Book: The Time Traveler's Wife

My sister is mad at me.

About a year ago she lent me a book called, The Time Traveler's Wife. She told me I would probably like it. It was the summer time and I had an hour or so to myself each day while my campers took their swimming lessons. I packed the book in my bag and found a spot in the bleachers overlooking the pool where my 8 year-olds were learning to kick and dive without holding their nose.

The book began slowly. I would have given up on it, but watching someone learn the crawl stroke is tedious enough. So from my perch, I kept at it. And finally, a few chapters in, I was hooked. I was more than hooked. I was cemented, hot-glued, welded, latched, and bonded to that book.

I have to tell you, this book is the new epic love story you've been looking for. Like true love, it's thick, complicated, and confusing. It fills your heart, and makes you believe in the ever after. I have only been writing in this blog about books I'm currently reading, but it's one year later and I still can't stop thinking about this book.

I'm usually a fast reader. If I'm into a book, I can finish it in a day or two. But this one I stretched out as long as I could. I sat on a blanket in the park. I curled up in a chair at Starbucks. I crawled under the covers. I would force myself to shut the pages at a climactic moment, just as a way to ensure I'd still be able to dive into the story tomorrow. It took me 3 months to finish this book. Because I made sure that it did.

So my sister is mad at me. Because she lent me this book a year ago, and I refuse to give it back. "Not yet," I tell her. "Just a little while longer." I like seeing it on my shelf, knowing it's still there.

Ever feel that way about a book before?

Book: The Unthinkable Thoughts of Jacob Green

Reading this book, or rather, the experience of finishing this book, has induced in me a quasi-manic quest to tell as many people as possible to read it as well. That's how good it was.

My one complaint, and I reserve the right to be judgemental about these sorts of things, is that the cover design is terrible. I have no idea what its relevance to the story is, and frankly, I think it will deter readers. It looks like a teen novel. The title sounds like a teen novel. But it's most certainly not teen material. At least, not the typical kind. Read it as an adult, and you'll experience the character development much differently than you would if you were 13. You won't identify with Jacob's angst in the now, but you'll remember how it was way back when.

I have to tell you, I loved this book. In a sentence, brief as it is, I loved it. I began it on a Tuesday (let's just say) and didn't stop reading until Wednesday night. I brought it to Starbucks. I brought it to work. I brought it to bed. I carried it around with me in my pocketbook and pulled it out during lunch and showed it to everyone as they ate their tunafish sandwiches. "You must read this book," I said. And when they looked at the cover with disdain, I said, "Trust me."

It's about a young boy, and he's Jewish, and he lives in New Jersey, and he has a learning disability, and he hates his father, and he can't stand Hebrew school, and he can't keep his brother by his side, and he's in love with his nanny, and he hates writing thank you cards. Those are just the facts. The real story is in between all of that; the way you root for him, worry for him, scream for him. A few times I had to put the book down because my tears kept me from reading any more.

And I'll throw in a side note here. It's written by Joshua Braff, who happens to be the brother of Zach Braff, who is the one who brought this book to my attention in the first place, on his blog. I mention that because maybe it will give you an idea of his sensibility and the compassionate way he tells the story. And in the same way you wondered after Garden State, you'll wonder again, who the heck raised these kids?

But like his brother's movies, it's not based on fact. It's not a true story. It's fiction. He's a writer. And it feels so real because, well, he's damn good at what he does.

Movie: The Holiday

The only reason we saw this movie was because I had already seen every good movie on the marquee. And we were bored. So we wound up here.

And when the film was over, I admit, I turned into one of those obnoxious theater goers who feels the need to shout out at the closing credits, "That was the worst film I have ever seen!" with nary a concern for the misty eyed throngs of 20-something well-dressed women around me. And in case they didn't hear me the first time, I shouted it again.

These are all the reasons this movie sucks:

1. That closing scene, with all the characters frolicking around the fireplace (yes, they really frolicked, and in designer clothes, no less)--was I supposed to feel happy for them? Weren't Jack Black and Cameron Diaz supposed to be on a plane the next day, leaving their new lovers behind? Would siblings Kate Winslet and Jude Law then sit around their gingerbread houses, depressed, sobbing into their hot chocolates that nobody loves them? Would those two adorable children of Jude's wind up in therapy because they were ever so perplexed as to why their daddy stopped bringing his lady friend home to lie in their tent?

2. Did these people pay over $1,000 a ticket every time they spur-of-the-moment decided to take off for each other's homelands?

3. Why was Winslet spending so much time with that old guy? Was I supposed to see that as a sign that she is very caring and giving and non-judgemental, and therefore, I would accept, without question, that she would fall for a fat man like Jack Black?

4. Why is Cameron Diaz perpetually 12?

5. Why did Winslet and Black agree to be 12?

6. Why was Black even in this film?

7. How did Diaz's character fit 10 winter coats in her 1 suitcase? And why did she pack a rhinestone belt?

8. Why didn't these two women speak on the phone before they exchanged houses? Why didn't they leave each other notes explaining the alarm system, or how to do the laundry, or where the car keys were?

9. Why is it, when a director wants to portray a beautiful, statuesque woman like Diaz as "real" and "flawed", he decides to make her trip a lot and then jump up and shout, "I'm OK!" ? That didn't actually happen in the film, but I kept waiting for it.

10. Why is it that we are living in the year 2006, yet whenever the Internet is portrayed on film, it looks like 1997's dream of what the Internet will look like in the future?

Music: My (third) First Guitar

Well, the first one was a ukulele. So I don't think that counts.

It had nylon strings, and a sturdy chocolate brown body. I'd sit on my bed, instrument in my lap, and sing about my day. "Oh, I got up in the morning... and I ate some cereal... and I played outside.... and then we had lunch... and I read a book... and then we ate dinner... and then I went to bed..." I was about five-years old when I wrote my first one-hit-wonder.

