life's not a paragraph

Day 13 - your favorite book/series of books

2011-01-16T09:40:00.000-08:00

Ah, ok. Books. For this question I usually throw The Fountainhead out there. When it really comes down to it, though, I'm not entirely certain that it's my ultimate fave book of life. I love it, I love the characters, I love the writing. I don't love author Ayn Rand's philosophy (if that's what you're calling it) and I'll bet dollars to doughnuts Rand was a super bitch (not sure why I think this).

My reading time has been shamefully dwindling these months. But since I was just talking about this novel with my sissy yesterday, here's my unsolicited plug for what I thought was a champion book: Barbara Kingsolver's The Poisonwood Bible. I'm stunned that it appeared on a summer reading list for Holy Angels Academy, since they mostly like to waste time with weepy contemporary lit that deplores the state of helpless African Americans. True, Poisonwood is a member of Oprah's Book Club, and it does deplore the state of helpless Africans. I don't care. I'll even call it an important book. So there.

While we're on the topic of books, and for once I don't feel like I'm about to collapse from staggering fatigue - can you believe that guy who's rewriting Huck Finn?!? OK, not totally rewriting, but he's removed every occurrence of the word "nigger," and replaced it with the word "slave." Does this outrage anyone else? Am I completely overreacting? Possibly. I'm almost delirious with anger when I think about it. Just another instance of this crazy world's obsession with sterilizing anything that's not perfectly P.C. Go ahead - remove the N-word so you can teach the book in schools. Makes sense to me. While you're at it, why not modify the history textbooks too? Hey, let's go nuts and rewrite anything we please to suit our finicky, sensitive tastes. A load of hooey.

Day 12 - anything that makes you smile, every time

2011-01-11T15:19:00.000-08:00

babies/toddlers in sunglasses.

Day 11 - your favorite meal to eat for dinner

2011-01-07T20:07:00.000-08:00

I'm taking the liberty to tweak this one. Instead of my favorite meal to eat for dinner, how's about we talk "last meals." Last meals are a funny thing. Ask someone what they'd eat for their final meal on the planet and you may turn up some startling revelations. Take my sister, for instance. She's been a staunch vegetarian for 2 or 3 years, and you know what she's got on her menu? Freakin' meatloaf.

I'm distractedly tired, so let's cut to the chase.

Liz's Last Meal Menu:

- Spanakopita. An impossibility, but I'd have it the way my grandmother used to make it - the old Albanian way: with cottage cheese replacing the usual feta so that it's oh so creamy and perfect. We called it "spinach pie," and it is honestly one of the things I miss most about holidays from my childhood.

- Lobster.

- A custard from Anderson's. Twist. On a sugar cone, please.

- An assortment of expensive sushi.

- 4 slices of bacon.

- Veal parmesan.

Day 10 - a picture of you and your best friend(s)

2010-12-30T21:35:00.000-08:00

First: The King's Speech was phenom.

Second: My computer is kaput. Meaning my picture selection is limited to what's already posted on facebook. Meaning these pictures are old and outdated. But still, they represent some of the best times spent with some of the best people.

One of many nights spent dancing in Marty's basement to The Who with the lovely Jessica Page and Christina Patti. The Keystone Light can is just a prop. We were drinking something much better...yeah.

I often feel wistful for the carefree exuberance that we felt in these photos. I mean, I had red hair and a rainbow flag - life just doesn't get better than that.

This shot includes a few of my favorite people. On a gorgeous spring day by the water. Oh, to be young again. jk. but really.

2010-12-22T13:53:00.001-08:00

We interrupt this 30 days (or 30 weeks...) challenge to bring you the Gabriel quote of the day:

Aunt Liz: "So Gabe, where does Santa live? He lives at the North Pole, right?"

Gabe: "Yeah. And at the mall, too."

Day 9 - a song that makes you cry. good or bad cry.

2010-12-19T18:55:00.000-08:00

I am a champion crier. Beauty and the Beast? Cry. A sublime line from Shakespeare? Cry. Stumbling upon a forgotten toy from my childhood? Tissues, please.

I don't know what it is. People used to tell me I was devoid of emotion. They would say: "Liz, you need to tell me when you're excited or mad because I can never tell what you're actually feeling." But the truth is: I am incredibly emotional. I feel huge feelings all the time. At every little thing. But those feelings are for me. I don't broadcast them. Just me being my solitary, introverted self.

So, ahem, sad song?

Wild Horses, as covered by The Sundays

&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/iframe&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;br&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;

This song has made me cry on more than one occasion. Was it a good or bad cry? Probably good. I love crying. Usually. It's so refreshing. Also, I will bawl at mostly anything from Sufjan Steven's Michigan album. And U2's All I Want is You. God, that song makes me ache all over.

Day 8 - your favorite movie of all time

2010-12-04T21:15:00.000-08:00

Like I said, I don't do favorites. So this is like, I dunno, one of my top movies. Top 10? Top 50? Something like that.

As Good As it Gets, 1997

It's funny, it's sad, it's romantic. Greg Kinnear is a doll. And the dog is cute in that ugly-dog way, which is the best kind of cute. If this movie is on TV, I'll probably put the remote down. I think that qualifies as a favorite. All time? Sure. Why the hell not.

If my posts have been less than bombastic (which is what I aim for) blame it on 60-hour work weeks. The writer'y part of my brain is sloppy.

Day 7 - who you would meet, if you could meet anyone you wanted

2010-11-29T13:07:00.000-08:00

Since most of my icons tend to be literary: Sebastian Flyte from Brideshead Revisited.

1. He epitomizes youthful decadence and beauty.
2. He carries around a teddy bear named Aloysius.
3. He is perpetually drunk. (he meets Brideshead's protagonist after vomiting through his dorm window...)
4. His name is Sebastian.
5. He has an extraordinarily dysfunctional Catholic family.
6. He would be like a fabulous gay best friend. Every gal needs one of those.
7. He says things like: "Charles! You're to come away at once. I've got a basket of strawberries and a bottle of Chateau Peyraguey, which isn't a wine you've ever tasted so don't pretend."

Such a shame that most of my favorite people are not actually people at all.

Day 6 - anything that makes you smile, every time

2010-11-18T10:12:00.000-08:00

Dudley Moore's narration in Milo and Otis. Soooooo good!

Day 5 - a song that brings back good memories

2010-11-17T19:41:00.000-08:00

I can see myself changing my mind immediately after this is posted. But I'm sticking with the first song that popped into my head:

Wednesday Morning, 3 AM by Simon and Garfunkel

It was the first month that I met Paul and we played this while carving pumpkins in his apartment. It was perfectly Autumn. And I very much knew that I completely loved the first boy of my life. And this song (and most of the subsequent tracks) always remind of how that felt. How that feels.

Day 4 - an actor who you think is underrated and why

2010-11-16T16:48:00.000-08:00

There are several ways we could go about this, depending on one's definition of "underrated." Are we talking about those unlucky thespians who, however well-liked and respected, have been criminally overlooked by the Academy? Because that list runs for miles. Or perhaps we go with a total no-name, one of those brilliant performers whose talent hasn't yet hit the mainstream? Or we could take underrated to mean those actors whose talent goes unnoticed because they are associated with the fluffy crapola movies they star in. A la Leo Dicaprio minus 13 years. (thank heavens he surfaced from the murky depths of Titanic...though, hell, who doesn't love that shit!)

Hm. This is weird, maybe, but I'm going with John C. Reilly. Sure, he's in a couple Will Ferrell stupidhead movies. But he's ALSO in Magnolia and The Hours. AND he's awesome in both.

Admittedly, I didn't understand a damn thing about Magnolia, but it was interesting nonetheless. Reilly was grand. I thought. I'm not up to elaborating, so take it or leave it.

Day 3 - your favorite band/singer and why

2010-11-15T14:39:00.000-08:00

The Beatles

Favorite bands work on a sort of rotating basis. One album will hold your attention for weeks on end, then it's something new that wins you over. Maybe I'm being uncreative with my choices here, but that's how favorites work for me - my favorite things are familiar things, old things, things that cozily signify the best times. And The Beatles have been with me for as long I can remember.

Want to drive me up a wall? - tell me that The Beatles are overrated. That kills me.

This band has so many different sounds, so many different looks.

George was my favorite guy. Abbey Road is my favorite album. Don't ask me my favorite song.

Day 2 - your favorite song of all time

2010-11-12T12:20:00.000-08:00

I'm terrible at favorites. I'd be hard-pressed to come up with a top 10 songs of all time, so asking me to single out one favorite song is like asking me which of my children I love best (though, that's probably easier than most protesting parents would allow you to believe).

I'm picking a song that is probably an obvious choice, but whatever 30 days challenge - who doesn't get goosebumps from Jeff Buckley's version of "Hallelujah?" I try to only play this song on special occasions because I don't want its gorgeousness to ever wear off. If that makes sense. It does to me. This song is so achingly sorrowful and sublimely uplifting at the same time. Play it after a night of drinking while sitting on a porch in the cold of winter. Good stuff.

