Sarah's Key by Tatiana de Rosnay

Tatiana de Rosnay was another one of those authors to appear at work, her very presence apparently summoning every Baby Boomer and Generation X-er to our auditorium. Book clubs, a small group of friends, alone—they came, consumed tiny croissants and listened to the author of Sarah’s Key.

De Rosnay is a tall woman, elegant in silvery hair, her French accent rolling over sounds in English that sound superfluous when she says them. She’s an enthralling speaker, like a voice stemming from a culture centuries older than ours. I wish I could read French because I have to believe that when she writes in her native tongue, she reads how she speaks. Unfortunately, she chose to write this book in English.

Before I get into this in earnest, I have to say that de Rosnay tells a story in Sarah’s Key that I had never heard before. I had known that the French Vichy government had collaborated with the Nazis, but I was never told the extent to which they had carried out orders. In the summer of 1942, French police gather Jews in the Vel d’Hiv, a stadium in Paris. Among these Jews were 4,000 children. Kept for days with little to no food or water, all were to French satellite camps and then off to Auschwitz for extermination. Few survived. De Rosnay’s novel follows a little Jewish girl who experienced the Vel d’Hiv and holds a terrible secret, as well as a modern-day American journalist struggling to bring the story to light.

My issue is not with the story (though the modern storyline seemed shallow and a little self-righteous), it was the writing. As I mentioned before, I wish I could read French, for I believe that de Rosnay must have a better style in her native tongue. Her English makes the characters too shallow and the dialogue is peppered with Americanisms that sound shoved it, as if trying to demonstrate a familiarity with American lingo. I found it all distracting, to the detriment of a story that could have been quite compelling. It makes me sadder to say that her dictated interview in the supplementary chapters of the books brings back all of the elegance of her speaking voice with none of the ridiculousness of her writing style.

I can’t tell you not to read the book because I think the story is incredibly important. However, I can say that the tale suffers in the writing, which is a tragedy.

Vows: The Story of a Priest, a Nun, and Their Son by Peter Manseau

You may remember that a few months ago, I reviewed a Peter Manseau book called Songs for the Butcher’s Daughter. You many also remember that, after meeting him, I was thoroughly enchanted by this soft-spoken man with a talent of gracefully weaving disparate words and concepts together into blanket that you want to snuggle into on a cold day. This particular talent, that of blending the dissimilar, is almost the subject of his book Vows: The Story of a Priest, a Nun, and Their Son, a heartbreaking look into the lives of two people who refuse to choose between reaching for a more spiritual plane and raising a family.

Vows is a sweeping memoir that endeavors not only the history of a family, but also of the Boston Catholic Church and the city of Boston itself. Manseau shows us that these three elements—the family, the Church, and Boston-- could not exist independent of each other. Without the Church, neither of Manseaus would have begun their religious journeys. Without the rough areas of Boston, neither of them would have met. And without the family, the Boston clergy would never have been forced to take a look at the centuries-old practice of holy celibacy.

Manseau’s book made me look at Catholicism as I never had before. For a Jew, I thought I was pretty educated about the history and practices of the Catholic Church, having spent more time at mass than at synagogue throughout my time in college. Yet Manseau opened my eyes to the rather mundane reason for priestly celibacy (it’s easier to maintain control of the Church when you don’t have to apportion bits of it to a priest’s heirs), how the child abuse scandals of the Boston diocese affected Boston Catholics, and to the fact that there are far more married priests than you would expect.

Vows is proof that you can find a touching beauty and devotion to a religion, yet still push for improvement and basic human rights. No matter how poorly the Church treated the Manseaus, they continued to worship with the zeal of the truly religious and so find faith in humanity in the basic tenets of their belief. If only all of us could work to truly change things that have potential, instead of throwing our hands up in disgust and abandoning it all together.

Author's Note: I should tell you that I wrote this review before this global scandal about abuse within the Catholic Church struck. Vows actually covers quite a bit of the Boston abuse scandal (it affected the family in ways I won't mention here) and how the training of priests affects the young men sexually. If you want to gain some context for the stories you read in the news, I suggest that you pick up this book.

The Amber Spyglass by Philip Pullman

You know how in my review of Philip Pullman’s The Subtle Knife, I was little underwhelmed and blasé about the whole thing? I had my reasons—it was your standard middle book of a trilogy, designed to get from you from point A to point B. But this review isn’t about The Subtle Knife; it’s about The Amber Spyglass, which was amazing enough to wipe out the lingering malaise from the previous book.

Pullman drops back into a world gone mad—angels, witches, and monsters from every world imaginable have been culled by either the Church or Lord Asriel to do battle and decide the ultimate fate of the universe and belief. Amidst the chaos, Mrs. Coulter keeps Lyra in a drugged slumber deep within the Himalayan mountains, torn between her cold personality and her desire to keep her only child safe from both sides of the conflict. From the north, Will leads a contingent of bears in a desperate effort to rescue Lyra and restore the altheometer to her. And, finally, scientist Mary Malone braves new worlds to learn more about the Dust, or Dark Matter, that she has dedicated her life to studying. It’s “reader, beware” from there.

Unlike The Subtle Knife, the action is quick and decisive. We’re pulled from the land of the dead, to a world of intelligent wheeled beings, and even as far as the Kingdom of Heaven. Pullman pulls from medieval Christianity, mythology and science to weave a tale where priests can absolution for a future murder by doing penance his whole life, harpies guard the underworld’s doors, and scientists use the mundane to figure out the spiritual. Altogether, it kept me flicking through my Kindle at a mad pace, leaving me distraught as a reader, yet pleased as a student of literature, that the happy ending was not quite as joyous after all. The book brought me back to that delirious fervor that I felt reading The Golden Compass in my youth.

So if you’re setting out on this three-book journey, take heart when you’re stuck in that windless ocean of a second book—you’re world is about to get exciting very soon.

My Jesus Year: A Rabbi's Son Wanders the Bible Belt in Search of His Own Faith by Benyamin Cohen

I do not generally give bad reviews about books. The worst I’ve ever written or said about a piece of literature can be summed up in that infuriatingly smug syllable “meh.” Wasn’t good enough to stick in my mind, don’t you know. Wasn’t good enough to keep its feet amongst the gods of English literature. Meh.

I’m changing that now. I’m about to give a bad review.

It became clear to me from the first few pages of My Jesus Year: A Rabbi's Son Wanders the Bible Belt in Search of His Own Faith by Benyamin Cohen that this was going to be a chore. It wasn’t necessarily the subject matter. I’m a Jew and I like Jews. Check. I get a look into the world of megachurches and revival tents. Check. Enlightenment by the last page. Check. These are great things for a book to take my mind off of other pressing matters, right? Well, as any museum-goer will know, the artifacts can be gorgeous and heart-stirring, but they completely lose their charm when they’re displayed on top of an over-turned cardboard box and lit by a homeless man holding a flashlight.

What I’m trying to say is that Cohen’s writing style and personality made me want to wring his neck. Where there should be humor, there are nudge-nudge-wink-wink pop culture references. Where there should be actual insight into his spiritual journey, there is whining. And, oh G-d, the whining.

Mr. Cohen, listen, that skinny asthmatic Jew thing is all played out. It died once Israel got an army, Lenny Krayzelburg won gold, and the Hebrew Hammer kicked some ass. You’re not Woody Allen—you’re barely a Woody Allen wannabe. Sure, you didn’t choose to become an Orthodox Jew, but last time I checked, none of us had a sign up sheet in the womb. I’m sorry that your mother died when you were young, but you should be thanking your lucky stars that you had a family that loved you, clothed you, and fed you. You know how many people have less than that?

What kills me here is that I agree with many of his assessments of his time in the Christian world. Of course it’s disturbing as all hell when you find Christians wearing the Star of David. Yes, a Sunday mass can be an incredibly uplifting experience. And, absolutely, gospel can elevate a service in any religion. There is so much to be gathered from gentiles, so much to learn that can give us a perspective on our own faith. However, calling someone the Michael Jordon of faith or constantly harping on your own spindly little body is tiresome.

People, if you want to read a humorous book about religion, read A.J. Jacobs’ The Year of Living Biblically: One Man's Humble Quest to Follow the Bible as Literally as Possible (why are these titles always so long?). If you want a fish out of water book, pick up Them: Adventures with Extremists by Jon Ronson. The Jesus Year, as much as I wanted to like it, is a sad waste of cellulose.

The Subtle Knife by Philip Pullman

I find it hard to begin this review of The Subtle Knife, maybe because it was a book that I had picked up and put down before. Back in elementary school, after I had finished with The Golden Compass, I ran to my school’s library to grab the next in the series—which I ultimately never finished. After having finally pressed the last “Next Page” button on my Kindle version, I remembered why I had put it down in the first place.

