laugher.
“We told her you’d be surprised!” they shouted. “We helped pick out the carpet!”
In response, their father merely shook their head and crossed the new red and green floor covering. It certainly was bright, clashing gloriously with the blue and gold wallcovering. He tossed his hat onto the small wooden desk in the corner and gently rested a hand on it. “I am glad to see you did not redecorate everything.” He paused. “And I do like your new dress.”
Kitty poked her head in the doorway.
“I’m sorry to interrupt ma’am, but Mr. Drummond is here. He wants to speak with Mr. Lincoln.”
Mary sighed. “Of course. You’re not home five minutes, and already you’re being visited.” She turned slightly. “Get off that bed! With those filthy shoes—run outside and play. This instant!”
The boys vanished down the stairs, their shouts mingling with Kitty’s promises to do each of them harm if they did not leave her apron strings be. Mary found herself alone with her husband.
“And you, just in from riding circuit. Not home five minutes—I’m sure you want tea.”
“Now Mary,” Mr. Lincoln took his wife’s hand. “I’m sure there will be plenty of time to enjoy our new bedroom later.” And he winked, turning to walk out the door.
Alone, Mary blushed, pink as her new dress.

this is MY SHIP!

Firstly, alittlepregnant.com has a hysterical take on scary radiator noises. I agree-they are terrifying (second only to The Dark)-the ones in my apartment sound like the tormented souls of the damned.


Speaking of the damned. I've been reading Mutiny on the Bounty which fulfills several of my reading requirements:

1. It involves a ship
2. Takes places circa 1790-1805
3. Men in breeches
4. Is small enough to fit in my purse
5. Battered enough that I don't feel bad about shoving it into my purse

I found this book at the thrift store. I felt kind of ripped off because this copy was originally thirty-five cents, but the thrift store charges fifty cents for paperbacks, but it's all for a good cause, so I decided to suck it up and fork over the extra fifteen cents. I was afraid that I wouldn't like this book because I've bought books that have fufilled the above criteria only to plow to a halt halfway through them because of the dense language but Mutiny on the Bounty is RIVETING. I mean--it's just an amazing story. AND IT'S TRUE! I had no idea that the story was based on actual events. It's just amazing the sheer forces of will that were involved in these events. Of course, being a book about the Navy, there's a lot of talk about duty and honor and even though modern interpretations tend to sympathise with the mutineers, it's obvious that the narrator still feels a great deal of loyalty to Captain Bligh, and we're supposed to be horrified that anyone would disobey orders or break ranks like this.

The authors manage to create these incredibly suspenseful story ("WILL the mutineers be HUNG?!") even though the narrator mentions the battles he's been involved in--Camperdown, Copenhagen and Trafalgar--and all these take place after 1792, so it's pretty obvious he survived--but even so, I nearly missed my stop on the train because I was dying to see what happens next. Roger Byam is the name of the narrator, and he's based on a real-life figure, Peter Haywood, who, after being acquitted of mutiny, went on to become a captain in the navy. (He also served on HMS Bellerophon, which is the ship Napoleon surrendered on, fyi.)

I was quite pleased with myself for not having to look up the definition of "fothering" while I was reading, and gave a little squirm of recognition when the president of the court martial was named as Lord Hood. Slowly, the bits of British naval history fall togther. (Another reason we're supposed to sympathise with Captain Bligh--Nelson spoke highly of him after Copenhagen, and if Nelson likes someone...I still get a kick out of how ANY naval occurence in this time period must have one Nelson reference. It's so cute.)

I definitely recommend this book to everyone. It's just so damn fascinating.

70% Better

I'm feeling better today...last night after a 1776 production meeting I came home, took a scalding hot shower, put on flannels and socks and curled up into the fetal position and slept like the dead for twelve hours. I think in addition to being overworked and underfed, I'm severely dehydrated, because I drank three liters of water before going to bed--and I didn't get up once during the night to use the bathroom. I did have to reschedule a meeting at (yet another) temp agency--I just hope the perky secretary on the other end believed me when I said I was suffering from a migraine and didn't secretly think I was just avoiding going outside. I don't know why my body's reaction to getting sick--any kind of sick--is to immediately shut down blood flow to my extremities so my fingers, toes and nose feel as cold as though we were hiking Mount Everest. SEriously. When I got home last night, I thought my fingers would for sure be black once I prised off my mittens. Naturally, as a precaution today, I put on a hoodie under my winter coat and almost immediately regretted it when Stage Two kicked in and I turned from freezing to feverish. I am a LOT better today though. I sort of feel like, oh, I don't know, say like Professor Lupin after his transformation at the end of Movie 3 ("I've looked worse." "Really sir? Because you look like sh--") Better, but fearful that it could come back at any time. I never get migraines. What is going on?