The next time it happened I was in college. The cute boys with their guitars roamed the campus, and I knew I wanted one of those. The boys, not the guitars. Then when I came to realize that the 6-string aphrodisiac was just a cover for a whole lot of not-worth-it, I decided I didn't need a boy to make some music with, I could do so myself. How excited was I when my friend presented me with a guitar she found at a yard sale, for only $10! Who cared if it was warped and out of tune--it had a hummingbird on it!

I took the guitar home during Christmas break and locked myself in my room and began the process of morphing into a rock star. But you see, it turns out, an out-of-tune guitar doesn't actually sound that good, even to someone as tone-deaf as me. And my friends couldn't tune it for me, because, as it turns out, a warped guitar can't exactly be tuned.

So, the pursuit was abandoned. Hummingbird and all.

Now it's nearly another ten years later. The dream has not deferred. There is still a rock star hidden in me, waiting to get out. Or if not a rock star, then at least a poetic long-haired coffee shop open mic type of girl.

Last Christmas I was given an American Express Check as a bonus. I've been carrying it around with me for a year, waiting until I found that extra something special to spend it out. Yes, one whole year.

On my way home from work everyday, I pass a guitar store. I stare into the windows as I drive by, dreaming about how nice it would be to try again, just one more time. Today I was having a particularly good day, and when I drove by the store, I thought, "That's it! I'm getting one!"

I turned the car around, drove back, and walked in. "What can you give me for $100?" I asked the guy. "I've never taken a lesson in my life."

He handed me a Fender Squire guitar. It wasn't blue. It didn't have a hummingbird painted on it. There was no glittery strap to drape around my shoulders. It was just... a guitar.

"That's the one," I said to the guy. He asked, "Don't you want to try it out first?" I had no idea how to "try out" a guitar, so I ran my fingers once over of the strings. "Sounds good!" I said. "I'll take it."

And then, to prove my commitment, I signed up for lessons. And this evening I had my first guitar lesson, with my brand new guitar. Actually, it was my first music lesson. Ever. I sat on a bench in the back room of the music store with my new teacher. And we started from the beginning. All the way from the beginning. I learned two new chords (now I have 5 in my repertoire) and an actual scale. I bought an electric "tuner" so I can keep the guitar in tune this time. And I got homework for next week. Which, I'm proud to say, I've already started.

As I lay in bed tonight, with my fingertips already burning, I'll remember my new mantra.
E-G-B-D-F: Every Guitarist Begins Doing Fine.

Show: Les Mis

A friend recently offered me a "free ticket" to see Les Mis with her on Broadway. I find it amusing, that of all the years I've spent in this city, I've never seen that performance. Isn't it supposed to be some sort of classic? Isn't it "the staple" of Broadway shows? As far as I'm concerned, Les Mis is a buttoned-down white shirt, a pair of black pumps with a 2 inch heel, white rice, and a Bud Light. It needs to be in your musical theater pantry.

So, you've got your classic songs, your will-they-or-won't-they love story, your political injustice mixed in with some jolly fat people who serve spirits to the locals and comic relief to the audience. It's sweet. It's what you'd expect.

But I have to tell you, don't you just hate it when you tell people about a show you've seen, or a book you've read, or a movie you sat through, and they looked at you with wide eyes and exclaim, "Wasn't that JUST the BEST??" And you feel taken aback, for a moment, because while you did appreciate the artistry, you weren't exactly quitting your day job to follow the national tour.

But hey. Broadway is Broadway. And it's quite nice to spend a Sunday afternoon in a balcony seat, surrounded by applause, in the glow of a spotlight.

Sure, why not, let's give 'em a round of applause.

Music: Madeleine Peyroux

One of the best things about seeing a great musician live, is simply hearing them. I think it's cool when a singer's "voice" is what makes them so distinct, as opposed to just their outrageous personality, or frantic music video. Sort of like Tom Waits, or the guy from Crash Test Dummies.

Also, like Madeleine Peyroux. She's got one of those "voices" that you can practically see, as you listen. It's unmistakable, and unforgettable. It's what makes her songs so croon-like, so Billie Holiday-like. (Billie Holiday must be the most missed musician in the world. Has there ever been a more aspired to, cautiously reserved accolade than, "She sounds just like Billie Holiday"?)

I got to see/hear her live at City Hall, along with my mom, who I turned into a fan, who in turn got us both tickets to a Fall concert. City Hall is a beautiful venue, and it was certainly an older crowd than I'm used to seeing at shows.

When Madeleine sang, her voice echoed through the domed hall, and I smiled as soon as I heard her first notes. It was her voice. It was there, in front of me. I could see it.

I have to tell you, you should listen to this song and enjoy.

Movie: Stranger Than Fiction

This was
one of the
best movies
I have seen
in a long time.

Sometimes the movies we love don't make sense. Sometimes the reason they affect us so much is because of who we are, and where we are at in our lives when we see them. It's not just about the movie being "a good movie". It's about how it touches you, and moves you, because of timing. I've had that happen to me a few times. It happened during American Beauty. It happened during Cast Away.

It happened during Stranger Than Fiction.

I have to tell you, I adored this film. I was swept away. I want everyone I know to tell everyone they know to go see it.

I think, especially, that the casting was superb. Certain people have said that they were surprised how "not funny" it was, since it was staring Will Ferrell. Huh? I laughed through the whole thing. But not in the way you laugh in a typical comedic film that practically spells out, "L-A-U-G-H N-O-W" across the bottom of the screen. It was funny in the way that life is funny sometimes. It just is.

And the precious part of the film is how the character keeps trying to figure out if his life (as it is playing out in the film) is a tragedy or comedy. He keeps score. That was so perfect, since as an audience member, we are so trained to see Will Ferrell as a comedic guy. But seeing him cry, heart-felt, sincerely, confuses you. Touches you. And you are left thinking, to yourself, "Is this a comedy, or a tragedy?" That's perfect casting. That's the point of the movie.

I loved it.

Movies: Animation Film Festival

I have a pet peeve.

When you're of the creative ilk, you often find yourself immersed in a variety of projects. It's like breathing, in a way; it must be done. You get visions, ideas, bursts of artistic energy that must be worked off in the same way as someone who escapes to the gym to run 5 miles on a treadmill.