The Subtle Knife is not a bad book by any means, but it lacks the otherworldliness of The Golden Compass. This is reasonable, considering that half of the book takes place in our own world, far away from Lyra’s version of England. It’s perhaps for this reason that I slogged through it. When I do read fantasy novels, I like them to be a world where magic and normal lives coexist in a practiced harmony. Jumping back and forth between world, especially between a pretty mundane one and a world that where your souls exist outside your body, is jarring. However, I have to believe that this is what Philip Pullman wanted us to feel. If the characters are forced to endure jumping back and forth through space and time, the reader should be able to sympathize.

I’m usually one to wax on and on about books, but, to be frank, The Subtle Knife felt like the means to get from book 1 to book 3. Who wants to write about the unremarkable path that links two fabulous cities anyway?

Sorry, I suck. :(

The Golden Compass by Philip Pullman

The first time I read The Golden Compass, I believe I was in elementary school. There is no doubt that I was too young to understand the complex philosophical arguments being thrown around, couldn’t possibly wrap my head around theories of elementary particles and Original Sin. I think mostly my reaction was “OMG, I want a little animal to follow me around all the time and change and be awesome and…” Sue me, I was ten.

Now, a little older and slightly more educated, I’m better able to understand the religious and philosophical ramifications of the novel—and it’s become one of the most terrifying books that I have ever read.

A little synopsis: Our protagonist is Lyra, an 11 year old living in what appears to be a steampunk London. Her world is very similar to ours, though seemingly canted a little to the point where our bedrock institutions seem unrecognizable. The Church has fragmented, outsourcing its thoughts and religious research to private third-party companies. In the midst of this, intrepid and brash Lyra sets off on an adventure to the far north to rescue children stolen by a shadowy group called the Gobblers.

It’s not the plot that bothers me so much; it’s the machinations that drive the plot. Religion mixes with science mixes with religion, tumbling over and over again until it’s impossible to separate the two unlike parts. And, like always, it is the children who are caught in the middle.

Without going into the complexities of the human/daemon relationship, perhaps the simplest way of explaining a daemon is that it is a human’s soul. In Lyra’s world, humans are accompanied everywhere by animal familiars who reflect the deeply held emotions within a person’s heart. Separation from the daemon is painful and potentially deadly, leaving the severed person more zombie than human. The Church severs kidnapped children to prevent them from Original Sin; Science uses the energy created from separating child from daemon to eliminate death. In both cases, children are used as sacrifices.

What bothered me on a deep level was the extremism. I hate extremists in whatever environment they choose to settle in—religion (complete with its flipside, militant atheism), government, science. The inevitable outcome is criminal short-sightedness, an urge to do the right thing and only creating evil. Sure, the Church wishes to banish Original Sin and Science wants to eradicate death, but to what end? And does it justify the suffering of innocents?

The Golden Compass shines a light on this strange dichotomy through the lens of young adult fiction. Yet, I feel that it takes an adult, with all of his or her experience, to truly fathom the depths to which humans can sink in the name of G-d or knowledge. And if there is a kid in elementary school reading this right now who understands, then I pity him.

John Adams by David McCollough

“Who shall write the history of the American Revolution?” Adams asked. “Who can write it? Who will be able to write it?”

“Nobody,” Jefferson answered, “except perhaps its external facts.”

I’ve just finished reading John Adams, the brilliant work of biographical history by David McCollough, which expanded my knowledge of the titular founding father beyond the HBO ministry and the musical 1776, in which I learned that Mr. Feeny was “obnoxious and disliked.” And while I must applaud Paul Giamatti’s portrayal of America’s second president, one can only really know the man by his words. Thanks be to Mr. Adams, he sure did leave a lot of words.

McCollough digs deep into Adams’ writings, from his first scratched letters to the spidery scribbles of a dying hand. In them we find a man who settles deep into self-perusal, leaving few of his many flaws unseen by the daylight. Vanity, temper, ambition—Adams bemoans them all in diary entries and letters to his dear friend and wife, Abigail. Yet we also see a man with a critical wit, a streak of self-deprecating humor, and an all-abiding passion for his fellow human beings. As much as he claims in his letters that he would have been happy being “Adams the farmer” or “Adams the shoemaker,” it’s clear that both his flaws and positive traits could never have kept John Adams from the tide of history.

McCollough’s book is much more of an exploration of a man—it is the baby scrapbook of the United States, complete with the first coos and heart-rending cries of a newborn nation. Through Adams’ pen, we watch the aftermath of the Boston Massacre as Adams defends the beleaguered British troops in court. We see the orderly streets of Philadelphia as the fertile grounds of liberty, far from the “Killadelphia” that many know today. We watch as the “true blue patriots” wrangle with those seeking a peaceful settlement with the British on the floor of the State House, launching the Revolutionary War. The desperate battles of General Washington, the feeble grasping for European allies and money. Then, eventually, triumph. All of this is seen through Adams’ correspondence with his wife, his friends, and his mercurial exchanges with Thomas Jefferson.

Through these writings, McCollough draws the battle lines in America’s first partisan wars for control of the government. Perhaps most striking are the libelous claims slapped down in decidedly unfair and unbalanced newspapers, which should remind the reader our most recent administrations. Everything old always comes back shiny and new.

It’s a book that, like, Adams himself, defies description. Call that laziness on my part if you want, but clocking in at 768 pages, the book would be highly disrespected if I were to try to boil it down to its simple parts. Suffice it to say that I disagree with President Jefferson in the epigraph above. He, John Adams, and everyone else who put pen to paper during the first turbulent decades of America’s past wrote the history of the American Revolution. It’s now up to us to read it and learn from it.

The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich by William L. Shirer

(Yeah, yeah, I've spent more time reading than I have writing. Trying to rectify that.)

Everyone has that holy grail of a book. Some people work like dogs to finish books by the great Russian literary masters; others tough it out through the oeuvre of Steinbeck. They may not enjoy it, but, by G-d, you are not a real reader until you slam that back cover onto that tome of pain and frustration.

I finally finished my grail: the 1500+ page The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich by William L. Shirer. I labored for two months, reading mostly at home to avoid the embarrassment of busting out a book with a giant honking swastika on the front. I dropped it in the middle to blow through a cheap historical novel, only to pick it up again. I laughed, I cried, I did a victory dance when I turned the last page.

Rise and Fall, despite the paragraph above, was worth the pain. Years of Holocaust classes give you the suffering of millions, but they rarely share the gallows humor that should accompany the tales of the Nazi elite, a motley band of misfits. There were times during my reading that the leadership of the Third Reich reminded me of nothing more than one of those coming of age sports films where a strong, yet flawed leader tries to mold a championship-winning team out of a bunch of sad sack losers. Shirer does nothing to dissuade the reader from this conclusion. Indeed, he goes out of his way to show the gluttonousness, pride and absolute stupidity within those smart uniforms. The rest of the cast doesn’t fair very well either. Shirer heaps a fair amount of scorn on the rest of Europe’s leadership, portraying them as teams (if we are to continue the sports movie line of comparison) who alternately wrung their hands as the visiting German team charged down the court or flung the ball into Nazi hands before running in the opposite direction, shrieking like a school girl. Few people manage to make it out of the book with their reputations unscathed—mostly the desperate leaders of doomed Eastern European countries and Colonel Klaus von Stauffenberg (it’s hard not to come out with a little respect for the guy—he lost an eye, an arm, and several fingers on his surviving hand and still tried to blow up Hitler).

The sheer amount of information the Nazi regime left behind after their defeat is astounding. Journals, letters, and secret missives give us a glimpse behind the propaganda, behind the war machine that decimated much of Europe. Couple that with Shirer’s uncanny ability to actually be present at many of Hitler’s most important public moments and the reader is presented with the human interaction along with the solid facts. Accounts of Hitler’s raging tantrums sit comfortably beside the fact that the man was quite fond of sweets; the Fuhrer’s cold-blooded executions of his own staff rest near his ability to forgive a dithering Mussolini nearly anything. Shirer brings the Third Reich that we know and adds the gut-wrenchingly human side, making forgiveness all the more impossible to give.

Verdict: Library this one.

(Author’s note: As a Jew, I’ve been dealing with Holocaust for years and that occasionally does things to you, so I must ask that you understand my black humor is an attempt to mentally encompass this devastating era in both European and Jewish history. There’s only so many times you can read about death camp prisoners having their skins made into lampshades before you have to switch off.)

Songs for the Butcher's Daughter by Peter Manseau

I've been trying my best to recall a quote by Franz Kafka describing the essence of Yiddish. If I remember correctly, he explained that the language was verbal expression of everything the gentiles felt about European Jewry. Yiddish is a bastardized German, mutated like a cancer cell, laid out in letters from the dark places of the Middle East. Spoken by an alien people who moved from one walled ghetto to another, the language, like the Jews, was at once disturbingly familiar and troubling foreign. Trouble is, in the late nineteenth into the early twentieth centuries, many European Jews felt the same way.