I probably should have stayed in yesterday, but I stubbornly insisted on taking advantage of my one day off this week and going to see "The Golden Compass" even though I had read bad reviews. I have to admit, I was very disappointed in the film--the acting was superb, but unlike the books, which do not dumb down their messages for kids, the film had to spell everything out for their audiences, and did not allow us to discover the story on our own. I was very sad with the way the story moved around so much and focussed so much on the big action scenes--although Kathy Bates was, as always, an inspiried . Ah, well. That's why we read books after all.

Albanians Among Us

Some of my loyal readers have heard me talk about my landlord and his family. My landlord, bless him, is approximately 7,000 years old, so in addition to not being able to speak English very well, he also can't hear. And he has a weird tendency to come upstairs any time he wants to check out how our apartment is doing and occasionally use our bathroom. This has increased recently (the visits, not the bathroom breaks) because of the repainting/remodeling we've been doing. I don't complain, because for once I am living in a place that has colour on the walls, but it is unnerving when it's ten o'clock on a Saturday night, I'm hunkered in a feral position over a pint of Ben and Jerry's and I suddenly hear a wheezing cry, "Richie nothere?!" Richie, of course, being my roommate Rich who has lived here for six years and has been adopted as another son. The second floor of this apartment belongs to the daughter and son-in-law and their two gorgeous girls, who have a tendency to listen to modern Albanian pop music at the top of the dial (11) on Saturday mornings. So loudly, in fact, that if I could speak Albanian, I would understand every word. SO LOUDLY in fact, that this morning I finally kicked off my London slippers and went downstairs to bang on their door and beg them to turn it down (6). No one answered ("I know you're in there! I can hear the football!") but the music mercifully fell silent.

(Must just briefly mention a new ad I saw for Yahoo Personals that shows a red rose, then a bunch of white roses with the caption: "When You're Ready to Find The One." You would think, if Yahoo was so keen on helping me find The One they wouldn't charge $25 a month to stand in the way of Tru Love. Vomit. Some of us don't want white roses. Some of us want sunflowers.)

I'm finally almost finished with "The System of the World," which is the last book in the Baroque cycle that I started, oh, about three years ago now. I almost didn't read the last book, since the second one was so draggy, but then the third one took place entirely in London, so I thought, what the hell. It's a good book. But the story is so confusing that I have NO IDEA who is on who's side, what their motivations are, nay, even who half the characters are. I daresay only sheer bullheadedness will get me through the last fifty pages. I'm just glad that Neal Stephenson has picked up the pace and made it funny, though not enough to prevent me from falling asleep on it every night. (I don't want to drop a book that heavy on the floor--it might go right through, and even if it doesn't, I care about my neighbors too much to wake them up. So I have another pillow.) Although "Snow Crash" might have defined the term "crack book" to a generation, alas, the Baroque Cycle doesn't live up to it.

In order to prolong the agony, I'm taking a break and reading Barack Obama's book "Dreams of my Father" which is good. Strike that--amazingly inspirational. I think it's interesting because of the way he identifies himself with different communities, but he's always searching for "home." Sounds familiar. Also he has a tendency to talk in grand flights of grandiloquence like yours truly. And I'm slightly embarassed that when he was twenty-five, living in Chicago, he was heading up community action organizations, whereas I'm not doing much bub blogging, but his experiences are so inspirational that I'm going to see if there's an organization where I can get involved. I'm sad to see how much he's changed now that's a big-shot politician, but I can totally identify with young-idealistic-Barack. I definitely recommend this book--some of you might be getting it for Christmas.