Day 1 - your life story in 8 sentences

2010-11-08T19:50:00.000-08:00

After a 7-year birthing hiatus my parents decided to give this Catholic stuff another go, so I was conceived and named after a popular American Saint. Walking was a skill I was slow to master, but my mom says it was because I was so content to sit and observe all the beautiful new things right at my fingertips. Thankfully this grew into a full-time occupation, and the past 24 years have afforded me a wealth of heavenly items to marvel at. The first decade of my existence was a blissful one, spent in hand-me-down plaid jumpers, summer Bible school, and sweet ignorance. Things got hairy once I turned 11, but that's a fact found in most life stories, even 8-sentence ones isn't it? Nowadays I balance a tightrope poised between unequivocal joy and a sort of anxious melancholy, but I've learned to waste no time repositioning myself should I falter. Falling in love has always been my favorite thing. To date, I have fallen in love 6,294 times.

30 days challenge

2010-11-08T19:46:00.000-08:00

Day 1- your life story in eight sentences.

Day 2- your favorite song of all time.

Day 3- your favorite band/singer, and why.

Day 4- an actor who you think is underrated and why.

Day 5- a song that brings back good memories.

Day 6- anything that makes you smile, every time.

Day 7- who you would meet, if you could meet anyone you wanted.

Day 8- your favorite movie of all time.

Day 9- a song that makes you cry. good or bad cry.

Day 10- a picture of you and your best friend.

Day 11- your favorite meal to eat for dinner.

Day 12- anything that makes you smile, every time.

Day 13- your favorite book/series of books.

Day 14- what’s happened in the past two weeks, in eight sentences.

Day 15- a song that reminds you of someone important in your life.

Day 16- a picture of you doing a school/recreational sport.

Day 17- a YouTube video you could watch a billion times and never get bored.

Day 18- anything that makes you smile, every time.

Day 19- your favorite place to go, out of state.

Day 20- something that makes you sad every time you see/hear/watch it.

Day 21- your favorite thing to do in the summer, with who.

Day 22- a song on the radio that you actually don’t mind.

Day 23- a picture you found on Tumblr that you’ll never forget.

Day 24- anything that makes you smile, every time.

Day 25- five things you want to accomplish in before the end of the year.

Day 26- a picture or video of yourself 5-10 years ago.

Day 27- a picture or video of yourself taken within the past week.

Day 28- a song that will always make you happy.

Day 29- something happening in the next month that you’re very excited for.

Day 30- anything that makes you smile, every time

(yes, Maureen, I copied this from your tumblr the day I say it.)

walk like an egyptian

2010-11-01T20:42:00.000-07:00

And I'm onto my final unread Jane Austen novel. Lift your hands up.

Squirrely vomit-inducing family drama-rama aside, the following has my tummy in a bind:

1. check engine light, flitting in and out of existence.
2. check brakes light, ditto.
3. balding tires.
4. um, no heat. which, IMO, is the most distressing item since I like live in Buffalo. And it's November.

But I won't let the Silver Bullet get me down because I had a mighty fine weekend. Halloween is the only holiday that actually gets radder once you become an adult. Christmas, Thanksgiving, eh. More depressing than anything, and they're usually workdays for me, anyway. Halloween, on the other hand, is always a good time. Provided you don't spend it with your head in the toilet. As kids you get to eat all the candy you want; as adults you get to drink all the beer you want. Maybe try the best of both worlds with a Sam Adams Chocolate Bock. Whoa baby.

Tanget: I sat Rick Jeanneret at work. Always cool to encounter sports-related celebrities (sort of). Except for that one time when Paul Gaustad's girlfriend/date was totally rude to me. Skank.

the rape scene went pretty well

2010-10-19T21:00:00.000-07:00

Please, will someone do "The Night Man Cometh" with me for Halloween?

2010-10-08T22:35:00.000-07:00

I got a new job.

Wait.

I'm sounding repetitive, I know.

I got ANOTHER new job. Because things never go as planned. When I have a sec I'll tell you about how things never go as planned. No promises, though. I'm pretty booked, and I'm pretty pooped.

But I will say: Chef Ramsey is hot. In his way.

That's it.

the extent of my interest in politics = inane youtube videos

2010-10-04T14:34:00.000-07:00

2010-09-13T18:38:00.000-07:00

Someone in the mood to gimmie a present? Just for being as kick-ass as I am? Alrighty then.

I can't help myself: I'm addicted to "Modcloth.com." I want eeeeeverything!

so pretty. so cute. so weeeeee!

2010-09-08T12:57:00.001-07:00

Christ Almighty. If there's one thing I've learned from my 16-hour work day (with a two hour interval between jobs) it's this:

Jobs that don't involve customers are infinitely superior to those that do.

Last week I was all like, "P-shaw, I can totally be one of those sleepless types who fuel themselves with bottomless cups of espresso and 90-calorie granola bars, racing from job number 1 to job number 2. No sweat, baby."

At first, things seemed promising. Expectedly, I was on the groggy side, but that was a small price to pay for all the cash I'd soon be funneling into my bank account.

But one (then two, then three, then four) customers from the deepest layer of Hades supplied me with more than enough reason to say: Why the fuck bother with this?! Seriously, I'm thinking one non-customer job is plenty.

I know - bad customers are such a cliched complaint from anyone who has to deal with them. But holy hell. I used to really like people. Now I only "like" people with a sour taste of distrust so foul I automatically barricade my soul for protection. If I continue to allow customers to blugeon my sunny free-spirit to a bloody pulp I may never regain purity of consciousness again. I don't like this me. People who aren't even rude to me annoy me. Which doesn't even make sense, so the solution is to NOT work with customers anymore. Fine.

This library computer timer is making me feel edgy, so over and out.

2010-09-02T12:59:00.000-07:00

Bring on the Oktoberfest brews!

I got a new job.

Kurt Vonnegut is funnier than I ever knew. And I never knew because I had this crazy idea in my head that only snobby hipsters liked him. I mostly like to envision him as a kooky 84-year old grandfatherly type. But that's just me.

And -

have you heard about the Bird House kids yet? Lately, they've been squeezing their way into a solid number of my conversations. Then, lo and behold, there they are on the front page of Sunday's paper.

Here's the skinny: about 5 years ago a group of young people took it upon themselves to fix up a deteriorating mansion on Bird Avenue in Buffalo. The squatters rode bikes everywhere, hit up dumpsters for groceries, set up a kind of communal living situation. People can crash there for a few days and then move on.

Two of the original residents went on to purchase homes and vacant lots on Normal Avenue where they carry on the Bird House legacy. They have vegetable gardens and a bee hive. They scout for curbside furniture and appliances. They pick up odd jobs to make ends meet.

The thing I find so appealing about their chosen lifestyle lies in its simplicity. Hinged on that is their sense of freedom. Shove aside all hippie propaganda about organic this and community that - I just like the idea of not being bogged down with so much stuff.

Says 25-year old Rich Majewski, "Most people my age are heavily in debt. They've got nothing to their names and owe everyone else in the world an average of $50,000. Why would you do that? That doesn't work."

These people don't work less hours because they're lazy (or maybe that's part of it). But really, they don't work loads of hours because they don't need to buy new clothes or iPods or brake pads for their cars.

They don't need those things, so they don't need as much money, so they don't work as many hours, so they get to enjoy their lives.

Which, for young people without kids or spouses, makes total sense.

Doesn't it?

2010-08-25T09:09:00.000-07:00

So, I have a blog?

oh.

free movies, we love you!

2010-07-09T21:39:00.000-07:00

I'm baffled by people who don't think Steve Carell is funny. I mean, I get people who don't like, say, Will Ferrell. Or Adam Sandler, even. Maybe.

Regardless.

His voice for Gru in Despicable Me was nothing short of genius. Personally, I like kids' movies more than most things these days, so there you go. Another flimsy post propped up with photos. Of cartoon characters, no less. Woe is me.

And one more. Because these yellow dudes are just about the best thing in almost any movie.

I want a minion!

2010-07-06T20:57:00.000-07:00

Thanks to Google's creative headers, I pretty much know the anniversary of everything.

So - Happy birthday, Frida Kahlo. Your paintings scare the hell out of me, and I saw your blue house in Mexico and I loved it.

2010-07-05T17:39:00.000-07:00

Man, I hate when I’m holding a cup of coffee and I sneeze. Coffee all over.

I pulled into my driveway last night around 12-ish, and there was a troupe of flannel-clad teenagers carousing in my lawn. Once they noticed me it must have dawned on them that they were in the wrong yard, so they clumsily felt their way next-door. It seemed innocent enough, except for one girl (who, from their yelling, I gathered was called “Jamie”) This poor Jamie girl was absolutely blackout drunk, the kind of drunk you never want to be, especially at age 14.

I pretended to get stuff out of my trunk so that I could figure out if this girl was laughing hysterically or sobbing uncontrollably (strange how those two things can sound the same) Definitely sobbing. Moaning, actually. For a bit I thought she was on some kind of nasty drug trip, but her vehement declarations that she would “NEVER drink again” cleared that up.

The prospect of offering a glass of water or a ride home or a bucket to puke in crossed my mind. Mainly because her friends weren’t helping her out at all. But then, I sort of hate teenagers. I went up to bed, but not to sleep because I could hear EVERYTHING these kids were saying from my open window.

Jamie: “I just wanna go home! I just wanna go home! I just wanna go home!!!” (I’m almost certain Jamie is my next-door neighbor, so I’m baffled as to why she didn’t just march inside and go to bed.)

Other girls: “Jamie, shut the fuck up!”

Jamie: “I’ve hooked up with all of you, except you! I’ve hooked up with all of you, except you!"

Other girls: “Jamie, shut up or your mom is going to come outside!” (How did she not?!)