Enter Itsik Malpesh, a Yiddish poet from Kishinev. Through his eyes, we see the plight of the Eastern European Jew a century ago, a life of fear and trepidation. He survives a pogrom, a forcible drafting into (and escape from) the Russian army, and life in Odessa as the ports slowly closed on Jewish emigration. Smuggled out of the Old World in a trunk of Hebrew letters meant for Yiddish presses in the New World, Malpesh struggles to compose his poetry amidst the frustration of learning English and the American way of life. Throughout his travels in the novel, one theme remains the same: the uneasy standing of Yiddish in both the Jewish community and the world at large.

One chapter in particular captures the combative nature of the Jewish “national” languages, Yiddish and Hebrew. A Zionist-leaning Jew in a bar is intent on resurrecting Hebrew, a language that was more ancient dust in the mouth than anything, while a socialist Jew insists that Yiddish will always hold the Jewish heart. In a vaudevillian routine that would make any respectable Catskills comedian jealous, the two battle for the linguistic fate of a 5,000 year old religion. Sides are chosen, drinks are thrown, and Jews continue to perpetuate the “two Jews, three opinions” saying into eternity.

There’s a clear winner in the battle of the tongues. Yiddish maintains an uneasy throne in tiny Jewish communities, most of its kingdom buried in mass graves dotting the European countryside. Hebrew, on the other hand, has turned from dust in the mouth to a breath of life to Jews from all over the world. It’s telling that I, an Ashkenazi Jew whose grandmother spoke Yiddish in her childhood home, can speak whole sentences in Hebrew and only swear haltingly in Yiddish. With one’s decline came another’s birth.

Surprisingly, author Peter Manseau is Catholic, the product of a priest and a nun (his memoir Vows: The Story of a Priest, a Nun, and Their Son is on my Cannonball list). His story is also part of this novel—the translator who shares Malpesh’s story (and occasionally inserts his own commentary) shares quite a few characteristics with Manseau, who worked at a Yiddish book conservatory in New England. Peter Manseau, for those of you who insist that their authors be nice people, is a nice person. Anyone who can deal with a line of cranky old Jewish women and still remain smiling when he signs my book is a keeper.

Adorableness of the author aside, Songs for the Butcher’s Daughter is a deep book, a book that I can’t possibly explain in a poorly executed review. It transcends religions, continents, and languages. It’s a strange and wonderful novel that I was sad to put down. Now it’s time to foist it off on my family and see if they get anything out of it.

Verdict: Buy!

When You Are Engulfed in Flames by David Sedaris

(A few things. So, it turns out that I am participating in Cannonball Read! Yay! Thanks, Nicole! Second, looks like it's time to bust out the "fauxblopomo" tag again because I'm a big fat failure. --K)

After closing the back cover on this book, I sat with pursed lips.

“Huh,” I said to my roommate’s cat. “David must be getting old.”

I don’t say this because of his persistent comments about his growing shrub of back hair or because his smoking habit can be counted in decades rather than years. It was the theme that permeated the soft, well-chosen words to the barking paragraphs dedicated to the subject: death. Disease, destruction, decay. Death.

“Maybe that’s what happens when you enter middle age? Is that what you think about?” I threw these statements turned questions at the cat, which turned away and began snoring. When you’re an aging feline that has survived a bout with cancer, you don’t waste your time on a human that doesn’t feed you when there’s valuable sleep to be had.

So I sat alone, sure that I had nothing in common with a man nearly forty years my senior whose thoughts have turned to death. What, exactly, does a 24 year old have to worry about anyway? I go to bed with the absolute assurance that I will wake up in the morning. I neglect to eat properly because my body will easily recover. I hop in the car with the sense of immortality that develops during the teenage years and has yet to be squashed by the realities of life. Death? Me? Pah!

Thinking back on this, however, that’s not exactly true—I do think of death. Quite often, actually. For example, I’ve already left instructions for my funeral, an amalgam of police services my father attends and the Jewish ceremonies I’ve been to (picture bagpipes and chocolate fountains.) Before my first trip to Israel, I pondered writing what amounted to my will and sealing it in an envelope to be opened upon my death. I later scrapped this idea, deeming it a little too dramatic even for me, but left my mother instructions in case they had to send my remains home in a box.

I’ve thought about the best death. It would have to be quick with a minimal amount of sheer terror. While flying to Beijing during an intense lightening storm, I decided that a plane crash was not the way to go. I similarly crossed shark attack, cholera, and gangrene off the list for various reasons. At the time of writing, I’ve settled on a quick meteor strike to the head—a quick death and one that will be a family story for generations.

With this in mind, I flipped back into Sedaris’s essays, reading them again. Suddenly, the author’s “death” takes on a capital letter. Death stalks quietly through the book, sometimes skipping essays, only to slam you with full force in others. “Memento Mori” is one in which Death truly makes his presence know. Upon a second reading, I could feel him shivering down my spine, taking up residence in my pelvis, and tingling in my marrow. Also, skeletons hanging in your bedroom? Ew.

Is When You Are Engulfed in Flames as depressing as I’ve made it out to be? No, of course not. There are plenty instances of classic Sedaris word play and self deprecation. And it could very well be that I’ve spent too much time being introspective about the whole thing. Perhaps I’ll also come to a better understanding when I reach that age. Would I read this again? Absolutely, but not as a pick-me-up.

I won’t be asking that damn cat for advice again either.

Verdict: Buy it if you have a Sedaris collection. Otherwise, break out that library card.

(PS. I have, like, 2 other books to review, but damn me if I have the time or the energy to type them up. I'll get there.)

There are people right outside my bedroom door, loudly making cookies. They're keeping me awake, but they sound so happy that I don't want to make them stop.

Weird day. I started out by cleaning the bathroom, then ironing all of my neglected washing, then watching a NatGeo documentary about head shrinking. I now know everything there is about trapping one's soul within one's shrunken head. Fear me.

I don't remember if it was like this in PA, but it sure gets dark early here. It starts at around 4 pm and then is nearly completely black by 5. When I drive home from work, it's like I'm puttering around the city at midnight, which I most assuredly am not.

Blackberry again. Sorry!

I can be kind of impulsive with my money, esp if there is a sob story involved. Now I'm being a little free with my body-- I registered my DNA with the bone marrow registry today on a whim. I hope I can help someone out, but I'm kind of scared too.

If you would like a free registry kit, go to giveagift.com, discount code SAVEALAN.

And again

I worked until 10 PM tonight, so I have neither the time nor the energy to write anything of substance. I think I'm cheating on this Nablopomo thing.

Ugh, I can't be bothered

I have another review, but the title of this post says it all.

Dead Until Dark, by Charlaine Harris

When I went up to pay for this book at Borders, the cashier, an older woman decked out in Giants gear, glanced at the cover.

"Ah," she said, scanning the barcode. "The book is better than the TV show."

Stunned that a woman her age had HBO, much less the desire to read a book called Dead Until Dark, I mutter, "Is that so?"

"Yes. Too much sex in the show. I like my sex scenes kisskiss and fade to black."

I think this sort of strong feeling might exist in the people who have both read this book and watched the corresponding show, True Blood. Not necessarily about sex, but that one medium definitely has the edge over the other.

Upon opening the first page, we leap right into the world of Sookie Stackhouse, a telepathic waitress from the backwoods of northern Louisiana. Vampires have just now gained the rights of legal American citizens, having "come out of the coffin" a few years previous, and humankind is struggling to accept this phenomenon. Sort of like the whole gay marriage debate, except the members of this misunderstood minority are likely to, you know, actually turn you into one of them. Sookie is content to live the lonely life of a person sentenced to listen to other people's disgusting thoughts for eternity when a vampire turns her world upside down.

Yeah, I'm going to stop right there-- this novel's writing wasn't spectacular enough to warrant more than a back cover blurb.

I bet you can guess what side of the TV/book debate I am on. Yep, the show is better. You'll rarely hear me say this, as I tend to be one of those snobs who burst people's bubbles with a well-timed "Well, the movie/TV show was good, but it certainly doesn't stand up to the source material." I'm one of those people. Unfortunately, this isn't one of those times.

The writers for True Blood changed the story a little, yes. They added characters, changed other characters' personalities slightly, or just plain made stuff up. But they did it so well. You care about the main players, connect with them and their world. It's a world that's very familiar-- vampires have a PR crisis and an undead spokeswoman has to smooth things over; a right-wing church pronounces damnation on human/vampire relationships; a small community demonstrates the closeness and familiarity breed contempt. Dead Until Dawn mentions these things, but is more concerned with moving the story forward as quickly as possible. The show, on the other hand, takes as much time as it need to in order to build characters in actual people who you care for and worry about. When Jason, Sookie's brother, is suspected of murder in True Blood, I fretted. In the book-- eh. Whatever. Just a guy, you know?

