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?
Tuesday, December 26, 2006
Friday, December 22, 2006
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.
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.
Sunday, December 10, 2006
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?
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?
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
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.
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.
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
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.
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.
Monday, December 04, 2006
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.
Sunday, December 03, 2006
Movie: Stranger Than Fiction
This wasone 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.
Saturday, December 02, 2006
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.
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.
Friday, December 01, 2006
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.
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