Jamie: “I can’t help it. Someone tell me where I’m going! Get away from me!”

Scuzzy teenage boys: “Not to change the subject…but who do you think has the best chest here? You girls wanna show us?”

Jamie: “He kissed me, but he only wanted you. He kissed me, but he only wanted you!” (piss-drunk teenagers tend to repeat themselves ad-infinitum)

I should have been at least a little peeved, but they were amusing enough. More than enough.

I'd say this 4th of July weekend was a major success.

because he speaks to me...

2010-06-28T08:40:00.000-07:00

who knows if the moon's

who knows if the moon's
a balloon,coming out of a keen city
in the sky--filled with pretty people?
(and if you and i should

get into it,if they
should take me and take you into their balloon,
why then
we'd go up higher with all the pretty people

than houses and steeples and clouds:
go sailing
away and away sailing into a keen
city which nobody's ever visited,where

always
it's
Spring)and everyone's
in love and flowers pick themselves

- E. E. Cummings

2010-06-24T21:26:00.000-07:00

I’ve kept a journal since I was nine years old. And from my fairly sizable stack of composition notebooks, my favorites have got to be the ones that cover my traveling experiences. Not to toot my own horn or anything, but they are a riot. Probably because I was so drunk on the marvelous stuff all around me. So every single sentence, every syllable had to exude the same degree of passion that I felt.

But it wasn’t all intoxication and excitement. Some of it was downright silliness. I came across the following, amidst colorful descriptions of sunrises and the black sand beaches of Santorini:

“Emily and I concocted a wild story about an Egyptian-bound cruise ship from Canada with maple syrup dripping off the sides, which was attacked by whales with knife-like tongues. It became shipwrecked; Sara lassoed the whales to bring us to safety. We made it to an island of flowing rum & coke and ice cream plants. And Nutella grew from the trees, but we didn’t have any crackers! We met the natives, who were half-whale, half-human. And then we found an underground passageway to the lost city of Atlantis where we found Mike Meravali chatting it up with the underwater creatures. Then we took our rocketship to the moon.”

Wha?

A thought: I think it’s really sad when I go back and read old journals, and there are phrases & quotes that were obviously inside jokes at one time, but I can’t for the life of me remember what the hell they mean.

2010-06-16T20:46:00.000-07:00

Bacchus Wine Bar Summer Film Series:

Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Animal House

Wednesday, September 15, 2010
The Big Chill

Wednesday, September 08, 2010
Legends of the Fall

Wednesday, September 01, 2010
Jaws

Wednesday, August 25, 2010
The Devil Wears Prada

Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Tommy Boy

Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Office Space

Wednesday, August 04, 2010
The Hangover

Wednesday, July 28, 2010
The Dark Knight

Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Do The Right Thing

Wednesday, July 14, 2010
The Big Lebowski

Wednesday, July 07, 2010
Anchor Man

Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Little Miss Sunshine

Wednesday, June 23, 2010
As Good As it Gets

Wednesday, June 16, 2010
American Beauty

Wednesday, June 09, 2010
The Color of Money

Wednesday, June 02, 2010
Enter the Dragon

2010-06-10T19:40:00.000-07:00

Correct me if I'm wrong, but I truly cannot think of a better high than stumbling upon something that inspires writing. Scratch that - there's loads of things that are a better high (i.e. first kisses, Sam Beam's murmurs, fat paychecks, cuddling with puppies)

But oh sweet Jesus, artistic inspiration is like lightning from heaven! Especially when it's run dry for a while.

mmmm hmmmm.

In other news, I shaved Paul's gorgeous head of hair into a mohawk. He looks ridiculous, but he sort of deserves it for having such unforgivably gorgeous hair.

I'm a loser and I don't have Netflix, so I've been on a bit of a RedBox kick. I finally watched Crazy Heart, and it was superb. If I was male, I would want Maggie Gyllenhaal so bad. As it is, her brother will do just fine for me.

Speaking of ambiguous gender roles, I'm getting into Virgina Woolf - in my own way (which amounts to reading 1-2 of her books and then declaring myself an avid fan). Anyway, she's mad and killed herself so I'm bound to worship her.

2010-06-01T10:36:00.000-07:00

And if the whole pink moped thing doesn't pan out, I wouldn't mind treking one of these babies across America:

(van spotted at Letchworth State Park, 2010)

2010-05-24T21:18:00.000-07:00

In a perfect world, I would:

- own a bookstore with spiral staircases and moving ladders

- have long, thick hair

- drive a pink moped with a matching pink helmet

- cook vegetables from my own garden

- live in a secluded cottage with ivy scaling the stone chimney

- publish moving fiction in snooty journals that paid me handsomely

- understand Lost

2010-05-05T16:57:00.000-07:00

It's Cinco de Mayo! Exercise your God-given, American right to get loaded in the name of a holiday whose origins and significance you know nothing about! Lime margaritas and guacamole are on the house tonight!

this happens. this is something that happens.

2010-04-30T18:51:00.000-07:00

"And it is in the humble opinion of this narrator that strange things happen all the time. And so it goes, and so it goes." Magnolia, 1999.

"I'll tell you everything, and you'll tell me everything, and maybe we can get through all the piss and shit and lies that kill other people." Claudia Wilson Gator

"What am I doing? I'm quietly judging you." Frank T.J. Mackey

kid books that would rock on screen

2010-04-28T20:58:00.000-07:00

My nephews are finally getting to an age where I can read them stories. Personally, this is one those parenting things that I look forward to the most. That and Halloween costumes. In true Hall form, we still own all of our childhood books – really, the contents of our old bookshelves are the only items that I can justify keeping after all these years.

It’s really cool, though. Gabriel’s been fixated on Where the Wild Things Are (I think he identifies with Max). I’d like to get the recent movie version for him because it was so astoundingly inspired and lovely. Film adaptations of classic children’s lit can make me a bit uneasy, but this one was superb. It got me thinking – what other kid books would make killer movies? And then I compiled a list. Because that’s what I do.

Liz's Top Picks for Kids Books that Should be Made into Movies (as it stands after 2 minutes of thought):

The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupery – Ok, so they actually DID attempt a movie version of this French masterpiece in 1974. My roommate and I checked it out of the library once, but it was rotten. They added all these super lame songs – it was just dumb. I don’t know. I adore this book, and I adore it exactly as it is – as a book. But I still think someone in the world must be creative and insightful enough to pull this adaptation off.

The Rainbow Goblins by Count Ul de Rico – If you were never lucky enough to have had this story read to you as a child, I feel bad for you. My soul ached the first time I looked at it as an adult. The illustrations captivated me as a kid – my sisters and I would just stare at the rich, drippy, vibrant pictures forever. Then we would laugh at the last page because it showed one of the goblin’s naked butts. I’m inclined to think Tim Burton could direct this shit out of this book-turned-movie. Only because it’s so dark and visually gripping. But then, his Alice in Wonderland was mediocre, at best. So.

Beezus and Ramona by Beverly Clearly – Ol’ Bev was my number 1. Beezus and Ramona was my favorite of all her “Ramona” books because it cut Beezus some slack. I always identified with Beezus since she was the older, more serious sister who didn’t demand everyone’s attention 24/7. After I started writing this entry, I did a little youtube action for trailers since I'd heard someone was making this movie already. I felt a little woozy after watching - ok, this is mostly diehard nostalgia talking, but - the friendship between Beezus and Henry Huggins is, well, sacred. And linking the two romantically - just yuck. C'mon people. Way to choke my childhood dreams. (Also, they got the title wrong by reversing the two names - this book is about BEEZUS! GEEZ...)

A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L’Engle – This book is so strange and almost frightening and I could probably pick it up today and be just as mesmerized as the 11-year-old version of myself. There was a made-for-TV version several years ago that I’m pretty sure my mom taped for me and then I never watched it.

You can’t go wrong with Dr. Seuss (or can you?) At any rate, I’m patiently awaiting production of his pro-nature The Lorax. Woot WoOt.

Also, will someone just get the darn Hobbit done soon! The world needs a Tolkien movie sans Elijah Wood pronto!

say what

2010-04-26T17:05:00.000-07:00

Most of my customers fall into 1 of 3 categories:

A. Customer arrives at box office window only to forget the title of their movie ("It's uh...uh...uh...that one...you know, the one with that girl...that girl with brown hair...you know what I'm talking about, right???")

B. Customer has no clue about anything in the universe. ("So, I'm in a movie theatre, yeah? Right then. So, what's playing now? What's that about? Did you see it? Who's in it? Who directed it? How much do tickets cost? What about 3D tickets? Do I buy the 3D glasses from you? What's Imax? What's the square root of pi? Why am I such a lousy person that makes everyone behind me wait 10 minutes while I decide what piece of Hollywood trash to waste 10 bucks on? I suck.")

Or -

C. (my favorite) Customer invents his/her own title.

From this past weekend: (See how many you can guess!)

Death of a Salesman (*for Death at a Funeral)

Backdoor Backup Plan (*for The Backup Plan) - sounds like a bad porno.

Kiss Ass (*for Kick Ass) - funnier, because it was ordered by a 100-year-old woman with dentures and a walking cane.

Diary of a Mad Wimpy Kid - conflating Diary of a Mad Black Woman & Diary of a Wimpy Kid

A wide variety of How to [Slay, Kill, Beat] Your Dragon/Dinosaur. Quite the reverse of how to TAME.

By the way, this was one of my favorite movies in a LONG time.