When you're an artist, these things happen. And my pet peeve is when a person, who is not of artistic ilk, looks at something you have made and reacts by saying, "Boy, you sure do have a lot of time on your hands."

No, artists do not have a lot of time on their hands. They make time, to do things with their hands. They put down the magazine, they turn off the TV, they log out of IM, and they make something. Because, to them, "making something", is like breathing. It must be done.

Last night I saw an impressive collection of animation shorts at a mini film festival. The crowd was small (it should have been bigger), but the talent was high. In about an hour I saw a collection of 8, maybe 10, short animated films. After the lights came on, a few of the animators got up on stage to answer questions.

The films were beautifully inpiring, and made me want to go back to my own drawing board to finish some ideas I've been carrying around with me for a while. The artists admitted that these films took nearly a year to make, even though they were only, at most, 10 minutes long. Many even shorter.

There's an intimacy to the animated short; it's a quiet way of telling a story, a focus on imagery as opposed to flash. It's a genre that is so unique and impressive, and so utterly time-consuming to make. Each time I see a new one, I am conscious of it being uniquely distinct from anything else I've seen. You really see the handprint of an artist in an animation, because it places such an emphasis on personal style and personal perspective. It's nothing without those two elements. I love it.

The fun part of the evening was getting to see, in person, Odd Todd. I also got to watch this beautiful film and hear from the artist about the process it took to make it. And many more, including this one, which I highly recommend. It was beyond spectacular.

I have to tell you, I'm going back to the drawing board.

Fashion: Shopping Spree

Sometimes, it's a good idea to get it all done at once. Think of all the energy you've saved not having to grumble, "I have to tell you, I have nothing to wear."


Problem solved.

Well, for the next few months at least.

Art: MFA Show

Tonight I was at an art show for MFA students in the city. It was in a very vibrant, central location. A union of streets, if you will.

This is what I love about NYC: No matter what time it is, it's always go, go, go. The lights were blazing, there was a movie being filmed across the street (Sigourney Weaver was on her way, I was told), people were rushing past me (who's in a rush at 9 at night?). I'm a card-carrying member of the metropolis, but sometimes I like to get caught up in the shock-value of it all.

Anyway, the show. The show was full of young, next-best-thing artists. People who gave up paying careers, or never quite found the career worth getting paid for, for the opportunity to think, talk, and make their art, full-time. People who dream in tertiary colors, on purpose. People who wear fashion casually the way a suburban pre-teen might dress up for Halloween.

I considered calling it a scene, but that sounds so subjective. A scene is only a scene, when the scene is not your own. Otherwise, it's home.

I walked from studio to studio, blissfully happy to be in this atmosphere. Excited to see creationism as perceived by a man or woman who doesn't mind paying 20 grand a year for the opportunity.

Art is a funny thing. It's hysterical. It's mind-warping, and weird. I thought I understood art. I thought I got it. I thought at least that I was OK with the moments when I didn't get it. But tonight, I did not get it. I did not get a lot of the things hanging on the walls with push pins, or draped across the floor covered in plaster. I did not get the layer of colored cellophane, the hair glued onto rice paper, the dried plaster mold created by a hand that grabbed the plaster when it was wet.

I did not get Art, tonight, as I sipped my red wine from my plastic cup. But I have to tell you, I enjoyed it. I enjoyed it's ambiguity, it's irrelevance, and it's nonsensical fist through the wall. And I enjoyed peering through the wall, into another plaster mold, filled with hair, surrounded by a yellow inner tube.

Show: "Vicious Circle" (Dane Cook)

Tonight my Sis graced me with one of the best birthday presents ever! Two tickets to see Dane Cook LIVE at Madison Square Garden!

The evening started off perfectly when we actually found a parking spot ONE block from MSG. What?? Yes, you heard me. Without barely a moment wasted, we turn onto 34th street, and see someone pulling out. In the middle of the infamous chaos that belongs to that area of the city, I paralleled parked my ride right into that spot. Taxis and pedestrians pushed their way around us, and Sis said, "Go for it. It's do or die."

Our seats were way... way... way up there. But because of the layout of the stadium, we concurred they actually felt like good seats. It's a huge, HUGE place, that for some reason has a level of intimacy to it. As the evening went on, it started feeling smaller.

But at first glance, I exclaimed, "HOW is he going to do this?" Can you imagine... standing in front of THAT many people, all eyes on you, for nearly 2 hours, telling story after story, hoping to get a laugh out of all of them? That is the talent of Dane Cook. He commands the stage, fills the space, and seems to be having more fun standing in front of us than we are in front of him. He held his microphone in the air and shouted, "I love my job!"

It was a fun show, a great experience. I have to tell you, I have a pretty cool sister for making this night happen for us.

Movie: Transamerica

Brilliant movie. I had such low expectations going into it. I don't why. Maybe I thought it was going to be another one of those long-winded movies that took itself too seriously.

This was not that. This was brilliant. This was about the power of transformation, on all levels, within all people. Felicity Huffman is going to be the new Meryl Streep if she continues taking roles like this. The only reason I can back up her decision to join the Desperate Housewives' cast is because it gives her more visibility, so people who normally would never see Transamerica might be more than curious to give it a shot.

This movie, wow, I have to tell you, is unforgettable. Even Dolly Parton adds her touch with an original song, and it's really fun, especially to hear her talk about it in the DVD extras.

In case you haven't picked up on it yet, I am highly recommending this.

Movie: The Last Kiss

It was a sunny day today, the first we've had in a while. Everyone was walking around the park and enjoying the sidewalk-sale shopping experience my town was hosting.

I pushed through the crowds and headed straight to the movie theater at the end of the block to see the first screening of Zach Braff's new movie: The Last Kiss. Apparently, I was the only soul willing to give up the sun. Ahh, what a girl will do for art.

I.LOVED.THIS.MOVIE.

I was sucked in immediately. I over-identified with each character in some way. Either I was looking at me, or someone I knew, or someone I was afraid of becoming, or someone I wanted to meet, or someone I was, or someone who someone I knew used to be.