I wanted to like the book. I really did. And, to some extent, I could appreciate the creativity in the world that Charlaine Harris had created. However, I just can't shake the feeling that a committee of writers did a better job with Harris's world than Harris did. Or, at least, they saw more opportunity in it.

Would I read the next book in the series? Sure. Why not? Would I buy it? That I'm not sure about. If you want a better deal for your money, invest in HBO.

Final verdict: library

back home, but...

... Now I can't get on the internet normally. Blackberry posting is getting tiresome.

A short one...

Cracker Barrel is the most amazing thing known to man. No question.

crap!

I had a whole thing writtenAn but my blackberry lost it. Well, this still counts.

Bloggin' on the Road

Writing from a rural PA Cracker Barrel after an evening meal of french toast and hashbrown casserole. On my way to a Penn State game and typing from.my Blackberry.

Would you be disgusted with me if I said I was typing this in a bathroom? A case of mobile culture gone too far, you say? Well. Then I'll sign off here.

K.

It works!

I'm going to be away from the computer, so I had to test posting with my Blackberry. And, by G-d, it works!

I won't have anything interesting or meaningful to say, but how is that a change?

K.

Maybe someone on the interwebs can help me here. What is the name of this print and who is it by? I've had it as my picture up on Nablopomo for about two years, but I can't remember where I got it from. Tineye.com says that I'm the only one who has it on the whole internet.

I just want to purchase it. :(

K.

Rush Hour

Driving home today, I got on entrance ramp for the west-bound Grand Central Expressway, which is normally just a short road cutting through a little woodsy area. Today, I must have hit it at exactly the right time to take my breath away.

The sky was at that weird twilight stage when it's dark, but the fissures in the clouds are an odd electric blue. While entering the ramp, I passed through the woodsy area where the tree branches formed an arching canopy, framing the street lights. Then the wind funneled the fallen yellow leaves in my direction. The overall effect was of driving through a school of goldfish at a depth where the sun was only just reaching through the water. For a few seconds, I was somewhere other than NYC rush hour traffic.

I don't think I'm describing this all that well, but I'll see if I can't take that route home again tomorrow.

K.

It's that time again!

And by that time, I mean NaBloPoMo! Yay! And I'm only a day late in announcing it.

Quick story: there's a senior singles group at my agency that always complains that they don't get enough people to come to their events. Who do they blame? Me. Listen, the newspaper industry is dying and the last thing they want to put in their failing rags is a singles event for the 65+. Plus, you're bitter and angry.

Sometimes there's a reason why you're single. And it doesn't always have to do with PR.

Whine, whine, bitch, bitch.

K.

The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy

(Welp, I didn't make it into Cannonball Read, but it's still a good goal to pursue. If I make it, maybe I'll donate some money)

I’m irritated that I have to return this novel to the library at work. It’s been gone too long and its absence might be noticed.

My place of employment’s library is filled with brown books, thick books. Books whose innards haven’t seen the light of day in years. Books that lend that particular musty scent to a room that already smells of mildew and fluorescent lighting. It is a room full of ancient learning and one that I occasionally peruse when a group isn’t in there.

I found this book hidden amongst the brown like a little green leaf. It’s a little out of place—you don’t see many Indian authors side-by-side with Rashi, Maimonides, and Uris. So I took it and smuggled it back to my desk. And now that it’s time to return it, I’m hesitant.

The God of Small Things time travels through the lives and histories of Estha and Rahel, a pair of fraternal twins, in their small Indian village. Through them, we see a rise of a family of industry amidst a population that is still painfully poor. Then, in Flannery O’Conner-esque turn of events, we see the high brought low and an ordered world churned into chaos. A family may be at the story’s heart, but it is the history of India and the impossibilities of progress with a rigid caste system are the veins and arteries.

The God of Small Things is a novel that is meant to be read twice in quick succession. It’s not thick—a mere 321 pages—and it doesn’t ask me to explore Newtonian physics, but it does ask to be read more than once. John Updike commented in The New Yorker that it’s “[a] novel of real ambition that must invent its own language.” Roy realizes that English cannot adequately portray the thoughts of a child or a translation of a foreign tongue. She incises nouns like a plastic surgeon and grafts in adjectives, creating words that, like a crooked nose suddenly made straight, you wonder how the English language ever existed before its creation. She forces our mother tongue into concepts not made for our culture—and she makes us understand.

Reading in what essentially becomes a foreign language is not simple for those who just expected to read a story about Indian culture. I re-read the introduction about four times and only grasped every detail by the final read. I finally realized that I could never make it through the book if I continued backtracking, so I plunged ahead like a jungle explorer. I finished—but at what cost? There are many sentences tittering in my wake, mocking my unseemly and unEnglishmajorly haste. So I’ll have to read it again.

But first I’ll have to put it back amongst the brown truck books, a little green leaf resting on the forest floor.

Rating (from bookstore to torrent): Bookstore

(Argh, verbose books make me verbose.)

Waiting is a Bitch

Cannonball Read doesn't start until November 1 and I'm already waiting impatiently to start my growing little collection. Argh! To keep me sane, here is a short list of things to read:

Songs for the Butcher's Daughter by Peter Manseau-- Manseau signed my book and was a wonderfully nice guy.

From Every End of this Earth by Steven Roberts-- Also signed my book and was also a nice guy.

Rise and Fall of the Third Reich by William Shirer-- A massive book, but not signed.

I just really want to read them. :(

K.

A Fresh Excuse

It's become a habit for me sit in front of this computer and watch the cursor blink in this very text box. Do I write? Nope. Can I even think of anything to write? Nuh-uh.

What the hell happened?

Now, I know I've never been a model of constancy. This blog starts and stops like an old jalopy with a squirrel caught in the axle. But, at the very least, I can think of something to slop down on this thing. Not these days. In fact, I think my brain might be slowly melting out of my ears while I sleep.

I can think of many reasons. I'm not eating well. I'm not getting enough sleep. I'm too stressed. My period key is broken and I have to use the decimal point key finish a sentence.

All of these are true, but I can't lay the blame totally on these factors. In reality, I'm not getting the intellectual stimulation I need in my life. My brain is muddy, my words aren't falling into place, and I'm sloppysloppysloppy. So, it's time to take a little control.

Pajiba, a movie (and, in more recent history, TV/book) review blog, is beginning its second year of the Cannonball Read, the history of which is a little too complicated for me to relate here. [Laziness ahoy! Cannonball Read history!] As a long term lurker, I followed last year's marathon with interest and sadly wished that I had the foresight to jump on the bandwagon at the beginning. But now-- my second chance is nigh!

So, 52 books, 52 reviews, 52 deep English major thoughts, and maybe 52 chances to get my brain back. And all for a good cause.

Good luck to me.

Read all the rules and join the Facebook group here! (And I'm not even getting any kickbacks!)

Kate

(Who has posted on Pajiba as "pereka" all of twice.)

Change is Good

So, you know all those long months ago when I didn't have a job?

A lot has changed since then.

For one, I now have a full-time position at a JCC as a Public Relations Coordinator. The title makes me appear important on my business cards, but I'm the Center-wide bitch. And that's okay. Because retail sucked.

I also moved out of Pennsylvania and am living in a basement in Queens. Every morning, I get in the car that I will be paying off for five years and drive to my JCC on Long Island.

I drive home, then I pass out.

It's a good time.

K.

Newly Shorn

I don't know what makes getting a haircut so exciting for me. It's a fairly regular occurrence, since my hair grows quickly and somewhat off-kilter (I've been told it's because I only sleep on one side, stunting my hair's growth, but I don't know how much of that is true). And, if I don't get at least a trim, I end up looking like I have a man's '70s era feathered hairdo. Like I don't have enough troubles.

I went to a new stylist this time around, taking advantage of my associate discount at NDS's in-store salon. That woman scrubbed my scalp like it was a bloodstain on a white sofa, but I've never felt so clean. Then cut, twist, curl, straighten. New hair!

This post is pointless, seriously. But it was the only exciting thing that happened to me today. Besides snow.

K.

"Where did you goooo? "

I received that as a comment from abz the other day and decided that I should probably answer that question.

Well, the reason I fell off the face of the Earth is due to the deep-- and frankly, ridiculous-- emotional angst that I collapsed into once I found out that I didn't get the job I was so sure I was qualified for. I didn't communicate with anyone outside of my family for days just because I didn't feel like explaining.

I call this angsty-ness "ridiculous" because there are a ton of people having a harder time of it than I am out there. I have a job, I have a home, and I have insurance-- what else to I need, really? But, at the same time, I can understand why this job-hunting thing has become a bit like scrabbling up a greased pole. As people are getting laid off, companies that are hiring are able to get experienced people quickly and easily. And that leaves those who have just graduated (me) sobbing into their pillows at night. Oh well.