Toothless is so friggin' cute.

2010-04-17T10:22:00.000-07:00

Hey Sabres – please stay in the playoffs long enough for me to get myself to Party in the Plaza at some point. Thanks.

I love Lady Gaga. Weird.

I hate anagrams. Really.

So today was designated “Clean Out My Life Day.” I threw out mix CD’s from ex-boyfriends. Filled a wastebasket with uncompleted to-do lists. Found some stinky t-shirts jammed behind furniture. I even gathered a smashed up bunch of receipts and organized them according to the date.

I dumped out my bathroom drawer. Threw out about 60 crusty mascara tubes (why do I hold on to those?) and realized I have five (no joke) opened deodorant sticks. I’m afraid I have no explanation for that. Things like that give me the jeepers, makes me think I might have inherited my mom’s obsessive hoarding tendencies. Ugh, yuck, gross. No way.

Truly, (and this crushes my soul to say) when I watch TLC’s Hoarders, I’m not really all that aghast or freaked out. A little, but not a lot. Because my own house could be a serious contender for the show. It’s like one of those things you grow up with your whole life, so it’s just normal to you (like weird Catholic rituals…). Anyway, one day it occurred to me – this is not just messy clutter. This is straight-up loony bin material. But what can you do? Well, I’ll tell you: nothing. Unless it involves a very talented shrink and an even more talented volunteer clean-up crew, nothing. So it goes.

But life is life and after all, we all have a smidge of crazy in us. The lucky ones get a whole bunch. And the very luckiest possess a bright madness that shows them the prettiest sides of the universe.

2010-04-13T21:27:00.000-07:00

Only because I don't want April to end up entirely blog-free:

Gorgeous, gorgeous man.

(and Maureen - this was weird... as I was about to post this, I was scrolling your site and saw that you posted the Paolo Nutini version of this song. Bizzaro)

2010-03-08T20:33:00.000-08:00

Hands down, the most comforting thing on the planet: hugging a bundle of hot laundry fresh from the dryer.

Academy Awards 2010: dull to the max (yet oddly satisfying in its predictability).

Latest predicament: ran out of nail polish remover halfway through nail polish removal. whatta I do now?!

fat fat fatty

2010-03-06T12:57:00.001-08:00

I'm finding it increasingly difficult to watch the Travel Channel while maintaining a healthy body weight. Since when did this channel morph into some hybrid Food Network concoction? I'm not complaining, though. It's unexplainable, but any show that features 15-pound burgers - I cannot look away. All the while I'm pounding fistfuls of nachos into my face. Yum.

2010-03-02T12:14:00.000-08:00

Holy cow. These above-freezing temps have triggered some serious premature spring fever.
I need to be outside.
I need to be barefoot.
I need to eat fresh fruit and put wildflowers in vases and wear cotton dresses.
So close, yet so far away. So very, very far.

Other than that, Paul let me drive his stick-shift Volvo yesterday. It was buckets of fun.

I stole a ring out of the "lost and found" at work.

LOST is on tonight! la, la, la.

My 2010 Shakespeare Mission is going well, though I'll be happy once I finish this blasted 3-part Henry VI. Good grief.

"So, what does 3D mean?"....Really? No. Shut up.

2010-02-09T10:14:00.000-08:00

We love the sun, yes yes. Also, Jeff Buckley's vocal chords and birthdays on Fat Tuesday.

So - ten nominations for Best Picture? Why? Scrolling the list, I'm pretty sure I could whittle it down to five. Ten is just so excessive. I have this sinking feeling that Avatar will bring it home. I mean it was ok. But I hate those people who come out of the theatre all wide-eyed and wide-jawed like "OHMYGAWD that was the BEST movie I've ever seen in my ENTIRE LIFE!!!" It was good, but it wasn't that good. Not "Best Picture" good.

Plus, it's difficult for me to ignore the fact that 50 consecutive days of sold-out shows has transformed me into a fire-breathing curmudgeon of death. Honest to God, I am not myself lately, no thanks to Mr. Cameron. So yeah. He's got that against him. Did he not receive enough adulation with Titanic? Down with Avatar and its insanely ludicrous dialogue!

I still have to see The Hurt Locker and An Education to make up my mind about who deserves a win. I was watching Up in the Air again today and God - it still blows me away. A brilliant, smart, effective movie. Def a fave of 2009.

Now I'm going to eat my free ice cream from the Top's Monopoly game.

my computer works again!

2010-02-06T16:38:00.000-08:00

If Avatar wins "Best Picture" I will throw up.

There's more to be said on the subject, but I'm just not up to it. Later.

mean people can be funny!

2010-02-01T16:58:00.000-08:00

The blatant ill-will and downright snarky cruelty possessed by an overwhelming segment of the American population will never cease to astonish and bewilder my naturally polite and obliging sensibilities. Call me naive, charge me with unfounded optimism or too buoyant a personality - but I truly just can't get my mind around mean people.

Stupid people I can stomach, mostly. Who doesn't get a slight touch of the dum-dums from time to time? But unwarranted rudeness, deliberate nastiness - it just doesn't register.

There are, thankfully, those rare but oh so sublime occasions in which a mean-spirited individual with every intention of breaking someone down, inadvertently makes me giggle. Or laugh uproariously.

A personal favorite is witnessing beastly customers duke it out with EACH OTHER. Nothing satisfies the soul like a pair of ruffled suburbanites physically (and forcefully) shoving each other in impatient frustration. This weekend, though, a certain dissatisfied customer topped them all. Her comment card read:

"Spent $52 on tickets (Glenn Beck/O' Reilly show) and $25 on snacks. Think you guys could spare some soap for people using the bathroom. HOPE YOUR FAMILY GETS SWINE FLU!!!"

ha. ha. ha!

I have about 600 responses that I could slam in this woman's face. But it's not even worth it. It's sad - she will never know how hard she made me laugh. Or the fact that you're supposed to mail comment cards to our corporate office. Or that we shredded that comment card to bits. After we all had a good round of hearty laughter.

Thanks lady!

up in the air...i wish.

2010-01-26T20:07:00.000-08:00

After spending the past hour perusing an old travel journal from my semester abroad, I believe I've found the solution to my mind-numbing world-weariness: Priceline.com

Seriously...my customary carefree, chill state of mind has degenerated into an abysmal cavern of apathy. One good ol' plane ticket oughta jumpstart all enthusiasm gone astray. Because, God, I was so damn excited about EVERYTHING when I was traveling. Fun things happened. Like all the time. Even the bad things that happened were fun. Sleeping on the streets was fun and spilling beer in your opened suitcase was fun. I miss that kind of fun. I miss this:

[excerpt from "Liz's Austria Journal" written during a 20-plus hour boat ride to Greece, circa October 2005]

"Claire and Phil and I spent the night in a freezing stairwell. It was 8 am, I was fast asleep. Suddenly, I'm startled awake to Phil yelling, "PASSPORTS!!! PASSPORTS!!!" So I get mine out and I'm all out-of-it and then I look around and realize - there's no one there. Bastard."

My life used to be so cool. Heh.

This weekend did present a break from what I like to think are the longest 3 months of Buffalo (Jan -March = HELL). Paul and I roadtripped it out to Washington D.C. for the March for Life, stopping in at State College along the way to pick up a friend. In all honesty, the march was mostly an excuse to get out of Buffalo and to visit with Paul's nephew and nieces in Virginia. Highlights from the trip include dancing to Hall and Oats at a bar, one meal abundant with avocados, and playing outside in reasonable temperatures.

the world must be peopled!

2010-01-06T16:04:00.000-08:00

In my book, the ubiquitous New Year's Rez is a total wash, but since I'm hooked on list-making and I'm certainly no stranger to failure, I usually jot down a few hopefuls.

This year, though, I'm circumventing all crash diets and vague resolve to "become a writer" (as meaningless a phrase as "going green") by keeping the list down to two (you heard me) goals for 2010:

1. Drink more water. I like this one because it's virtually impossible to fail. Also, it's free.

2. Slightly more challenging, I hearby declare 2010 the year of Sir William Shakespeare. Meaning I will buckle down and work my way through all 37 of his plays. (we're not talking sonnets here - blech) Then I will watch film versions with Kenneth Branagh.

So that's that. More H20. And more cross-dressing lovers than I'll know what to do with.

oh, the books I could fill with these babies...

2009-12-03T21:50:00.000-08:00

stupid customer: "Can I please have a ticket for Savvi?"

employee: "Excuse me?"

stupid customer: "Savvi?"

employee: "um...could you point to the movie you want?"

stupid customer ::points to Saw VI::

employee: "Uh, oh. You mean Saw VI?"

no thanks

2009-12-02T21:52:00.000-08:00

I've been sitting with this keyboard perched on my lap for 20 minutes now. In that time I have typed 3 opening sentences to this entry, all of which were frantically deleted into oblivion. Fuck me.

I won't reduce my recent lack of productive writing to any conveniently packaged "writer's block." In truth, it's tied more to a state of being that I loathe more than Stephanie Meyers. (In all fairness, I've never read Twilight. I am actually just that much of a snob.)

It pains me to even bring up the word. It's so ugly. But if you have to know, I haven't been writing because I am so damn BORED. Phew. I haven't said that since the fourth grade. It feel so juvenile to admit to boredom at my age, which is why I'd never ever say it aloud. Can you imagine what that would sound like? A twenty-three old woman who is supposed to be starting out, enjoying everything life has to offer...and she's what? Bored?