With this movie, I didn't really care "what it was about." I didn't worry too much about how it would end, or what would happen next. There were too many subtleties, too many all-knowing looks the character shared with one another. Too many "in the moment" moments happening to the characters. This was not an "end result" type of movie, if you know what I mean. I felt utterly absorbed in their experience. A movie that allows you to do that, in my opinion, is what makes a movie GOOD.

The music was beautiful. I only wish it had carried itself through the story more. At times I felt it was a little too obvious a statement of, "Listen to this cool song" and stayed separate from the story line. For some reason, Garden State had the opposite affect. But regardless, I loved the songs. I already owned most of them anyway because of blog recommendations.

My god. I walked out of the theater with a dazed look on my face. I called up my friend, and said, "You need to go see this movie. HOLY S---."

I will see it again. This time in the experience of a packed theater.

I have to tell you, I loved it.
Loved it.

People: Garrison Keillor

I have to tell you...

A Plan to Save the Country
by Garrison Keillor

It's the best part of summer, the long, lovely passage into fall. A procession of lazy, golden days that my sandy-haired, gap-toothed little girl has been painting, small abstract masterpieces in tempera and crayon and glitter, reminiscent of Franz Kline or Willem de Kooning (his early glitter period). She put a sign out front, "Art for Sale," and charged 25 cents per painting. Cheap at the price.

A teacher gave her this freedom to sit un-self-consciously and put paint on paper. A gentle, 6-foot-8 guy named Matt who taught art at her preschool. Her swimming teachers gave her freedom from fear of water. So much that has made this summer a pleasure for her I trace to specific teachers, and so it's painful to hear about public education sinking all around us.

A high school math class of 42! Everybody knows you can't teach math to 42 kids at once. The classroom smells bad because the custodial staff has been cut back. The teacher must whip his pupils into shape to pass the federal No Child Left Untested program. This is insanity, the legacy of Republicans and their tax-cutting and their hostility to secular institutions.

Last spring, I taught a college writing course and had the privilege of hanging out with people in their early 20s, an inspirational experience in return for which I tried to harass them about spelling and grammar and structure. My interest in being 21 again is less than my interest in having a frontal lobotomy, but the wit and passion and good-heartedness of these kids, which they try to conceal under their exquisite cool, are the hope of this country. You have to advocate for young people, or else what are we here for?

I keep running into retirees in their mid-50s, free to collect seashells and write bad poetry and shoot video of the Grand Canyon, and goody for them, but they're not the future. My college kids are graduating with a 20-pound ball of debt chained to their ankles. That's not right, and you know it.

This country is squashing its young. We're sending them to die in a war we don't believe in anymore. We're cheating them so we can offer tax relief to the rich. And we're stealing from them so that old gaffers like me, who want to live forever, can go in for an MRI if we have a headache.

A society that pays for MRIs for headaches and can't pay teachers a decent wage has made a dreadful choice. But health care costs are ballooning, eating away at the economy. The boomers are getting to an age where their knees need replacing and their hearts need a quadruple bypass - which they feel entitled to - but our children aren't entitled to a damn thing.

Any goombah with a Ph.D. in education can strip away French and German, music and art, dumb down the social sciences, offer Britney Spears instead of Shakespeare, and there is nothing the kid can do except hang out in the library, which is being cut back too.

This week, we mark the anniversary of Hurricane Katrina and the Current Occupant's line, "You're doing a heckuva job," which already is in common usage, a joke, a euphemism for utter ineptitude. It's sure to wind up in Bartlett's Familiar Quotations, a summation of his occupancy.

Annual interest on the national debt now exceeds all government welfare programs combined. We'll be in Iraq for years to come. Hard choices need to be made, and given the situation we're in, I think we must bite the bullet and say no more health care for card-carrying Republicans. It just doesn't make sense to invest in longevity for people who don't believe in the future. Let them try faith-based medicine, let them pray for their arteries to be reamed and their hips to be restored, and leave science to the rest of us.

Cutting out health care to one-third of the population - the folks with Bush-Cheney bumper stickers, who still believe the man is doing a heckuva job - will save enough money to pay off the national debt, not a bad legacy for Republicans. As Scrooge said, let them die and reduce the surplus population. In return, we can offer them a reduction in the estate tax. All in favor, blow your nose.

-----------------------------------------

Published on Thursday, August 31, 2006
Copyright © 2006, The Baltimore Sun

People: Dane Cook

Dane Cook makes me laugh so hard that I fall out of my chair with tears in my eyes.

I discovered him accidentally, and got hooked immediately. I watched his HBO documentary-style TV show this summer. I've listened to mp3's from his two albums, and burned copies of them to CD for my friends. "I have to tell you," I told them, "This is the funniest comedian I have ever heard."

Last night I saw his new HBO special. An hour-and-a-half of all new material; a brilliant A-Z of love and life. It was a first for this style of comedy: The theater was "in the round" which required him to walk in a circle the whole time, addressing each side, running through the crowds, cameras chasing him at all angles.

It was an interesting concept. But the truth is, he doesn't need all the flash. He could stand in a garbage can with a hairbrush as his mircrophone, and a crowd of thousands would have to stop and listen.

Do what you got to do to get to hear him.

Book: Educating Esme

I came across this book while in the library, and I used my shiny new library card to "rent it" for a month.

It's by Esme Raji Codell, and it's a diary of a teacher's first year. If you haven't connected the dots yet, yes, it's autobiographical. Actually, considering the reputation of that genre lately (thanks, Frey), let's just assume it's autobiographical.

For the first half of the book I was a bit irritated. Mostly I was reading it to learn "how to write a first-person account of a daily activity", and secondly, because the subject matter appealed to me. But I was irritated because I couldn't imagine a first-year teacher behaving so flippant and patronizing to authority. How did she always have such a perfect, sarcastic retort to everything? And why did she want to? It's quite different from what you'd imagine a first-year-teacher memoir to be: First, she succeeds quite often. Second, she's not intimidated by anything. Or at least that's the tone she establishes right from the start.