I have been getting some things done, though. I'm an intern/contributor to MAPMagazine.com, which is pretty much about getting information about Madrid to tourists. Now, I've never been to Madrid (or Spain, for that matter), but I busted out my ninja-like researching skills to pull together this article. I'm pleased with myself.

So, that's where I went. That and the insane hours that I'm working now that the holiday season has started. I'm currently pulling a more-or-less stable 39.75 hours per week, which is practically full time. I'm pretty sure that I just signed on for 25 hours a week. Alas, I do my job too well.

Oh, one more thing. I agree that Hugh Jackman is a very sexy man, but I think Salon has it over People. And, at 5'8", he's pocket-sized!

Feel free to disagree with me with a above opinion, but you know that I'm right.

K.

Thank you, America

You have proven that we can stand up to our written promises-- our Declaration, our Constitution, and our Bill of Rights-- that all men (and women) are created equal.

We're not there yet. We still see crushing poverty in the streets and racism in our halls of government. We are not all equal-- not nearly.

But, damn, we are getting closer. What's next? Women in the White House that step out of the high heels of First Lady-hood and into the power suits of the presidency? Jews standing behind the presidential seal with confidence? Dear Lord, if only.

If only.

K.

PS. Senator McCain, I have to respect you for your concession speech. You had a tough road to follow throughout this race-- your supporters had to battle the accusations of racism when really they simply differed in opinion from Obama supporters. There is no winning in that situation. You were gracious and calming to a clearly unhappy crowd. You recognized the historical implications of this night. I have often disliked you (though a year ago, I would have voted for you), but you are a true American that only deserves my respect.

Hey, Pennsylvania...

...thanks.

K.

I think people would be so much more interested in Shakespeare if...

clipped from www.savagechickens.com

A dumb story

My dad brought home a quiche from Panera today and we sampled a bit over our leftover tacos.

Mom took a bite.

Dad took a bite.

I took a bite... and shrieked.

"THIS TASTES LIKE BACON!!!!" I picked up a pink of something and brandished it to the table. "BACON!"

Dumb story, I know, but of all the things for Dad to bring home from Panera...

K.

PS. Don't forget to vote tomorrow, people. I don't care who it's for, but if you don't do it, you have no right to complain for the next four years. Seriously.

Why?

Could someone please explain to me how a Pop Tart that starts off perfectly straight can come out of the toaster wiggly? What is it about heat that makes them arch like that? Any chemists wish to explain?

This is a cop-out post, obviously.

K.

Circle game

I staggered in from work and threw myself down in a chair, my eyes inching such as I considered the various merits of doing laundry versus leaving it until the next day, when... suddenly...

Holy crap... it's NaBloPoMo!

Yes, it's that stick that prods me back to my blog to type inanities for a month in an attempt to satisfy a random missive on a random month. It's incredible to me, in fact, that a year has even gone by since the last NaBloPoMo, but looking back, I can see the milestones of 2007/2008 that suddenly make the last 360 days seem very long.

I sat at every family celebration, wondering whether it would be my last as a member of the household. I realized that graduation wasn't a forgone conclusion-- that would need to take extra steps to guarantee a diploma. I went to China. I went to Israel. I graduated, finally. I started at NDS. I despaired a little. Now I may in the process of getting my first career-type job. That's quite a bit in one year.

And now one end of the circle is touching the other and I begin another go-around. Wonder what will happen next.

Happy NaBloPoMo, y'all!

K.

I'm considering this a birthday present from G-d

The hell?!

K.

Recipe for achieving greatness in retail within three months

Ingredients

2 parts humility
1 part humor
1 part agreeableness
4 parts bottling all the negativity up inside so as to unleash it on unsuspecting family members
1/4 part working alarm clock
1/2 part comfortable shoes
1 part non-threatening appearance
3 parts willingness to "share the wealth"
1 part commiseration with fellow co-workers
2 parts laughing at your own mistakes, but making sure not to do it again
1 part coolness under pressure
5 parts perfect attendance
4 parts tolerating very rude people without crying/screaming/hitting
1 part clever time-wasters
various pinches of personality to taste

Procedure

Mix thoroughly. Bake at 350 degrees.

Serves 1

This recipe has been approved by the Sales Associate of the Month, yours truly.

K.

They pay my salary

If there's one thing that I love about my current job in retail, it's that you never know what sort of customer is going to approach your counter. It is, however, easy to classify them into relatively general categories.

• The people who love me-- "My mother doesn't speak English, but she says that she wants to take you back to our country and marry you to my brother." (actual quote)

• The people who hate me-- "No, I do not want a credit card! Stop asking! Rawr!"

• The people who don't speak English-- Cue me miming shoe sizes to a variety of Spanish and French speakers.

• The people who treat me like a servant-- "Get me an 11!" "We don't have that size, sir." "Argh! A 12, then!" (again, an actual quote)

• The children-- They generally stare at me like some sort of zoo exhibit, then most break into this soul-brightening smile. Then continue to stare at me, grinning like homicidal maniacs. Oh well, I'll take it.

• The old people who don't have anyone else to talk to-- This is incredibly sad and I make a point to literally sit at their feet when they want to engage me in a conversation and I have nothing else to do. Still, I really, really don't want to hear about your current sex life. Really.

• The people who love to laugh-- Well, they're usually drunk, but laughing all the same.
  

Those are my customers in a tidy list. It's a tad sentimental of me, but I think I'll miss them all when (if) I get a real job.

K.

Grr-waah?

As is my wont, I fell off the face of the Earth for several months. That's me-- that's what I do. Until recently, though, I managed to keep my hands clapped firmly over my ears and maintaining a happy ignorance of just about everything. I wake up, go to work, sell shoes, go home, go to sleep. That's it. As a result, this is what I'm terribly uninformed about:

• the stock market crash
• the presidential election in general and the new "Who is Obama?" campaign in particular
• any sort of Israeli politics-- there was something with Livni, right?
• any new books on the market
• gas prices
• the new rabbi at my temple (not national news, but pretty world-shaking for someone who has had the same rabbi for 22 years)
  
• etc, etc, etc

The only thing I came out of my stupor for was the death of Paul Newman, who was all kinds of awesome. But now I'm fully awake... and I'm worried.

Seriously, guys, can't you do anything by yourselves? Do you really need my personal attention to keep this world functioning as it should? Well, now I'm back-- sort of. We'll see how long this lasts.

Sucks to be an English major

I think I'll be posting these as I find them. It'll make me feel better about myself.

K.

Oh hey, Alain Bernard...

Gonna smash the Americans, are we? I'm going to put this as eloquently as I can: suck it.

Also, Michael Phelps should be kissing Jason Lezak's 32-year old feet. Seriously.

K.

PS. I love the Olympics!

Sorry, but that's my opinion

There's incredibly poisonous smog in the air.

One American murdered and explosions in the west.

An opening ceremonies pretty much produced by slave labor.

There's quite a bit to criticize the Chinese for as the 2008 Beijing Olympics begin. But talk to an ordinary Chinese person, listen to how proud they are to be able to host the world at the most unifying event on the planet... then tell me that there is nothing to praise about these Games.

And that's all that I have to say.

K.

PS. Good on ya, Mike. One gold down.

I really shouldn't be on the internet right now, but...

... RIP, Bernie Mac. Dear G-d, this was a shock.

K.

Scattered Thoughts: Life in retail

I've lost any creative impulse, so Scattered Thoughts it is...

• There's one song that plays over the loud speaker that reminds me of "Werewolf Bar Mitzvah" every time. And then, of course, I have to sing it to myself.

• We have a pair of shoes that look like the angry vacuum cleaner in The Brave Little Toaster. Or maybe it only looks like it to me:
• We also have a shoe named "Floppy." It's the least "Floppy"-looking piece of footwear I have ever seen-- more like Gerta. Or Helga:
• If it weren't for direct deposit, I would forget to pick up my paycheck every pay period. Without fail.

• It's a given that I will drop at least one box of shoes everyday. Whether I do it in full view of my customers must have something to do with the karma I've accrued that day.

There are more, but I can't think of any.

K.

Things That Will Be the Death of Me

• Netflix
• Sending out resumes
• Cleaning my room-- and my apartment
  
• Staying awake during NDS working hours
• Keeping up with my Bloglines list
• A possible membership of the Internet Writing Workshop (anyone want to join me?)
• The parakeet and her impossible demands
• Staying out of PSP business now that I am no longer an active member
• The red tape of graduating

K.

The shoes ate my soul

Nearly every day, I come home from selling shoes to usually polite, but always oblivious people, look at my computer, and go to bed. All of the fatigue from my feet travels to my fingers and I simply can't be assed to blog or even to check my e-mail. Essentially, the shoe trade has destroyed any sort of online presence I may have had.