A Little House

While I was at home, I re-read "These Happy Golden Years" which is the last book but one in the "Little House" series by Laura Ingalls Wilder. I was given these books by my grandma, at the rate of about one every four months when I was a kid, so I used to anxiously await the next installment. Sunday night I got through this book in two hours. (couldn't sleep, what can I say?) I was struck by not only how well the book portrays life on the American frontier, but also by how much it shaped my opinions and ideas when I was growing up. I always identified with Laura: we both have brown hair, an inherent dislike of shoes and love of reading are irredemably attached to our childhood toys. But beyond that, Laura really influenced my ideas of how the world was supposed to work--for example, in "By the Shores of Silver Lake" her bulldog Jack lies down to sleep and never wakes up again. It was a cruel shock to me to learn that sometimes people have to make that decision instead. Or, more directly, the idea that at some point in every woman's life, Almanzo Wilder would just appear and, after a decent interval, you'd get married and that would be it. (A recent conversation with a college friend confirmed my suspicion that I was not alone in thinking that Manly was, I quote, "hot") Again, a bit disconcerted to learn that's not always the case.
But Laura also helped show how women can be strong and independent: she's not afraid to work to help her parents, and she tells Almanzo flat-out that she will not promise to "obey" in their wedding vows. Heady stuff for a twelve-year old.

So after reading the book, I decided to learn a little bit about the "real" Laura's life: I knew that they had moved to the Ozarks at one point after the books ended, and I learned through the miracles of Wikipedia that she became a respected chairwoman of the Woman Farmer's Association and journalist. And, of course, in 1932 she started writting "Little House in the Big Woods" and the rest is history. (another trait we share: A Wisconsin birthplace.)

I was a little aggrieved to see, after a few more clicks, that the "Little House" universe has been expanded and exploited to include several other series of books that are ghostwritten by other authors. The books deal with Laura's family--her mom, grandmother, great-grandmother, and daughter--and tell each girl's story, designed to appeal to the readers of the originals. And, I suspect, compete directly with the American Girl market. We do love the stories of the feisty American girls overcoming bullies and history, but not when the dolls are being sold to us for sixty dollars a pop (additional outfits not included).

I guess my happy memories of these books are all wound up in the hazy, halcyon memories of my childhood, when Laura's adventures were easily re-enacted without the help of expensive toys. Not to mention my set of books--knocked about, dirtied, torn, chewed on and taped up--are a treasured present from my grandmother. I haven't decided if I'll let any potential future offspring indulge in the knockoffs of the original series, but I already know that I will buy them their own copies to knock about as much as they like.

Happiness is...

...three libraries in two days.

All right.

Good thing number 6 about Chicago: they have a LOT of libraries here. With good reference material. Sometimes more than one copy. And all the Goldsmiths alumni know what I'm talkin' about.

So I am incredibly stressed/irritable/nervous/upset/etc about this test on Friday. I know that My Entire Future is not riding on one test score, but since this is one thing I have a little control over, one thing I can prepare for, I've been studying for it with the single-minded fervour demonstrated by Sir Christopher Wren when it came to that cathedral project. Am I over-prepared? ...possibly. I have practised and practised and upped my vocabulary, and written good but brief analytical papers. Okay, I'm ready. But the test isn't until Friday. Now what?

Rather than continue to study/freak out, I decided to hit the libraries yesterday and today and gather some material for a dramaturgical assault on 1776. What is dramaturgy? It is researching anything the director asks you to, which might be historical items, the production history of the show, and/or interpretive essays on the text. The director wants me to focus on the historical interactions between the real people in each delegation. Which means: Lot of shiny happy primary material that has to be distilled down to a level where actors can understand it. ("Actors" meaning "people who work very hard and who are also doing their own research but who don't have enough time for all these interesting things," not, "bloody actors!")

The end result of two day's labours is a stack of books that would make Hermione tear up with approbation and cause Mr. Norrell to shoot me covetous looks. Oh bliss. Oh joy. If only Madison could see me now.

the student prince says "drink, drink, drink!"

Attention Guys Who Attempt to Hit on Me In Bars:
1. I have no problem with you hitting on me even though you’re ten years older than me. However. Please refrain from constantly saying “ah, you’re young, you’ve got time,” because if I’m old enough to be hit on by you, I’m certainly old enough to know better.
2. Please don’t mention you’re “seeing” a Romanian woman and contemplating marriage so she can get her greencard.
3. Especially if you then ask for my email. Now I’m thinking “What—don’t want my phone number in case your girlfriend looks at your phone records?”
4. Just because you paid for my beer when my back was turned doesn’t mean you “bought me a drink” and it certainly doesn’t mean I’m going to give you my email.
5. Yes—I was chatting with that handsome musician who has such lovely curly hair. Stop trying to buy my attention back by putting Queen on the jukebox.
6. And by the way—the song is called “Hammer to Fall” not “Hammers Fall.” Thank you.