But during the second half of the book, I started to really enjoy it. I accepted her dry wit as literary liberty, and felt inspired as she delved more into her newly realized philosophies of teaching. She began illustrating more meaningful interactions with her students, and wrote a bit more universally regarding the plight of the teacher.

However, at no time did I feel like she was a babe-in-the-woods in this new career. And it seems, through her telling, that the administration was frustrated by that as well.

So, I do think this was a good book. I am glad I read it. But I did have some reservations about the "literary personality" she built for herself. I would like to have seen her soften up a bit, sooner rather than later. But then again, maybe there are too many floundering first-year teachers writing memoirs. Maybe it's time we got a tougher one on the shelves. Enter Esme.

And finally, here is a quote from the book, which is actually something a more seasoned teacher said to her, not something she said herself. And, I have to tell you, it really moved me:

The difference between a beginning teacher and an experienced one is that the beginning teacher asks, "How am I doing?" and the experienced teacher asks, "How are the children doing?"

Restaurant: The Turkish Kitchen

I've never really written an official restaurant review before, and to be honest, I find them quite boring and more like adjective competitions. But I'll give it a go here, in my own style. If I were a restaurant review, what would I look like?

Last night we took my mom out for her birthday at a Turkish restaurant that she loves and frequents, and more importantly, had a coupon for. The walls there are all red, and the tables are always full. There is a perfectly-toned buzz of conversation floating above your head that makes you feel like you're at the best party in town.

We were our own little party. And voraciously hungry. We devoured our appetizers rather quickly. Zucchini patties, fried golden, and dipped in yogurt-cucumber sauce. Filo dough rolls, crunchy on the outside, soft in the middle. A fabulous lentil soup that was so very un-lentil like. We plunged our dinner rolls into the last droplets left behind. That's the sign of a good meal: When you find yourself searching for creative ways to savor what remains.

Our entrees arrived and the wine was poured for those of us declaring we were not going to be designated drivers that evening. One plate was a melting pot of yogurt sauce and beef chunks, which looked more like gnocchi in white sauce. And tasted a bit more like it. Like a ravioli, the waiter told us, which wasn't quite true. Bread had to be ordered to finish it off, because it felt like more of a soup, in an unsuccessful sort of way. But Mom declared that's the first dish that she hadn't given an A+ too there.

I had a plate full of filet mignon chunks, appropriately colored this time. They sat along-side little triangular baked potatoes and surrounded by rice. I have to tell you, it was delicious. Mom and Dad explored the vegetarian options, and got along with their dinners quite nicely too.

Dessert was presented to us on a circle of white plates and we chose what we wanted. We nibbled at our flan-like custard rolls and our almond pudding while sipping hot apple tea.

After the opening of birthday gifts, the evening ended as it usually does. Mom and Sis stretching their stomach and declaring, "I'm so full!" and Dad and I picking up the odds and ends remaining on the table, wondering what we could take home for later.

Life: Change

I have to tell you...

The other night I was in the supermarket, ShopRite or something like that. It was past midnight. Or no, maybe it was just after 11 pm, because Starbucks had just closed. The aisles were deserted, and the air conditioning was full blast. I picked out a few things for tomorrow's breakfast because I was resigned to eat at least one of my meals at home instead of out.

I took my collection to the cashier; a 40-something woman with reddish hair that looked more burnt than dyed. She seemed tired, but I was in the mood to talk.

I remarked on the renovations the store was undergoing. I over-enthusiastically declared that this was such significant change, that the look of the place would be completely altered. In my head I thought, why do I care about this? But my eyes beamed, and my smile was wide. "It's going to be like a whole new store!" I said.

She fell right into my exuberance.

"I know, they're changing everything. The other day I came in here after being gone for a week, and there were all new cashiers. I didn't know a single one of them," she told me earnestly, her lonely face posed in what I imagined was a reenactment of that moment.

I brought up the cliche topic of prices being too high over at Whole Foods, and said I was happy to come here now for the same healthy items at a better mark down.

She agreed. "I've been here 13 years," she told me. I tried to imagine her standing in that spot for 13 years, and wondered what the benefits had been.

She lowered her voice. "But I'm thinking of changing jobs. I'm thinking of moving to A&P."

I waited for the rimshot, but there was none. She sighed, and paused, my cat food poised midair above the brown paper bag she was filling. "I think it might be time for a change."

I realized in a breath what change meant. I cherished the moment, a woman with burnt red hair in a blue cashier's jacket, confiding in me before her manager, that it might be time to alter her path and fill grocery bags at the supermarket down the street.

"13 years is a long time," she said. Maybe she sat up nights worrying about this, smoking her last cigarette of the day as she looked out on her porch. What would this mean to her life? Could she do it?

"Do it," I said, beaming. She smiled back. "Make the change."

The cleaning men pushed large floor buffering machines behind us, and their grumble was relentless.

"Maybe," she said a bit wistfully. Then, "You have a good evening." And with a perfect cashier's smile, handed me my bags.

Art: Supplies

I have to tell you...


I love a row of blank journals, that haven't been drawn in yet.

I love full gallons of paints.

I love empty drying racks.

I love all the crayons in one basket, wrapped in paper.

I love colored pencils that haven't been sharpened yet.

I love the randomness of certain items that you save under the pretense of, "I could use this one day," but for now, you have no idea what it will be, or when that day will come.

I love 40 scissors in a bin, none of them lost.

I love 30 white erasers that haven't yet found a mistake.


My new best friend is a hole puncher.

Website: Threadless

Oh, Threadless, how did I miss you?

I admit, I knew you existed. Like the nerdy kid in the back of the classroom, I gave you a once-over but rashly assumed we would not be friends. I should have sat at your lunch table and offered you an Oreo cookie in exchange for your carrot, because you are oh so much more than meets the eye.

Threadless.com is a "design it yourself" t-shirt company, online. It differs from cafepress in that not just *anybody* can submit and print a design. There are no "i heart my mom" t-shirts on threadless. And there are no aprons either.