I really do have some great stories from my nearly one month at NDS, like customers that go from zero to crazy half a second after you tell them that a particular coupon doesn't work for a clearance shoe or the people who make me stay after the store closes because they need shoes just that badly. And good stories too, don't get me wrong. But I'm tired and I don't feel like writing them.

So, essentially, all this post can claim to be is an apology and a bad explanation for my absence. Sorry.

Some news:

• I'm thinking of joining an on-line writer's group so that I can get the sort of constructive criticism that can hone my crap into reasonably good work. Can anyone recommend a group or does anyone want to join with me? Just let me know.

• Went to Scranton today and found out that The Office's spin-off will be about the politics of the town-- and my uncle's cousin owns the deli that some scenes might be filmed in (the cousin has script approval-- he doesn't want to offend anybody). In real life, many of the local Republican committee meetings happen at the back table of the deli, so the show won't be far off. And, wouldn't you know, I just ate at that table today. So, when you tune in and see a deli called Catalano, you just remember that I enjoyed a turkey hoagie with pepper and olive oil there. I have pictures to prove it.

That's it really.

K.

I want to throw up

I just realized that I have been sending out many of cover letters to companies with incorrect information on them. How heartbreaking. :(

But, to cheer me up, I find that reading The Pajiba Ten: 2008's Most Bangalicious Celebrities pretty much does the trick. The RDJ one makes me blush because it's so very true (and also proves that I need to get out more.)

K.

Injustice

My friend stood a foot away from Will Arnett and Amy Poehler last night and I... I sold people shoes.

Excuse me while I cry myself to sleep.

K.

Quit waiting for Godot

Some genius upload one of my all-time favorite movies, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead! Existentialism at it's finest.

Edit: And, as luck would have it, I found my favorite scene on YouTube. It makes all of my English major naughty bits feel tingly.



Play at home with your friends.

K.

PS. Gary Oldman and Tim Roth never looked so good!

A quick note

So I'm sitting here, watching the fourth season of Weeds, and I can't get over Albert Brooks. Every time he opens his mouth, I hear the f-bomb coming out of a tiny animated clownfish. A tiny animated clownfish who is just looking for his son. Sigh.

I feel like a teenager again

You know, I'm 22 years old and should be over some of the emo bullshit that I sometimes get into-- including writing posts about said bullshit. But sometimes living at home with three other adults while looking for a career that's supposed to launch you into real life gets so stressful that I snap at small things.

I should be down in the basement with my parents, eating a family meal and watching The Heartbreak Kid (not my choice), but instead I'm sitting on the porch, eating cereal and watching Weeds. Not exactly a heartwarming alternative. I had a minor tiff with my father that got blown out of proportion and the tension got a little much for me. It's better that I don't mess up a meal for the two of them with my pride and bad mood.

What really got me wasn't the argument with my dad-- it was my mom's immediate reaction to it. I wasn't looking for her sympathy, just sitting on the couch with a scowl, and she just bursts out that she doesn't know what's going and on and she isn't getting involved. It just struck me as so attention-seeking; she made an announcement of not participating in the argument when she could have kept to that concept better if she had just not said anything at all.

I've been noticing this more and more with my mom, and I hate thinking about it. I know that she's proud of her business (and she should be-- she built it from the ground up), but hearing about how she sold a scarf that day once every hour makes me want to just cry. It's selfish of me to think that, but that's just how I'm feeling.

Maybe it's the fact that she's doing so well while I'm working in retail and not getting single response to the resumes I send out (not including the India job, which hasn't gotten back in contact with me, by the way). Or perhaps that attention-seeking is really there and I'm getting angry at myself for perceiving a fault in a parent that has often been my greatest supporter.

I'm also wondering whether I should tell her how I feel. It could end up with hurt feelings all around, so that wouldn't be good. On the upside, it would keep me from going postal on her after hearing about her business one too many times. I just don't want to break her spirit. She's paid her dues and deserves to be happy in what she does.

I'll talk to her. The worst that could happen is that I make her cry, then I cry, then I go sleep in the car. I hope that doesn't happen.

Let's all pray that I can stay away from dumb posts like this in the future.

K.

Ed. Talked to Dad instead. Feel a little better.

Fuwa!

 

I adore these little guys, but some think that the Beijing Olympic Fuwa might stand for something more sinister. 

Whatever, they're still cute.

K.

Eye <3 U

It's strange when the highlight of my day is visiting my eye doctor-- something I only get around to once a year. I guess you would understand if you knew my doctor. My mother calls him an aging hippie, but I think he looks more like a benign Mel Gibson, more likely forget what he's doing during an eye exam than call some lady "Sugartits." He also never wears socks. Ever.


For most of my life, he called me "Kaitlyn," which is decidedly not my name. It didn't matter that my preferred moniker was on my chart; I was Kaitlyn for a good 18 years. Then, out of nowhere, my name became "Kathryn," which is technically correct, but a name I never go by publicly. I still don't know what changed his mind.


But what really sets him apart is how good he makes you feel about your eyes.


"Wow, beautiful. Your eye pressure is absolutely perfect."


"That's a nice thick rim of tissue around your ocular nerve."


"Your anterior chamber is deep and calm." (I've never figure this one out, but I picture a velvet blue with a humpback whale singing mournfully behind my pupils. Please, let that be what's actually back there.)


What do you say to these things? "Why, thank you! I've been working very hard to build up such thick tissue. It's wonderful when one's work is noticed."


I come out of that office with a smile every time.


K.

Scattered Thoughts: Produced by frustration

I had another post earlier, but the formatting nearly killed me. So, for lack of any more brain cells to put together something coherent, another Scattered Thoughts.

• I had my second day of training at National Department Store (NDS), which focused primarily on an unintentionally hilarious workplace harassment video focused on "sweater puppies" and drunk Irish jokes. Then I learned about how you have to "give the customer the pickle." Retail is weird.

• While taking the bathroom trashcan out to the curb tonight, the wind caught a pantyliner wrapper and blew it down the street. I had to chase it, which didn't help my self-esteem.

• I found my parakeet asleep on her side the other day. Thought she was dead for a second, then she sat up and looked at me like I was doing something unnatural.

• Another weird thing-- I saw a chipmunk eating a worm. What the hell is up with that?!

• No news on the career front. I've been told that I just have to keep going, which is obviously true. After all, I don't want to be stuck at my parents' house forever. But throw me a bone, people! I'll work for peanuts!

K.

UGLY!

Sorry, my blog is currently under construction! I'll be posting as usual (haphazardly), but everything will just look weird for a while.

Thanks!

K.

Whining

Maybe it's because I'm trying not to think about my first day of work tomorrow, but I've been concentrating lately on figuring out whether to change my blog template. The trouble with already having an established name for a blog and a set visual image for it is that nothing you see in the world of free Blogger templates is quite right.

Trying to stick with the title's theme, I've been looking for interesting writing-related backgrounds, but all I came up with are scrolls and medieval journal-like things. They just all strike me as so literal.

When I think of "Writing in Wax," I picture a stylus pressing deep into a wax tablet-- easily to scribble, easy to erase.  I think this tablet softly lit by candlelight as someone labors away in the dark to get their thoughts down before sleep takes over. And none of these templates are quite up to my standards. 

This wouldn't be so irritating if I had Photoshop Elements on this computer, but I don't. Frankly, I don't even know if my old copy of the software will work on Vista. But if it did, I could just remake the banner I have right now-- just take out the references to college and such. 

This post needs to end now. I'm not writing anything productive and I'm just doing it to stave off the sleepless night I know if ahead of me. Sorry to all of you who just wasted your time.

K. 

No longer fits

My banner for this blog no longer fits me anymore. Sure, I can get a couple more weeks out of the college thing-- until I get my August diploma, that is. And while I'm thinking about it, should I just change the entire layout of this site? And do I really want to go through all of the hassle?

Too much to think about for now.

K.

Red, white, and the blues

I surprised myself the other day by asking my dad if we could have a "real" 4th of July this year.

I'm not sure what I meant by that.

What I'm confused about is that the comment came out sounding like an impatient American child with immigrant parents. Could we save the hummus/chopsticks/beans and rice for another day? Can't we act like an American family just this once?

I suppose that I have been a stranger to July 4ths in a conventional sense. Up until last year, I spent most Independence Days at Jew Camp-- a dreamy bastion of foreignness in the middle of Confederate Flag-waving Maryland. Not that Jew Camp didn't celebrate the holiday. Far from it. That particular days was swarming with campers wearing redwhiteandblue, patriotic sing-alongs after a barbeque lunch (kosher, of course), and the invariable Americana kids show in the evenings. But beneath of all this star spangled fervor ran a faint sense of desperation, the sweaty scent of someone trying too hard. The lengths we went to celebrate the 4th the "correct" way made the celebration awkward in itself.*

After I left Jew Camp, I spent the next 4th in summer school in an effort to graduate college on time (you see how that worked out). Aside from a mountain of American-themed cupcakes in the dining hall, it was like the national holiday didn't exist.