Last night was a surprise birthday party for my friend Lennie. Her husband had arranged for a group of friends to meet at a sushi bar and then go to a show around the corner. I love sushi, and I love Lennie, so I painted her a picture of her cat, put on a clean shirt and went out for dinner. The restaurant—Ugayi Ya—was fantastic. Really, just the best sushi I’d ever had. The group was mostly Lennie’s fantastic theatre friends, so I was feeling a little out of my league, especially when I was talking about The Plan—but then I mentioned a new theatre in Green Bay that I was keen to look up when I went back.

Imagine my surprise when we got to the theatre and I discovered the show was being put on by the very theatre company I was chatting up. Venture Theatre is an independent theatre company in DePere, and after the show I introduced myself to the producer. Hopefully, in the future they’ll have some space for me to help out. It’s good to have a connexion like that before I even go back. The show was called “Get Down(sized)!” and it was about the daily struggles of office politics…and it’s quite accurate and very funny. I highly recommend it.

Afterward I went out for a pint and was accosted by a guy who attempted to impress me with tales of hanging lights for Aerosmith before revealing he was a mechanical engineer. Dear God, no more engineers, please.

Today I’m feeling quite empowered. The flapper-dapper arm broke on our toilet, so I went to the hardware store and bought a replacement, then replaced it all under my own steam—no man required—and just to ensure my continued empowerment, I found a copy of “Our Bodies, Ourselves” at the local thrift shop for a dollar. A DOLLAR! Score! Lest you think I’m becoming too manly however, I also found a pair of Mario Lanza CDs (also a dollar) that are currently making me quite swoon-y and causing images of roses and Naples to float through my head.

Isn't it good? (norwegian wood)

Last night, I added a new rule to the list of rules of theatre people: Never try to outdrink a man who's played Hamlet. Man. I went out after the show last night to meet with yet more theatre people--shake hands, hand out business cards, etc--and I ended up closing two bars. Mostly because I got into an argument with this guy about the interpretation of Hamlet. He was insisting that to understand it, you had to see it, I was resisting, saying that no interpretation could possibly live up to the poetry that is inherent in the words. I recalled Oliver's "To be or not to be" speech, he cited the Royal Shakespeare production in the early nineties. We became swift friends after agreeing that Horatio was our favourite character. After the actor's bar down the street closed, we went to the Green Mill, which is where Al Capone used to hang out--and promptly got into a fight because the jazz band playing featured a horn player on something that neither of us recognised, so he kept insisting this instrument did not exist. Finally I tapped the horn player on the arm during one of his breaks and asked him, "Excuse me, sir! What instrument is that?" and found out it was a bass trumpet. honestly. actors. The Green Mill is SO COOL--they have live jazz most nights, and the ambiance is definitely old-school bar, with heavy wood panelling, painted walls and a concrete statue of a Greek goddess in the corner. I'm definitely going back. Although next time I'm not going to stay until quarter to four.

I also started my new job yesterday. I am a proposal writer for a small engineering and architecture company, and so yesterday was learning how these proposals were put together, all the ducks that needed to be put in rows. My boss is an older gentleman named Mr. S, and he told me that he wanted to hire someone who was creative--but right now he really needs someone who is organised. I shall do my best. The office is very old-school, and the people that I work with are ok. I think that once I learn the role, and don't have to ask people for help every five minutes, it will be challenging but not difficult. I'll be working under my own direction a lot. I'm definitely looking forward to working steadily for a change. Putting a little money away. Making a dent in my student loans. Getting a desk--I realised after I published my wish list last week that DESK should have been item number numero uno, so I can write in my room. Then the Wii.


In other news, London has unveiled the logo for the 2012 games, the theme for which is apparently "80s Dance Party." Sigh. I've been feeling so good about living in Chicago lately that I haven't had time to be homesick, which is a good thing, but a strange feeling. Especially as I have discovered the stories about Horatio Hornblower, a fictional sailor in the late eighteenth century. They are full of brave men, daring the seas to stop the French invaders--but what makes Horatio such an interesting character is that his actions don't spring from an inherent well of bravery and courage, but rather a "If I don't do this everyone will think I'm afraid, and they won't follow my orders, so I better do this even though I'm fainting from fear." Also the stories feature lots of nautical lingo like "then Horatio slipped from the ratline and fell into the shrouds just as the mizzen topmast gave way and came to rest on the mainsail's royal yards." The hell you say. I love it. I may never learn how to sail a boat, but at least now I know what "fothering" means.

Gregory Peck stars as Hornblower in "Horatio Hornblower and the Hussy Wore a Dress Without Sleeves, the Hussy."