Instead it's just real people, with real ideas, about real design. Some of the work is gorgeous; not just to wear, but to be inspired by. Once a design is submitted, it goes before a panel of internal judges, who decide whether the design is worthy enough to go before the public. And then once in front of the public, it goes through another voting process - scores of 1 to 5 are entered, and people post comments for improvements and critiques. At the end of the month (or so), the panel selects the top-voted designs, and turns those into buy-able t-shirts. The designer gets 2 grand. You get to look good.

Over the past few nights I've submitted around 10 designs. With each one I get better at it. I find out in 4-8 days if any of my designs get past the judges and land safely into the hands of the public. You better vote for me if I do.

Sometimes I get hooked on a new artistic endeavor and I just cannot quit until I've exhausted all my ideas. I have to tell you, this is one of those times. A sort of manic production house has opened in my mind, and I'm churning these visions out like Monday morning coffee.

(This particular rainbow design is my favorite. It was designed by Rinzen. It's available for sale here.)

Music: John Mayer First Listen

I am not writing a review of John Mayer. I'm saving that for Sept.12, the official launch date of the new album. After I listen to it 1,000 times in a 24-hour time period, then I'll tell you all about it.

In the meantime however, I have to tell you about last night's online extravaganza, First Listen. What is that? What a good question, I'll tell you...

No wait, scratch that. I'll let John tell you:

Isn't it strange how these days, the last thing you hear by a band is their record? You hear the live acoustic performances, the "bonus content", the late night TV appearances - but sometimes you've had enough before you even make it to the one piece of work...

Not this boy. I want you to hear my new music the old fashioned way.

On the radio.

Wednesday, August 23, on STAR 98.7 in Los Angeles, I'll be DJing my ENTIRE ALBUM, front to back. A week later, the record will be made available on other radio stations.

Remember when you used to tape the radio? No? Well I used to. It was fun.

I just want you to hear my music. Is that so wrong?

Did you get all that?

I used to tape the radio. When I couldn't sleep at night I would lay my head next to my "box" (re: small, black radio with a handle, two speakers, two tape decks and AM/FM radio). When I would hear a song I liked, I'd quickly press Record. After a few weeks, I'd have a new "mix tape". Of course, each song was cut off slightly in the beginning, and ended with a wild segue into the station name callout. Unavoidable side affects to radio taping, but not something I saw as a detriment. Free music, man!

Once in a while I'd listen to a particular song so many times that I'd pool together my $7.00 and go out and buy the cassette tape. One such time that was Richard Marx. The song was Right Here Waiting. I ran out and bought "the album" and finally got to hear the first 10 seconds and last 10 seconds I had missed out on all these weeks. That was my technology. Richard Marx did not DJ his whole album on the radio.

But John did. First Listen was a great first listen. Some of the songs I had already heard acoustic versions of, some I had never heard at all. But I'm not going to re-listen to the DJ sessions until I get the official album in my hands. Then I'll write my official review and tell you what I really think (or can you already guess?).

However, you can listen! Click here to preview the new album.

Fashion: The Red Shoes

Have you ever seen such a perfect pair of red shoes? Do you even own red shoes? I think they are officially a must have. If you don't believe me, go to a shoe store, and try a pair on. Tell me how you feel. Part of you will feel like you're 4 years old again, slipping into your red, shiny, fat-strapped mary janes (the red ones, of course). And then the other part of you will realize that these are not shiny, and they don't have straps, and you are 2 inches taller as soon as you slip them on. And damn, you'll feel like a woman.

I just got these. And they will go with everything. The lady in the cute little boutique store said to me, and I quote, "They'll look great with jeans!" I saw Amy Sedaris on David Letterman a few weeks ago, and she said, "What's with sales ladies always telling you to buy something because it will look great with jeans?"

I replied to the lady, "I know, they will."

And then I said, gushing, "You can wear the most normal outfit in the world, and then put on a pair of red shoes like these, and suddenly, you're not normal anymore. You're something more."

She leaned close with a knowing nod and said, almost hushed, "That's right. You're fabulous."

These are the new fabulous shoes I have to tell you about. Purchased today for $64. Otherwise known as the low, low price of, "I'm keeping these puppies for life".

Fashion: Garden Dress

For today's review, I have to tell you about a dress. It's not a deeply spiritual thing to write about, I know. But work with me here.

Think of something in your closet that makes you smile as soon as you put it on. Think of something in your closet that feels like a best-kept-secret. And you own it.

Yes, it's just a dress. I didn't buy it in Paris. I bought it in Target. Which means you could drive to the mall right now, where ever you are, and pick one up in your size. It's called the Isaac Mizrahi Garden Dress, and I have it in Chocolate. Rumor has it, blue and black are also floating around. It cost me $34.

I wore it this weekend to a wedding. Its empire waist makes you feel like you're five years younger than you were before you slipped it on. It's knee-length floaty skirt takes about another year off. Then try dancing in it, next to an ocean, with the wind blowing in your hair, to only your favorite songs. Go on, try it.

I found it in Target when I was there looking for something that was completely *not* a Summery brown dress. Isn't that always how it goes? I walked by it, and made a little girly gasp. You know, the one that you make when you see a new potential best-kept-secret in your size at a great price. The gasp that, if song lyrics were written for it, would be: "I can't believe I just found something that matches the fantasy in my head of the dress I would like to own. OOh baby. Ooh oh baby."

Now, you may think I'm nuts for writing this. And until last night I would have accepted that presumption as a possibility. But last night I discovered that other woman are talking about this dress online. Yes, other women are taking the time to reflect on how they felt when they first saw this dress and how wearing it makes them feel.

Here are some quotes:

I have this dress in floral, navy, and now this chocolate.

Ran into "Tarjay" to get some school supplies and this dress made me stop. Grab it and kept going, knowing I will probably return it later. Got home and tried it on and "wow".

I love this dress and have it in black as well! I got so many compliments... A must have for your wardrobe!

Adorable dress!

I got this dress today at my local Target and love it! This dress looks very flattering on. Superb dress!