But I am. Bored with Buffalo. Bored with babies. Bored with cold weather and facebook status updates and people who talk about their cell phones.

You see, boredom is a killer precisely because it allows you to see how empty your life really is.

But, I think, if you can get over the fact that your life is mostly empty (or that you see it as mostly empty) then you can make a change. So that you won't be so bored. And then you could be excited about life again. And then you could get back to writing. And writing, in any amount, might be enough to keep you in the game.

santa's little helper

2009-11-09T16:24:00.000-08:00

I don't give a hoot about all the negative crits out there. I thoroughly enjoyed Men Who Stare at Goats. George Clooney+Jeff Bridges+Kevin Spacey+Ewan McGregor...could you ask for more? Apparently, you could. But I wouldn't.

I am tempted by the following ad I found on Craigslist:

Santa's and Elves Wanted!

You bring the Jolly- We'll bring the suit!

Want to make some extra cash for this Christmas? Up to 20+ per hour?

Do you love performing and interacting with young children?

TEC Entertainment is an entertainment company looking for great people to portray popular christmas characters this winter at parties and events!

We provide the costume and supplies, you bring your amazing acting abilities!

If you have your own costume- it's a plus- please send us a photo. Each job ranges from 1-2 hours or more. Jobs booked by an on-call basis.

No previous experience necessary! Will train! We are currently scheduling interviews reply today!

ahead by a century

2009-11-04T17:31:00.000-08:00

Because she had the requisite bob haircut, a co-worker decided to go as a flapper for Halloween. Chatter about cigarette holders, swinging necklaces, and high heels ensued. I gushed about how much I love 20's fashion.

And then it occurred to me:

By the time I have grandchildren of my own, I won't be able to say things like "I dig '50's nostalgia" or "'20's fashion is resurfacing" (not that I'd ever want to say things like that).

As a member of a generation that essentially straddles 2 centuries - one foot planted firmly in the tumultuous 20th, another tiptoeing tenuously into a new slew of undefined decades - there will come a time that requires us to specify not only a decade but also a century in casual conversation. Our grandchildren will identify with their OWN 20's...a decade that will, I'm sure, diverge in every way possible from its 20th century counterpart. We'll have to disengage automatic associations and rewire the way we define the 30's, 40's...even my beloved 60's. With time, those decades will have to be permanently fastened to their "19__" prefix in order to make any sense.

It's strange, to me at least, that my generation will live through decades I associate with history textbooks and vintage art posters.

And since I opened this post with a reference to Halloween costumes, I feel like it's ok to jump back a bit and say that, after much deliberation (too much, really), we went with Team Zissou apparel. Easy, cheap, hip.

another case of the crazies

2009-10-26T17:44:00.000-07:00

That's it. I am so over delegating this year's costume search to Google. One more exposed bosom falling out of gray sweater combo that looks like it was swagged from the closet of a sluttier version of Hermione Granger, and I am going to upchuck the remnants of my spaghetti and meatballs dinner all over this laptop screen.

And Patrick's baptism? One quick anecdote should sum it up -

(I should preface this by stating loud and clear: my sister has more than one major mental illness. So family events are, as a rule, synonymous with uncomfortable conversation, wardrobe malfunctions, and wack-a-doos galore. I do not say this to be uncouth or insensitive. It's just the way things are.)

I am sitting at the kitchen table, munching on broccoli, trying to ignore the odd few people in the adjacent dining room as gracefully as I can. Who are these people? Where did they come from? I often ask myself how my sister ever manages to meet anyone (if you've met her once, you understand)...but then I remember: the people that she "facebooks," the people that she is perpetually texting while her children run wild, the people whom she considers worthy of a baptism party invite...these people are, for the most part, as crazy or crazier than herself. Which is why I was keeping myself occupied with broccoli. Broccoli is safe. It doesn't wear purple spandex pants or fanny packs. It doesn't hypothesize that the Swine Flu originated from aborted fetuses. And it certainly never snorts when it laughs.

Broccoli and I were enjoying ourselves just fine when one "them" crossed into our territory. I'm not a total snob nor am I lacking some sense of social decorum, so I said "Hello." Cheerfully. With a smile.

Apart from her peculiar getup and eyeliner run amuck, this girl seemed...OK.

Not so.

She says hello or its equivalent. Then...THEN - she grabs a bottle of wine. Scratch that - THE bottle of wine, the one and only for this particular occasion. At first, I don't think anything of it. That's what wine is for. It's on the counter for everyone's enjoyment. She pours a full glass, takes one sip, throws the rest in the trash. Without a word.

Horror! Charlene makes her trademark "only in our family" face and the girl leaves the room. At which point Charlene whispers, rather harshly (it was her wine, after all) - "that's the third time she's done that!!! She takes one sip, then throws it in the trash!!!! I can't believe it!!"

"I can."

It didn't take long before my mom hid what little remained of the bottle. Enter crazy girl again (sorry to call her that, but I don't remember her name). She rummages briefly around the counter, mumbling about how she wants some more wine, but she just has to be careful about how much she drinks. Too bad we don't have that luxury, sweetie. Even cheap wine costs moolah.

I remember having at least one conversation with this girl over the course of the afternoon. It was weird.

She also helped herself to a Labatt she found in the refrigerator, which was apparently enough to get this poor girl drunk because for the rest of the day she was glued to a kitchen chair, eyes roaming, head drooping -she really pulled out the works. Then she stood up and nearly fall flat on her face, practically taking the chair with her. To which she giggled "haha, I was just kidding."

i'm turning myself into a demon

2009-10-19T21:51:00.000-07:00

Fleet Foxes song titles are perfect for Fall. And their music... hot damn. This year, they are my go-to band for sunny Autumn afternoons (however far and few between they've been this season). I practically knocked over my second glass of beer when a local band started playing "Tiger Mountain Peasant Song" at a bar last Friday. Then they stopped after like 3 lines!!! Big wtf moment! I was so out of my mind that I marched right up to the singer and demanded an explanation.

"Why did you stop playing that song!?"

"Um, the drummer doesn't really know it."

"Well...can you just sing it then? You've got a guitar."

"Yeah. Uh, I think we're heading out though."

"Oh. You guys are awesome. Really, really good."

"Thanks."

"K. Bye!"

"Bye."

I'll be back later in the week with a run-down of baby Patrick's baptism. There's much to be said whenever the Halls gather under the guise of Catholic tradition. (teaser: one bitter divorcé, vomit, houseful of mentally deranged kooks)

Must go faster!

2009-10-15T23:03:00.000-07:00

It could be the scads of zombie/horror/slasher films that necessarily arrive with the dawn of October that triggered this thought:

I wonder what it's like to run for your life.

I mean like really, really running top-speed from what could be, potentially, a gruesome bloody end. A limb-tearing, flesh-shredding death. Involving, I dunno, a T-Rex...or a guy in a hockey mask.

The fangs of death dripping at your worn Keds.

Lungs bursting, your throat catching.

I mean, what would you be thinking about? Would you be kicking yourself for skipping out on the gym all season? Would you ever reach the point where you just couldn't take it anymore and you'd gladly choose a quick death over running one more second? I personally loathe running (I wish I liked it) so this would be an awful way to go. Running and running and running and then - dead. Damn.

Thankfully, it mostly just happens in the movies.

i'm feelin' you, walt

2009-10-12T19:14:00.000-07:00

This is what you shall do:

Love the earth and sun and the animals, despise riches, give alms to every one that asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income and labor to others, hate tyrants, argue not concerning God, have patience and indulgence toward the people, take off your hat to nothing known or unknown or to any man or number of men, go freely with powerful uneducated persons and with the young and with the mothers of families, read these leaves in the open air every season of every year of your life, re examine all you have been told at school or church or in any book, dismiss whatever insults your own soul, and your very flesh shall be a great poem and have the richest fluency not only in its words but in the silent lines of its lips and face and between the lashes of your eyes and in every motion and joint of your body. . .

Walt Whitman

this kid knows what's really important:

2009-09-29T17:48:00.000-07:00

raccoons. one of many joys awaiting you in Clarence.

2009-09-28T18:26:00.000-07:00

We've been having a raccoon problem lately. And by "we" I mean, of course, my mother whose birding (yep, that's a verb) obsession has drawn a good deal more than Cardinals and Nuthatches to the backyard. I'm actually surprised that she has the sense to label this a legitimate "problem" instead of following what I know is instinctual for her and embrace it as an “adventure.”

The thing is, we’re (again, why am I using plural pronouns?) – she’s not particularly choosy when it comes to bringing a new life into the Hall household (human or otherwise). Our house – and yard – operates under a sort of revolving door policy. People, babies, animals, furniture, food, etc. always going in, always coming out. Can’t say I share her sentiments, but my mom welcomes all of God’s creatures with open arms and loads of leftovers. Including skunks. Including stay felines with more diseases than a homeless prostitute from 18th century Europe. So.

So. I was surprised when she finally broke down and admitted that, although cute and cuddly from the distance of her wildlife magazines, she could no longer tolerate a 20-pound scavenger who was destroying her birdfeeders and devouring her birdseed.

I don’t like to think that I ever take Paul for granted, but it’s times like these when I especially appreciate his masculine I-can-put-this-together-in-5-seconds-flat approach to life. He set the trap with almost frightful eagerness, offering to grab his bowie knife, you know, in case my mom wanted a bloody pulp of fur to deal with in the morning. Thanks, Paul!