All of this brings me up to this year and that squeezing feeling in my chest that I wasn't doing this "American" thing right. No fireworks, no party, and no thought of a barbeque until I practically begged my father to grill some hot dogs for me. Circumstances didn't help, either. My parents are self-employed, so even though it was a Friday, there was no sense of a long weekend. The sky remained stubbornly overcast and weather steamy, punctuated by occasional rain. My father insisted I make Israeli salad for our barbeque, which ruined the American theme I had been going for, and then promptly forgot to grill the hot dogs I had asked for.

It's stupid and ridiculous for me to complain about this. There are people in this country who legitimately have a right to feel left out of America and carry the air of "foreigner" around with them, no matter how hard they try to assimilate. Blonde-haired, blue-eyed, unaccented me-- I can do pretty much anything in this country without being hassled or questioned. I have no right to feel like the 4th passed me by without me feeling that surge of warmth and belonging. Do I?

K.

*There was this one time (before I spent 4ths there as a camper) that things got a little weird. The director at the time, a gentile, was a Confederate Civil War re-enactor along with her husband. For some reason, they decided that July 4th would be a great time to have a "Confederate Day." A lot of weird things happened at Jew Camp, but that was one that only happened once.

China on July 4th. So patriotic.

My China scrapblog. I figure it might be easier to view the pictures this way for now.



K.

Things I Like: Arrested Development

One of the things that I think is missing from TV today (aside from shows like "30 Rock" and "Lost") is the ability to create complicated story lines that are both cohesive enough to last through an entire season (or little reminders here and there) and entertaining at the same time. I think that this type of clever, forward-thinking writing is the saving grace of a medium that is more and more giving over to reality shows, stupid sitcoms, and cop/doctor dramas. However, television lost a shining light in its redemption when it callously canceled "Arrested Development."

No, I'm not one of those people who blames an idiotic public for the cancellation of "AD"-- I helped kill it in my own tiny way by not watching the show when it was on. And I can't really blame FOX either. After all, why waste valuable air time on something that only a select crowd seems to appreciate? Still, even with all this apparent magnanimity, I'm still kind of bitter.

For those of you who haven't seen "AD"-- and I know you're there, don't be shy-- you can find all three seasons on Hulu.com. Watch them. Seriously.

For those of you who have seen it, you know what I'm talking about.

Let me outline several reasons why I love this show.

1) My hetero-crush on Jason Bateman; my lesbian-crush on Portia de Rossi; my voice-crush on Will Arnett.

2) This video:

3) The "Happy Days" references. And why not? Ron Howard narrates and both Henry Winkler and Scott Baio have bit parts. You haven't seen anything until you see the Fonz making awkward references to his perverse sexual preferences.

4) Bob Loblaw Law Blog. Analrapist. Banana Grabber. Loose seal. "I've made a huge mistake." "Final Countdown." "Come on!" Mrs. Featherbottom.

5) And this video:

Oh, there are more, but you'll have to see for yourself (if you haven't already).

And that, my friends, was a Thing I Like.

K.

PS. An "AD" movie? Say what?!?

Losing it

I've been having the strangest sense of time just slipping by.

For example, I know that it's Wednesday evening. Not only that, but I know it's July 2, which is pretty incredible for a person who never remembers dates. But there have been periods during the day when I can't remember which month it is or what day it is or even how my life fits into the current season. The whole thing is scary and disorienting.

I realize that this comes from not having a routine that marks out the days in a week, like school or work, and that as soon as I start my part-time job things will get better. But it worries me that I feel the slightest bit insane during these periods. Not shooting up a Wal-Mart insane, just drooling on the street corner insane.

Anyone else have this issue?

K.

On a more random note...

I stole this from Jen's blog. I'm pathetically in love with memes.

One Word Survey

1. Where is your cell phone? table
2. Your significant other? theoretical
3Your hair? blonde
4Your mother? bed
5. Your father? office
6. Your favorite thing? sleep
7. Your dream last night? unremarkable
8 Your favorite drink? julius
9. Your dream/goal? travel
10. The room you’re in? porch
11. Your hobby? reading
12. Your fear? unemployment
13. Where do you want to be in 6 years? alive
14. What you’re not? optimistic
15. Muffins? corn
16. One of your wish list items? job
17. Where you grew up? PA
. The last thing you did? whined
19. What are you wearing? shirt
20. Favorite Gadget? laptop
Your pets? parakeet
22. Your computer? Toshiba
23. Your mood? despairing
24. Missing someone? nope
25. Your car? theoretical
26. Something you’re not wearing? glasses
27. Favorite store? Borders
28. Like someone? nope
29. Your favorite color? blue
30. When is the last time you laughed? today
31. Last time you cried? today

Open to anybody.

K.

Scattered Thoughts: The Depths of Despair Edition

• I talked with Time today-- they don't have an opening for me. Mom insists that this doesn't mean that they don't want me, but it doesn't make me less depressed over it.

• Dad has made it quite clear that he does not approve of the India thing, which is an issue if I get sick/arrested/blown up/sold into slavery over there. No support network. Well, it hardly matters-- they have written back to me either.

• Sending out resumes into the void of internet job postings is a thankless task. It's like you just... disappear.

• I have to clear out my apartment tomorrow. :(

Life recently = booooo.

K.

Dad: Making me just a little more paranoid, one comment at a time

India called today.

I'm not sure what I was expecting-- it was really just an exploratory interview over the phone. Luckily, my one fear did not come to pass: that the interviewer's accent would make nearly impossible to hold a conversation. Her amazing English allowed me to escaped sounding like a mouth-breathing doofus. This time, anyway.

I explained the job to my parents afterwards. My dad gave me a look.

"Couldn't you just do that from the US? Like, over the computer?"

"I guess. But then they would have to pay me American wages."

"Kate, you're going to laugh when I say this, but I'm quite serious."

"Hmm?"

"You need to check this out to make sure it isn't white slavery."

??!!!

So, what am I supposed to do? Call my interviewer back up and ask her very nicely if I'm signing up to be put into bondage and would she please be honest with me about it?

Seriously, New York jobs that I have applied for, call me back. It would make life so much easier.

K.

Huh?

Holy crap, India just contacted me to have a first round of interviews. Over the phone.

I can't understand accents over the phone. :(

K.

PS. I also just told my mom about this interview thing and she got this really tight-lipped expression on her face. Not good.

Yeeowch!

My mom is pretty awesome. She crochets cacti.

They're actually kinda cool. From way back, they look real.

I have one like the item pictured above on my mantel at school. People think it's real all the time-- 'til they touch it.



I don't mean to pimp my mother's Etsy site or anything, but I will, mostly because I've been sewing on those little flowers for her. I would kinda like to see her succeed.

So if you like 'em, head on over to blazingneedle's Etsy site and give her stuff a look over.

Ta!

K.

If only this would actually happen

A meme from Gwyn.

You are in a mall when the zombies attack. You have:
1. One weapon.
2. One song blasting on the speakers.
3. One famous person to fight alongside you.

Weapon can be real or fictional; you may assume endless ammo if applicable. Person can be real or fictional.

Right, okay.

1) The OCD flash grenade. Zombies have a pretty shambling pace anyway-- it would take them that much longer to get to me if they have to touch each wall three times or avoid cracks in the floor.

2) "Sinner Man" Nina Simone

3) Avner from Munich. It would make things pretty angsty, but those zombies would be obliterated.

K.

Dear Mom and Dad,

I just applied for a job in India. Please don't kill me.

You see, it's like it was made for me. They actually want a English/literature major who can work with international co-workers all while editing in both American and British English. I've done all of that.

Granted, this company has something to do with finances and I don't know a thing about that (much like I don't know anything about shoes), but knowledge of the financial world was optional, you see.

I'm kinda hoping that they'll call me.

Sorry?

K.

What do you do with a BA in English?

Find a part-time job until you actually get hired in some interesting career, obviously.

On my first day of my first ever time seriously looking into retail as employment, I stumbled into a position and got hired. In the shoe department.

I don't know anything about shoes, but I'll be getting medical insurance and a 20% discount while I figure it out.

K.

PS. I have to change the wording of my banner-- I'm barely a college student anymore. No degree until August, true, but what's a month or two?

I love the BBC...

...because they make the best period costume dramas. And they always have some random British actor that I know from somewhere, but can't place. I was watching North & South today and had that same deja vu feeling with Richard Armitage, which is odd because I usually have a keen memory for good-looking men. Anyway, here's a link to the video. Watch it-- it's romantic.

That's really all I had to say. Not really much of a post, is it?

K.