See, I'm not alone.

Restaurant: Mystic Pizza

This weekend I walked in Julia Robert's shadow. I sat at what might have been her table. I ate what might have been her pizza.

We were driving home from New England in the fifth hour of what should have been the second hour of our weekend road trip. Or as Sis liked to call it, "Only 3 more panels left to fold over on the map!" Dying for a lunch break around 5pm, Sis and I decided to visit Mystic, Connecticut.

We have a rule when we embark on these drives: Don't pull over for a rest-stop unless you can see it from the road. That golden nugget prevents us from getting lost. It also prevents Sis from peeing once we hit Interstate 95.

But we crossed our fingers when we saw the exit sign for Mystic. With a gleam in our eye and a rumble in our stomach, we decided to risk it. Luckily, we found the town quickly. (Well, there was one moment when Sis screamed at me for not turning left at the light, and I screamed back that it was an entrance to a Home Depot parking lot.)

What we saw of Mystic was: One street. And on that street were lots of tourists, lots of little quaint stores, lots of sailboat and seashell figurines adorning charm bracelets, and absolutely nothing of virtue to buy for our mother who, "doesn't like cute things".

We made reservations at Mystic Pizza, home of the movie staring the aforementioned sweetheart, home of the Slice of Heaven. I didn't see any sisters in the back fighting over married men versus classes at Yale, but the place was packed nonetheless. Clearly Mama has passed on her recipe.

We ordered a small pizza with spinach and mushrooms. I couldn't really see the spinach on the pie when it arrived, but I think that's because it was already engulfed by the cheese. Now that's how you make a pizza! It was cheesy and hot and I have to tell you, it was delicious. It was just as good as the fake review in the fake restaurant regarding the fake pizza said it was. We loved it, for real.

That put us back in a good mood, and an hour later we confidently returned to Interstate 95 to continue our trip. And I can assure you, there were absolutely no driving mishaps or wrong turns that happened after that.

Oh no, dear me, none at all.

Location: Hotel Clarion

Sis and I found ourselves at Hotel Clarion during a recent road trip up the eastern coast for a friend's wedding.

I don't often remember hotels, but I think I'll remember the Clarion. Maybe it was the company. Maybe it was because we had such a lovely weekend as a whole. Maybe you can add up all the maybe's, and there still remains one very simple truth: we were very happy with our home on the beach.

First thing we liked: Valet car service. Sure, our car was parked just a block away on a grassy unprotected patch of land. But still, we didn't drive it there.

The second thing we liked: Having a big room that really did overlook the ocean, just like the website said it would. I could lie in my bed and watch the waves crash.

Third thing we liked: The working fireplace. Yes, it was warm. Yes, it added to the relaxing ambiance. Yes, it gave off some sort of dopamine that nearly drugged us in our sleep. But not in a bad way. We slept better than we've slept in days, and we both had to agree it must have been because of the heat from the fire. We woke up feeling like we had slept 1,000 nights, and needed 1,000 more. Needless to say, we opted not to turn it back on. You know, just in case we didn't wake up the next time.

Fourth thing we liked: HBO and CNN. Nothing feels more like "vacation" than the luxury of watching Entourage reruns and JonBenet highlights round the clock.

Fifth thing we liked: Continental breakfast included. Had we woken up in time, we most certainly would have enjoyed participating in this.

Sixth thing she liked: My sister used the jacuzzi in our bathroom and declared it wonderful. However, that also seemed to drug her, and she was quite "out of it" for a few hours after.

Seventh thing we liked: I have to tell you, the hotel was directly across the street from the beach. It.was.right.there. Hop, skip, or jump... and our feet landed on sand.

Eigth thing we liked: They told us our room was a smoking room, but that they would ionize it for us. Whatever that means, the room didn't smell.

Ninth thing we liked: Triple A membership priveledges. My red white and blue card saved us nearly $50 each.

Tenth thing we liked: Beach-town food, beach-town arcade games, beach-towns, period.

Illustrator: Peter Spier

I have two favorite children's books of all times. I have to tell you about one of them (the other I'll save for later). It's not a well known book at all, and in fact, I can't find an online image of it anywhere. It's called, "Oh, were they ever happy!" by Peter Spier. It's currently out of print, but a few people are selling old tattered copies. If I had a tattered copy, I would not sell it.

I love Spier's work. I find his style utterly unpretentious, and simply funny. I grew up gazing at the pages in "The People Book" and singing the words to "The Eerie Canal" during bedtime story hour. His books contain few words, and that is the true challenge in creating books for children. The art, in itself, must tell the story.

Spier loves details. You have to sit with his books for a while and look closely at the illustrations, finding little secrets between the lines. You have to imagine the characters are speaking back to you, and you have to imagine you're playing with them in their imaginary worlds.

The book I love is about three children who decide that they should repaint the house to surprise their parents who leave for the day (the whole house, including the bathtub). The words are minimal, but the story is full. The unspoken tale is visible in the children's whimsy as they run through the house with open paint cans found in the garage. The details are in the teetering step ladders, the scampering cat, the suspicious dog. And the ending is clear, by the expressions on their parents' faces when they return home. As you can imagine, oh, were they ever happy!

The art example above is not from the book, but it gives you a sense of Spier's style. Any book of his is a classic.

Photographer: Cindy Sherman

I first learned about Cindy Sherman in the prime of my narcissism. College, sophomore year. In my afternoon History Of Photography class I sat in the dark room in the library while Mr. So-And-So flicked through the slides we were expected to memorize, or at the very least, appreciate.

I achieved both with Cindy, a woman who secured herself in art history with a collection of transformative self-portaits. What made her do it? Why was it so revolutionary? Why turn the camera on yourself?

We take photos of our friends. We take photos of our pets. We take photos of old homes we used to live in. And when we look back at these images, we search for moments of who we used to be, and how we chose to live. We all want to be remembered. We all want to know what we really look like.

Sometimes I go on tangents with my art, and get fixated on a new style, a new approach. Sometimes I have an instinct that there is something I'm supposed to learn. Last summer it was watercolors. This summer it's the self portrait.