8 am comes around, and we race to the yard like tykes on Christmas morning. Yow-za. We had caught the Goliath of raccoons. And boy was he pissed-off. He was sputtering (in a non-rabies way…) and clawing, and there was no way in hell I was going near him. Naturally, Paul, being the can-do kind of man that he is, swooped up that cage (with gloves on, of course) and threw it into the back of his Volvo to trek it out to the country.

Relief. Except, maybe, for my mom who “felt bad for the poor thing since he might have a family in the area and now he’s going to be thrust into a foreign environment where he won’t know any of the other raccoons.”

Yeah.

That was about 3 weeks ago. And apparently Rocky still has some friends carousing the streets of Clarence because my mom’s birdfeeders continue to receive thrashings in the night. We set the trap again last Saturday. This time I was the one who felt guilty: “but it’s pouring rain, and what if he drowns!? Or catches pneumonia!??”

He didn’t catch so much as a cold. Because we didn’t catch him. No, we caught something much, much better. After a night of Monopoly and alcohol (always a good mix) at my sister’s, I knew something was up when my mom told us to check out the cage.

Hello Mr. Skunk.

Now what do we do!?! I literally had to google “how to release a skunk from a cage when you’re too moronic to get rid one lousy stinkin’ raccoon”

So, he’s still on the prowl. Demolishing one bird lover’s paradise at a time.

son of a bee sting!

2009-09-21T11:26:00.001-07:00

I am staring at my left thigh, about three inches above the knee - a dime-sized splotch of swollen pink skin with a red pin-prick of a dot in the center. I can't believe it - this weekend I got my first ever, ever bee-sting of my whole life. It didn't hurt as bad as I imagined it would, it just itched for a few minutes.

I'm mostly dissapointed that I've forever lost one of those rare "distinguishing facts" that you can use to introduce yourself in a group setting. "I've never, ever, ever been stung by a bee" works a lot better than "my favorite color is blue" when you're asked for your name, hometown, and "something interesting about yourself." Which I've always thought was a wretched, self-important way to start off any class/seminar/orientation/training etc. What difference does it make if you're double-jointed? How does that fact make you at all more interesting than the person in the next desk? I know such introductions are meant to be ice-breakers or a tool for instructors to remember your name. But they still suck. And now I have to go back to being that girl who's remembered by her favorite flower. At least until I can think of something better.

On a more postive note, I received the sting while lounging outside a coffeeshop in Cleveland yesterday. Paul and I spent the weekend visiting his great Aunt, who I can best describe as OLD. All mortifying restaurant fiascos with grumpy disatisfied old people aside, it was a delightful trip. And she was a delightful lady. (even though her gentleman friend, Dee, made me want to fall through the floorboards when he started giving our waitress hell... I thought I would die. I wanted to die.)

But it was a good chance to get away. To that end, I didn't care where we went. Or how many waitresses we upset.

Job? Apartments? Stable life? Puh-leeze.

2009-09-17T22:54:00.001-07:00

It's nearing 2 am. I can't drag myself away from Craigslist. Must. Find. An. Apartment. Tonight.

the horror! the horror!

2009-09-16T14:15:00.000-07:00

“Zola goes down into the sewer to take a bath; I, in order to cleanse it.” – Henrik Ibsen

I’ve re-entered my modern drama craze. I’d almost forgotten how much I enjoyed it. Also, had a fleeting temptation to re-read Heart of Darkness, but thankfully it passed. Two rounds of Conrad is quite enough, thank you.

Buffalove

2009-09-12T13:37:00.000-07:00

Overall, this has been what one might call a very “Buffalo” summer. Probably because it was Paul’s first in this “jewel” of Western New York and we had to show him the sights, so to speak. To keep him from jumping on the first plane home.

So, in our most Buffalonian way, we packed June to August with Labatt’s, Bison’s games with distant French relatives, city garden walks, zoo treks with too many babies and not enough hips to carry them.

There was the gluttonous Taste of Buffalo (too many people and smells, if you ask me) and the “oh-that’s-soooo-Buffalo” rainout of the much-anticipated Neko Case concert. (I’m still shaking my fist at the sky)

We did make it out to ArtPark to see Pink Floyd tribute band, The Machine, which was the most fun I’ve had in ages.

trippy laser show!

There were romantic dinners on Elmwood, awful dinners on the porch with screaming toddlers. There were parties in the country where we drank box wine and played washers. And, yes, there were about 600 times where I was mistaken as the mother of Marek, Gabriel or Michael.

But my favorite moment of summer? This award goes to my finally fulfilled goal of finding Rick James’s grave in Forest Lawn Cemetery. I especially liked the honorary 40 of Bud placed among the flowers.

Classic Buffalo.

ok, ok. Here's your post!

2009-09-11T19:44:00.000-07:00

At the behest of my sole reader, I am going to try to bulk up this blog with some actual writing.

Speaking of writing, I have been on FIRE the past two evenings. And by "on fire" I mean like 5-6 pages worth of half-decent story-ish stuff. Which is a lot for me because I'm the slowest writer this side of town.

David Sedaris is coming to UB October 1st. Tickets are like $36. More than my tightfisted self is willing to pay for almost anything these days. So I tried coming up with reasons why I should go:

1. I could take Theresa as a birthday gift. But then I realized if it was really a birthday gift, I'd have to buy her ticket, which would double that 36 bucks.

2. Ok. I could go with Paul for our anniversary (which we've decided pretty much coincides with Theresa's birthday). But then I realized he's never read a single Sedaris book, except for Holidays on Ice, which I bought him as a Christmas gift before I knew Paul well enough to know he has very different taste than me (at least as far as humorist books go). So that would be a pretty crummy anniversary present, for him anyway.

3. Well, dammit, I could still go. Then I did a little youtube action and found Sedaris reading on Letterman (a video that this blasted internet is not letting me post at the moment). Anyway, if you've never heard Sedaris speak - check. it. out. He has (I'm sorry) the faggiest voice on the planet. After listening to him for all of 4.2 seconds I decided I like him in book form better than in person. Still contemplating the splurge to see him, though. He is one of my favorites, after all.

What else?

Becky had her baby, so congrats to her. I apologize if it sounds off center for me to open my first blog in over a month about books and Sedaris readings and gay voices when my sister just had a baby. A baby being born should be a much bigger bit of news than a dry fruitcake reading at UB, right? Yeah, well. Babies are about all I deal with on a daily basis. So I have to talk about books and things that I actually like to keep my head on straight, if you follow my meaning.

Anyway, his name is Patrick Ryan, he's a little peanut, and he's a healthy little peanut.

...just kidding - this isn't a real blog post.

2009-08-10T22:16:00.000-07:00

Reasons I haven't been keeping up with this blog:

1. It's sunny out! That's a first.

2. Babies.

3. Lately, I've been focusing any meager scraps of writing oomph I have left into different areas. Only time will tell how that goes.

A real entry should be forthcoming. Hopefully a more compelling one. I just don't have it in me. There's a lot of family chaos and I feel like the shit's gonna hit the fan bigtime pretty soon.

I'm exhausted.

Stay tuned...

the continuing saga of a life with babies

2009-05-28T14:09:00.000-07:00

My sister, on Cheerios: "I sprinkle that shit like birdseed. On the carpet, the couch cushions, the damn toilet seat. It's like come and get it, feeding time!"

But seriously, Cheerios have overrun our home. Help!

(*note: I just googled "cheerios" and this baby picture popped up. No idea who she is. I'm well aware of the creep-o factor here. But it just worked for the blog, so stick it.)

It's gonna be a bright, bright sunshiny day

2009-05-27T17:36:00.000-07:00

Neko fucking Case is going to be at Thursday at the Square on July 23rd!!!! Be very, very excited!!!

and the rest of the line-up:

May 28: Gomez with Steel Train and Alberta Cross
June 4: An Evening With the Disco Biscuits
June 11: Robert Randolph & the Family Band with the Dana Fuchs Band
June 18: Better Than Ezra with Tyrone Wells
June 25: Los Loboswith Hill Country Revue
July 2: Zappa Plays Zappa
July 9: Los Lonely Boys
July 16: George Clinton & Parliament/Funkadelic
July 23: Neko Case
July 30: The Avett Brothers with Cornmeal

penny for your thoughts

2009-05-15T20:57:00.000-07:00

“Liz, tell me something.”

“What do you want me to tell you?”

“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. Tell me anything. Tell me something mind-blowing if you can.”

A few nights ago, I received the preceding request from a fellow co-worker. It’s a simple enough question. I could have said anything. I’ve never seen Karate Kid. I’m staunchly against texting. I think moral relativity is killing our nation.

“Um. Well. Gee. I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me something instead?”Ah, the ever evasive route of the wimpy copout. But she wasn’t letting me off the hook that easily, so she countered: “Ok, I’ll make it easier. Just tell me something you believe in.”

“Like religious beliefs?”

“Doesn’t have to be. Whatever. Just something you believe in.”

“Well,” I faltered. “I believe in God, I guess. Um.”Then it was silent for a while as I fumbled for something – anything – that would not lead this person to believe I was completely dead upstairs. It’s hard, of course, to be quick on your toes when you’re put on the spot like that. Still, coming up with one statement, be it a slice of petty trivia or some life-altering philosophy, should not be that overwhelming of a challenge. Right?