Scattered Thoughts: The "I'm in Israel-- but I stole my father's computer" edition

• As I mentioned before-- travelling with my family is a bad idea. I'm spoiled and used to my relative freedom when I roam alone. This almost feels like I'm being held hostage to everyone else, especially my dad, who halts everything in order to engage in hour-long business calls.

• The upside is that we benefit from all of those business calls. We're testing out a hotel in Jerusalem for Dad's NATO conference in December, taking private Krav Maga lessons, engaging a tourguide who works for the company (and also used to be a colonol in center city Jerusalem's police force). Exciting things.

• I'm getting back into the swing of Israel and it all reminds me of why I like it so much here. The people, the weather, etc.

• Jerusalem was exciting. We ended up doing things that were strictly taboo on Birthright trips and with my Dad's overprotective business partner. The winding market streets of the Arab Quarter were especially interesting, mostly for their slight air of menace. Still, it could be my imagination-- we did get pastries from a pleasant old Arab man who wrestled our empty water bottles away from us in order to fill them. No menace there. Dad says that there are many in that Quarter who just want to live in peace, yet others would probably be pretty damn excited to see Israel fall. And yes, I could see that for myself in some of the really pro-Palestinian souveniers in the marketplace. It was easier to breathe in the Christian Quarter where the streets were less narrow and people didn't stare. A bagel salesman, who I believe was a Christian Arab, offered me 40 thousand camels and a donkey for my hand in marriage. Cheeky. Thinking about it later, I realized that those camels (and donkey) would be a dowry and going directly to my parents, leaving me and the bagel guy sans a significant number of camels. Is it just me or would that make me poorer in the long run?

• I have to say that it wasn't only the Arab Quarter that made me feel awkward. There were so many Orthodox Jews around my hotel that I felt odd stepping out on the street, even when I was wearing a rather modest pair of shorts and long-sleeved hoodie. I have a feeling that it's easier to be secular outside of Jerusalem.

• Yesterday was spent at Masada and the Dead Sea. Not much to report other than I was sitting at the Northern Palace on Masada for about an hour and forty minutes, in which time Americans thought I was both a local and a Frenchwoman.

• Currently sitting in hotel room in Nahariyya after a day in Caesaria. We ate while watching the Med pounding the shore, trying to decide what these loud explosion-like sounds were. The rest of us settled on the waves slamming into the jetty, but Dad wasn't convinced. Hailing over our tired-looking waitress, he proceeded to ask if that noise had been caused by waves. She gave him the most withering look I have ever seen and replied, "Yes. We are not being bombed, sir." With that, she sulked away. In her defense, she's probably asked by panicky tourists all the time whether the resort is being bombed. In our defense, we asked her if those noises were made by waves. I don't think we said anything about bombs.

• My Hebrew-English phrasebook has this entry: "Have you been tested for AIDS?" I wonder how many times that's been used.

• There's a wedding singer in the courtyard below, crooning some Hebrew melodies. I was just able to ignore him when he busted out "I Love You Just the Way You Are." Can't go wrong with a little Billy.

• This was a bad entry, but I'm tired, burned, and hungry. :(

K.

• PS. Cancer, leave Paul Newman alone!!!!

Scattered Thoughts: Umm...

• Going to Israel tomorrow. Not packed and just irritated my parents, who I will be traveling with for ten days. And this is why I travel alone.

• I drove to WC again today and saw my turtle along the side of the road. He seems to be two-dimensional now, which is sad.

• Oh hey, so you know how I was, like, the last person alive who hadn't seen Ironman? Well, finally saw it and wow! May I be first in line to welcome the Robert Downey Jr revolution?

• People seemed bent on getting themselves killed while I was driving home today. One Amish man, one Mennonite woman, and two idiots decided that it would be a good idea to wander near the road without any reflective gear whatsoever. I'm sure that it wasn't a coordinated effort because they were miles and a river apart, but hey. Stop it.

• This was a useless entry and I'm not even sure why I wrote it.

K.

Me? A Published Poet?

Yeah, okay, it's not The New Yorker, but it's a start.

The Swarthmore Literary Review. Scroll down to "The Kimono." That's mine.

K.

Dear Robert Downey Jr,

You don't know me and you shouldn't, 'cause that's just weird. But I've had some thoughts about you lately that I thought I would share.

See, before two years ago, the most I knew about you is that you were a bit of a druggie (am I understating this?). That's all that really mattered to me. I grew up in a pretty straight-laced household, you see, so I didn't hold with those shenanigans. Then you fell off the radar and I forgot about you.

Until a couple years ago when you made my day.

You see, I was pledging for my honors/service co-ed fraternity (stick with me here) and had volunteered to do something that made me very uncomfortable. I hate admitting this because it makes me seem like an insensitive monster, but I'm very awkward around the developmentally challenged (am I being PC here?). I want to treat them with respect, but I worry that I may treat them too much like an adult or too much like a child. My nervousness stems from the most beneficent of sources, believe me. I want to be able to make their lives better but am at a loss as to how.

Anyway, for some reason, I ended up volunteering to help out at the ARC. It was definitely against type, but without more participation, the day would have fallen flat for those kids. Didn't want that on my soul. So I went to what turned out to be a movie day. And what movie did we end up seeing?

Yep, The Shaggy Dog. The last movie I had ever wanted to see.

And it wasn't because it was a kid's film. Please. I worked at a camp at the time-- you can't be a counselor without having an appreciation for kiddie movies. No, it's the movie poster (click on the link-- if you dare). I'm sure that you've seen this, sir. The cute dog, the wet nose, THE EYES OF DOOM!!!

No, sir, I can't stand human eyes on animals. It's the creepiest thing I have ever seen. That, more than anything, made me cry a little inside as we approached the theater, me clutching the hand of my assigned child, who looked blissfully unaware of the demonic force we were about to encounter.

It also didn't help that-- you're wondering where you come into this, I know, but stick with me-- the movie was bad. Just terrible. The bacteria in my stomach could have written a better script than that. Ugh. The kids seemed to like it, though, so I slouched into my seat, growing more depressed by the second, when-- like a heavenly ray of light-- you appeared on the screen.

I'm going to admit, my first thought when I saw you was, "Holy crap, he's alive?!" Not the most promising start. But you delivered the most deliciously evil performance of a scientist gone mad with power that I had ever seen and stole the show. Now, I might have been so glum that a pratfall on a banana peel would have cheered me up, but you went farther than that. It's ridiculous to say it, but because of you, I managed to cheerfully make it through the day. The rest of those memories from that event are fond ones mostly because my attitude had improved.

Now, it's fickle for me to say it, but I promptly forgot about that day, much like a man who promises G-d to donate half of his income to charity if only he is able to keep his job, then when everything is sunny again, is too distracted by everyday minutia to perform the task. (That was a long sentence.) But a part of me remembered, waiting to resurface.

And, lo, it has! You're back on the map, apparently healthy, and armed with a sense of humor about your darker days. I'm not blowing smoke up your ass when I say that I am genuinely pleased for you. Please don't blow it.

Oh, and call me. There are few men that I find attractive with facial hair, so I have to take advantage of this.

<3 K.

PS. Loved this video.

Scattered Thoughts: Reasons Why This Day Sucked

• I woke up at 4 AM. Enough said.

• I was driving along Rt 30 towards West Chester when I saw stuff animals scattered about the roadway. It looked like a plushie massacre. Normally I would be amused by this, but I kept wondering if these animals were meant for someone. Plus, there's something deep inside of me that says stuffed animals have feelings. I'm sentimental.

• After the stuffed animals, I was cruising down Rt 100 when I saw a turtle at the side of the road, holding his head high and lifting his leg to step into the busy highway. The next thing I knew I was pulled over about 200 yards away, speed-walking down the emergency shoulder of the road, eighteen-wheelers screaming by me, hurrying towards that little animal about the make a big mistake. Unfortunately, I got there too late. I suppose what really got me was how confident that turtle looked as he began his great adventure. The further I get from the event, the sadder I feel. I wouldn't be surprised if I cried myself to sleep over one naive animal. (One thing that made me laugh in spite of myself: I described how the turtle's blood looked on the pavement to my friend Jen-- thick, like scarlet acrylic paint. Ever the the sensitive type, she exclaimed: "So that's how they get red paint! They squeeze it out of turtles!" Evil.)

• I parked in the spot that Jen directed me to in her apartment's parking lot-- a spot that is actually hers. Yet, when I came out a few hours later, someone had left a note calling me a "shithead" with a rather elementary illustration on it. Sorry? I think the polite thing to do would have been to ask me to move, which I probably would have done, whether I had a right to the spot or not. I fear for the future if this is the level of discourse I have to deal with in the real world. I think I might laugh about this tomorrow.

Granted, it's not like someone physically hit me or I lost a family member or something. It's just that some days suck more than others. And this one suuuuuuuuuucked.

Here's hoping for better ones!

K.