Movie stars are photographed all the time. They are captured in different light, with different expressions, alongside different people. Each image defines them for us, and we stare and accept the story the image tells.

People take photographs of us, and we respond by saying, "I don't like myself in pictures." Why is that? Is it because we don't know how to pose? Is it because we don't know what we look like? Is it because we don't like what we see? Sherman challenge that. She finds herself through her work. She controls the button. She decides what she will look like.

Thinking of her work, I have to tell you, it's pushed me along in my own photography. It's daunting, to make yourself the subject. It's embarrassing, to indulge self-importance. It's also freeing.

To secure yourself in history, you have to tell your own story.

TV: How Do You Solve A Problem Like Maria?

No one is safe from reality TV. Not even Sir Andrew Lloyd Weber. Yes, he jumped on the band wagon, too. And even if this genre is running on its last leg, that doesn't mean a good idea can't resurrect it a bit. Or as I've now learned from this British TV show, a wee bit.

Introducing, "How Do You Solve A Problem Like Maria?" A new BBC program searching for the next leading lady to play - you guessed it - Maria, in Weber's new production of The Sound of Music. The winning lady will covet her role on stage at London's West End Theater starting in October.

I live no where near the West End. But thanks to the magic of torrents, you too can see what other countries are doing with insta-fame reality TV.

The last "reality abroad" show I watched was based in Australia, and it was so much fun. But it went on forever. The difference between European and America reality TV is the Europeans have not yet mastered the fine art of "reality editing" yet. They show... everything. Nor have they learned the art of "leading an audience on". I think these hour-long series are broadcasted one day after the next. In America we like to drag these puppies out for months, interspersing "highlight shows" or "remember when we showed you this clip an hour ago" segments.

In America we'll do anything to distract you from the fact that... nothing is happening. Here, reality stars like to say, "I barely noticed the cameras." In Europe, they politely ask the crew to, "Bugger off".

Additionally, Europeans mix the pretty girls in with the not-so-pretty girls. As though they're equals or something. In America we like to pitch an entire show around the concept of not-so-pretty girls, as if the mere idea is so earth shattering we have to broadcast it immediately between commercials for Dodge Sierras and Lucky Charms.

European TV is, simpler. The sets less contrived, the dialogue a bit cheekier, the teeth not as white, the costumes more Target, less Barney's. The contestants rip each other to threads with nary a concern, then pour their hearts out to the camera like they're real people or something. Not wannabe actors who just play real on TV.

On that note, I have to tell you, check out this little clip from my new favorite summer TV show.

CD: Joshua Radin / We Were Here

I was introduced to this new singer by none other than Zach Braff, who is widely known for his role on Scrubs, but less widely known for his grammy-winning choice selection of music, a la the Garden State soundtrack. That man sure knows how to pick 'em.

So for the longest while all I heard were the clips off of Radin's website. And I was captivated instantly. Then this week I finally got a hold of his newest CD, We Were Here. First I'll note that I loved the cover design. Then I'll note that I loved the music.

Think Nick Drake, but alive. Think Elliot Smith, but also alive. One has to wonder what it's like to be the female muse of these poetically tortured boys, but luckily it's great just to be a listener. Radin seems like a nice guy, and probably his happy ending will be by way of a grammy nod, not a tragic demise (re: Drake and Smith).

From beginning to end, this collection of music is dream-like and hypnotizing. It makes you want to take a deep breath and exhale slowly. It's so tightly connected, each song picking up where the last one left off.

I have to tell you, it made me believe in happy endings.

Listen to his song, "Winter", provided by the good folks at freemacmusic.com

Live Music: Ari Hest

Tonight I saw Ari Hest in concert. By "concert" I mean a real small venue out in the middle of nowhere. One of those places where a musician would need to have somewhat of a following in order to convince his fans that they should drive out to see him.

The stage was beautiful. It had a cascading backdrop of lights that transitioned between colors: Blue, green, purple, yellow. The movement of one color into another created these beautiful poignant moments the flowed with the music.

I first saw Ari years ago, when I was just getting into the singer-songwriter, boy-with-a-guitar genre. He had barely finished his first CD. It was a great show, in another cool venue that was most certainly not in the middle of nowhere, but nonetheless closed down soon after and is no more.

So I've been on his mailing list ever since. And this week I got a notice that he was playing near me, and I thought, I have to go.

It was such a great show. His voice is rugged, his songs are deep. He's comfortable on stage. His music can really wrap itself around you.

One of his songs, wow, I have to tell you... it was positively beautiful. It left me beaming. He said it's a duet he wants to have with Norah Jones. Someday. If he ever gets to meet her. In the meantime, he sang her parts for her in falsetto. Very funny. It's a beautiful song called "I Got You", and it's one of the best love songs I've heard in a long while. I can't wait to listen to it over and over. You can listen to it by clicking here or just watch the actual performance below. He'll let you know when Norah is supposed to jump in.

The nice part of the evening was I got to meet him afterwards, and he signed my CD. It's a new EP he has out called, Guilty Hearts. The new big album gets released in the Fall.

Book: The Secret Life of Bees

I sat in Starbucks this evening and read this book for nearly an hour. I'm not even done with it yet but I have to tell you about it. It follows a young girl, Lily, and her search for her mother.

There were plenty of moments through out the book that made me gasp. How often does a book take your breath away in a single sentence? I was reading quietly, absorbed in the story, and then suddenly... *GASP*. Kidd, the author, took me by surprise with a few simple words.

There's one particular line in the book that is repeated over and over. I'm not giving anything away when I share this, yet it moved me particularly:

Lily Melissa Owens, your jar is open.

I keep thinking about that, and wondering how many times in our lives we've heard that whisper. Like a firefly kept behind glass, suddenly feeling a dash of wind above its wings, coming from somewhere bigger than the nail hole poked open for air. The jar is open.

I'm not even done with the book yet.

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Aug.13 EDIT: I finished the book tonight. I text-messaged my mom (who gave it to me) and wrote: This is one of the best books I have ever read.