I could not think of one damn thing. So I said so. At first, this didn’t bother me. Did this girl actually expect me to pull some useless information out of my ass just because she was bored? And why couldn’t she think of something? I mean, it’s not like she was totally serious about the question anyways. I was under no obligation to perform.

But then, as I had nothing else to do really, I continued to grope around in my mind. The more I did this, the more unsettled I became. Why couldn’t I think of one interesting thing to say? Was it because I’m so uninteresting myself? Has my brain atrophied to the point where it no longer processes fascinating information the way it used to? When you’re in school (for the most part) your mind exists in a continual whirlwind of new concepts, new opinions. Your ideas are forever being modified, your beliefs are challenged, sharpened, or tossed by the wayside. Have I lost that?

Don’t I even think anymore?

That, my friends, is a frightening question. One that, once raised, calls into question the entire future of your intellect and creativity.
My co-worker’s request unfulfilled, I busied myself in work, letting my anxiety bury itself in the tedium of my duties.

Then I helped some customers who were, for lack of a better phrase, dumber than the crap that comes out of my ugly Shih Tzu’s ass. And I felt a little better about myself.

And then I came home and had a beer and finished Amy Tan’s The Joy Luck Club (an exquisite, gorgeous novel), and I felt a lot better about myself. And I asked myself all sorts of questions about motherhood and relationships and memory and storytelling and cultural identity.

And guess what? My brain still worked.

And guess what else? Just because I couldn’t come up with something to say tonight, well, that doesn’t mean I don’t have a store of things to tell the world.

All in due time. All in my own way.

And that is more than ok.

really?!

2009-04-25T23:21:00.000-07:00

It's way past my bedtime, but this just defines my life at the moment:

I worked all night, I'm beyond exhausted, and when I go to brush my teeth there's a fucking GREEN SPIDER on the bristles of my goddamn toothbrush!!!!! Why me?!

What really gets my goat, though, is that of the trillion places in the bathroom he could have chosen to park his green ass, he had to pick the fucking brush bristles....not even the handle.

Now I'm too infuriated and tired to look for a spare brush, which probably does not exist. Bah.

That was a whole corndog!

2009-04-21T17:40:00.000-07:00

2 days ago, my mate and I went to see Adventureland. When it was over he leaned across the armrest and said, “That’s not at all what I thought it was going to be.”

Without the benefit (or detriment, depending on your angle) of any flashy previews for this film, we weren’t sure what we were getting ourselves into. Paul was going on my word that it would be good, and I was going on Jeff Simon’s glowing review in the Buffalo News, a typically unreliable source as far as I’m concerned. But still, I had faith. And for once, praise God, I was not short changed in any way.

Adventureland is a really special movie. Instead of the bland teen-comedy my mate was clearly expecting, we were treated with a little piece of charming nostalgia.

The year is 1987, and James Brennan (Jesse Eisenberg) has just graduated from college. Financial difficulty forces James to put his plans to tour Europe on hold and get a summer job. The only place hiring, of course, is Adventureland, a crappy amusement park where James will learn more about life than his hefty Renaissance lit anthologies could ever teach him.

The reasons this movie works are many, but one biggie is the fact that it never resorts to irritating teen melodrama. It doesn’t pull any tasteless gags. It gives us young people in a way that they’re rarely portrayed on the big-screen: as real people. Not just poptarts looking to lose their virginity on prom night. But scared, vulnerable, vibrant kids who are figuring out life and like to smoke pot on occasion.

There is a sentimentality here that, thankfully, never gets too sticky-sweet. It’s the best sort of coming-of-age story. One that’s affectionate, delightful, and subtly funny. I left the theatre in very high spirits. And that is always a nice thing.

I still like to read

2009-04-17T19:39:00.000-07:00

David Sedaris is not a great man. A petty, sometimes shallow, pathetic man. An out-and-out asshole, even. But without a doubt, my favorite asshole in the world.

This is just the type of cheeseball thing that Mr. Sedaris would dump on in one of his essays, but here it is – I love him because I feel very much akin to the man. I don’t, regrettably, share his enormous wit, but I do share almost every one of his snarky prejudices and his self-serving musings (a declaration that adds nothing to my credit, I know). The way he pretends to be knowledgeable about art as a teenager and is distressed when his parents become enthusiasts themselves…I get that. The way he purposefully self-eulogizes while imagining himself dead…I get that.

Probably not a good thing, to align myself with the most egotistic qualities of another, but then, we’ve all been there. If we’re honest with ourselves, I think we’d find that what’s so appealing about Sedaris’s writing is that he presents himself the way he actually thinks, the way he actually interacts with others. And ugly as it usually is, it’s the way we all think and act.

I know it came out a year ago, but I finally got around to reading Sedaris’s latest book, When You are Engulfed in Flames. I think my boyfriend wanted to chuck it right through the window after I shrieked for the 17th time: “God, David Sedaris just gets it!!! He gets everything!” He does, though. He really gets why certain things are funny, even when most of the world so easily forgets why. He makes me absolutely giddy.

This is on a wholly personal note, but I also enjoy reading about his relationship with Hugh. Strange that a male homosexual relationship should remind me of my own mate, but it does. It’s not fair to say, maybe, but there’s this cutesy grownup/child dynamic going on there with David, of course, as the huffy, sensitive adolescent-type and Hugh as the responsible mature adult who pays the utility bills on time. The way Sedaris becomes exasperated whenever sensible Hugh “rains on his parade” – it smacks of a scene in which my mate is hovered over the TV tray, his brow furrowed in deep concentration while I attempt luring him into a cuddling position.

“But why do we have to do our taxes now?”

“Because, Liz, if I don’t do your taxes now, you’ll never do them yourself.”

“So?”

The last quarter of the book, entitled The Smoking Section, follows Sedaris through his first bummed cigarette 3 decades ago all the way to his recent struggle with quitting the habit. When I saw that this struggle would take Sedaris to Japan, I smiled, knowing what good material this kooky (sorry, had to say it) country would supply for the humorist. And supply it did.

Viva la Spring

2009-04-15T20:18:00.000-07:00

I've got to get myself back into the habit of writing everyday. It's funny - you know, I don't even always enjoy the actual process of writing. Really, I don't. It's hard and I slave over every freakin' word and it takes me over an hour to plod through a measly paragraph and then I backspace the shit out of it leaving myself with one word, if I'm lucky.

Mostly what I like is the finished product. It sounds indulgent and bigheaded of me, I know, but I get pleasure from reading some of my polished work. Oh, I wrote that, did I? How positively clever! How quaint! If that sounds dick-ish, well, I don't care.

I saw Monsters Vs. Aliens last week, and I liked it OK, but I think I mostly liked it because we saw it in Imax 3D, which was just top-notch.

I’m excited for warmer weather so I can bike like a maniac. I will just bike and bike and bike until forever. Until my lungs explode.

I also would like a tattoo. Soon, but not too soon.

Burn After Watching

2009-04-09T18:45:00.000-07:00

They say good things come in twos, and I can’t think of a more fitting justification for this platitude than the varied body of work that is the Coen brothers’ film repertoire. Time and time again, the duo has tickled our funny bones while offering that something extra for the finicky tastes of moviegoers whose palates desire a little “oomph”.

That being said,

I hated Burn After Reading.

I mean, I really, really hated it. I hated it for much the same reasons that I hated the film Juno, though that hatred exists on an entirely different plane (don’t even get me started on Diablo Cody’s dialogue). The hype circling these two movies was such that I expected nothing less that 4-star treatment. Instead, what I got was a lot of confused plotlines and too many character names, the combination of which left me yawning to high heaven for 2 monotonous hours.

Generally, I dig quirky oddball movies, but this was just boring with a capital B. I kept waiting for it to get better. To at least match the hilarious previews with which I was bombarded all Fall. I'm lost - why did people think this movie was so great again?

The one thing I did enjoy was watching Brad Pitt rock it out as a dim-witted fitness trainer glued to his iPod. That one really got me. (always a sucker for Brad - how can you not be?)

Other than Brad though, well, this movie can go suck it.

Fiction/Poetry Update

2009-04-02T20:23:00.000-07:00

Volume 2 Issue 3 of Sub-Lit is now live!!! You can still check out my story "Reincarnation" in their archives.

Also, these just in -

3 of my poems appear in the current issue of Clockwise Cat.

I have a short piece of fiction, "Nude," in the current issue of Mud Luscious. (scroll towards the bottom)

And lastly, my short story, "Performer's Lot" appears in the April issue of The Battered Suitcase.

wild thing, you make my heart sing

2009-03-30T19:23:00.000-07:00

Before you do anything else, it's pretty important that you watch the following:

Spike Jonze, you do me right. And if any preview uses Arcade Fire, I will see that film by default. Even if it's, I dunno, another freakin' Disney Hannah Montanah abomination (they're that good).

Anyway, everyone will say how they just looooved this book as a kid. But my most recent memory of this story was getting really stoned and lying in bed while my sister read it to me -you know, teacher-style. When we came to the end of the book, I was silent for a while.

"But there's no moral."

"What do you mean, there's no moral?"

I mean, there's no fucking moral. The kid's bad. He's sent to his room and goes on this crazy adventure shit. And then he's back in his room with no dinner."

"Shit, Liz. Why does there have to be a fucking moral? It's just a story."

"You don't get it - certain books have morals. This is the kind of book that would have one. And it doesn't. I feel jipped. "

"You're a shithead."

where in the world is carmen sandiego?

2009-03-22T03:21:00.000-07:00

There’s no excuse for a 3 (almost 4!) month gap.

And it’s not just my riveting blog that’s been suffering from neglect. I’ve read a grand total of two books since December. I can’t even remember what the first one was. Unforgivable.

Here’s the thing -

Getting the itch to write is like embarking on a novel dieting routine – at first, it’s all gung ho, fire up the engines and plow straight ahead. I’m going to chuck those dimples on my ass once and for all, gosh dammit. Then the cravings kick in full-force. And with them, the carbo-loading at Dunkin Donuts (or Tim Horton’s for all you Upstate New Yorkers – holla).

And you let yourself sleep an extra half hour instead of free-writing.
And you look at the world lazily instead of keeping a sharp look-out for new leads.
And all earlier ambition that had been so fervent you nearly gave yourself carpal tunnel, that ambition has sizzled out like a dud on the Fourth of July.

But still. Other than making tomato Quiche and alphabetizing my modest library, writing is the only thing I’m quasi-good at. So, there’s really no acceptable excuse for shelving it. But – just for kicks – I’m going to try to come up with some.

For one thing, life post-college has been so preposterously dull, I haven’t the heart to let you in on it. I live with my mom, I have a shitty job, I babysit my nephews most days when I’m off. True, any half-decent writer can put an interesting spin on life’s most trivial crap. In fact, I often enjoy doing so. Just not lately. Maybe it’s my own disappointment with the monotony of my pathetic life. Maybe my brain is still adjusting to life without professors, Elizabeth Browning explications, and long night sessions with articles on modern theatre.

More likely, I’m just lazy.

Secondly, my long-distance lover has finally bridged the great divide and found his way to my hometown (and with him enters a whole slew of complications regarding our future. More details in another note, maybe). When I am not working at my shitty job or babysitting my nephews, I am spending time with him. Twirling his luscious curly-cues, making him sandwiches, reading him David Sedaris excerpts. All much more important (and satisfying?) than gathering worthwhile submissions or proofreading. Blame him! I’m weak in the presence of that gorgeous head of hair!

Thirdly, when I have an hour or two to spare, I’ve been channeling all literary efforts into reading for Sub-Lit (A subversive online literary journal that gave me my debut in the publishing world – check it!) Not an overwhelming task, to be sure, but I like to take my time with peoples’ submissions. Since I’d expect as much, myself.

So - the pot may not be boiling over in a brilliant gush of wit, but at least it’s starting to bubble. That’s half the reason this blog exists in the first place – to keep me on top of my game. I don’t know what the other half of the reason is, but the point is (do I ever have a point?) the POINT IS: the writing bug is back, and however schizo my writing may appear to you –

at least it’s appearing.

Don't judge me

2008-12-01T19:09:00.000-08:00

Jess and I picked up season 1 of Lost yesterday.

We watched it from 6 pm until 3 in the fucking morning. 11 episodes back-to-back.
Then she woke up and finished the season.

No Great Mischief

2008-11-29T18:38:00.002-08:00

While in the throes of paper-writing bliss, I was reminded how much I loved this beautiful gem: Alistair MacLeod's 1999 novel, No Great Mischief.

Composed as a fictional memoir, this book chronicles the stunning history of the exiled clann Chalum Ruidah from the Highlands of Scotland. Set in the modern landscape of Cape Breton (Canada), our narrator Alexander MacDonald relates his own story, which he finds is inextricably linked to his family's past.

It is about legend. It defines the depths of family bonds. It explores the continuity of history.

It looks at loyalties, it looks at perseverance.

It is melancholic. It is elegaic. It made me cry.

Read it.

Fiber: Friend or Foe?

2008-11-28T13:11:00.000-08:00

Let me set the scene:

Jess and I are in Gabriel Brothers, a discount store à la TJ Max (but rating slightly higher on the cheap-and-crappy grid). We are surveying rows of tacky stilettos, and there is a girl about one yard to our right doing likewise.

And then, out of the blue -

Jess farts. She just rips a huge one, as if she were alone in the privacy of her home. Not in a public store with people standing an arm’s length away.

“Whoops. Didn’t see that one coming.”

At this point, I can’t take my stifled laughter anymore so I shuffle into the next aisle leaving Jess to deal with her own debacle. But that’s just the thing: to Jess, audibly passing gas in public is as natural as a big shnozz on a Jewish mug. Nothing to be ashamed of. Just part of who we are
She doesn’t leave the aisle until she is satisfied with her perusing. Why should she? There is nothing to embarrassed about here.

As roommates, Jess and I have shared the same bathroom for a number of years. Admitedly, it did not take us long to grow comfortable with holding conversations while one of us was on the toilet and the other in the shower or at the sink. I dunno - is that weird? I don’t like to think so. You know, the way people talk about sexual encounters as if they were just another everyday interaction, you would think it strange to be so hush-hush about other (albeit, less exaulted) bodily functions.

I was watching an episode of Sex and the City (alright, alright) and Carrie is lying in bed with Mr. Big when she accidentally lets one loose. She freaks. She is so mortified that she can’t even face him for a while. I sort of get it…but not really. For crying outloud, if you’re having sex with someone you should be ok with a tiny nitrogen release.

My mom tells me that she did not fart in front of my father, even after they were married. I say that’s what led to the divorce. Of course, I say this in jest - but still, I could never marry a man if I couldn’t pass gas in his presence.

News flash: EVERYBODY farts. Poops. Vomits. Hacks up mucous on occasion, even. There is no need to tip-toe around the fact that we are human beings, and with that comes our physicality.
And yes, sometimes there is more evidence of that than we desire.

Case in point:

A couple weeks ago, Jess and I were leaving a friend’s house at around 3 am. As we approached Jess’s car that had been parked on the street, we noticed an unidentifiable object lying on the windshield.

"What the fuck is that?"

"I can’t see from over here."

"Holy shit! hahahahaha - someone put fucking shit on my car!"

A substantial heap of poop, wrapped in a coffee filter, sat atop the driver’s side of the windshield. Our reaction was not one of disgust or anger, but rather uncontrollable laughter. We’re still unsure if it was animal or human feces, and we have no clue as to what could have provoked such an act. Jess’s car has no bumper stickers. There is no evidence that she is a university student. Maybe she parked in someone’s usual spot. Maybe it was just the upshot of another boring, drunken tirade in a backwoods Ohio town. Regardless, we appreciated the hilarity of the situation.

Disgusting. OK. I’ll give it that. But c’mon, people.

Gas is just gas. Poop is just poop.
And a lil’ flatulence never killed anyone.

I love watching Holiday marathons on TLC!

2008-11-27T13:21:00.000-08:00

Today is Thanksgiving.

I am alone. So I am making myself a steak. Deal with it.

(Turkey and drunk relatives are never all they're cracked up to be anyways)

Lost in Translation

2008-11-26T14:01:00.000-08:00

Despite my pretentious airs (I do apologize for those) and attachments to all things literary, I tend to avoid contemporary literature the way one would avoid lunch-dates with the in-laws or scheduling that overdue appointment with the gynecologist. So, why pooh-pooh these potential greats?

They’re scary.

Contemporary lit is scary because, well, it’s unfamiliar terrain. I feel safe with my classics – they’ve been identified as such because smart men with doctorates and expensive cars have deemed them so, and you know what? I trust those smart men. It’s this everyday, new stuff that we’re not so sure about.

Cue English 416: Modern World Literature.

This has been my saving grace this semester. So far, I’ve encountered Japanese, African, Polish, and Canadian writers…and there are more to come. All of them published post-1960. My favorite book thus far: Lost in Translation: A Life in a New Language by Eva Hoffman, an autobiography published in 1989.

OK. Here’s the gist – Eva migrated from Poland to Vancouver, Canada with her family when she was 13 years old (1959). She struggles to forge a new identity in her foreign environment, but finds it near impossible under the unwieldy weight of the English language. During her college years, Eva finds herself in the United States (Texas) where she continues to toil under a false identity, along with her counter-cultural American peers.

This book is chock-a-block with Eva’s shrewd insights – this girl has a keen understanding of relationships, the nuances of cultural rituals, the effects of a lingering nostalgia. Her description of what she refers to as a generation of “willed in-articulation” is spot-on. While her long-haired, drug-riddled peers welcome Eva without question, she still grapples with their fragmented sense of identity, their rejection of articulated clarity.

Also, I could not get over the fact that English was Eva’s second language – she handles the language masterfully and deftly – it is smooth and luxurious writing, while retaining the capacity to cut through even the most frozen sympathies with its razor-sharp emotional sword.

Hoffman is funny, perceptive, poignant. Definitely a worthwhile read – it’s not difficult to get through, but it is packed with profound insights that you won’t want to skim over lightly.

I could write a blog devoted entirely to this book, but I won’t. And I won’t go into a laborious explication (just yet, anyways). But I will leave you with a few words from Eva, herself, regarding her struggle with a new language and her subsequent loss of identity in the foreign landscape of North America:

“But mostly, the problem is that the signifier has become
severed from the signified. The words I learn now don’t stand for things in the
same unquestioned way they did in my native tongue. ‘River’ in Polish was a
vital sound, energized with the essence of riverhood, of my rivers, of my being
immersed in rivers. ‘River’ in English is cold – a word without an aura. It has
no accumulated associations for me, and it does not give off the radiating haze
of connotation. It does not evoke” (Hoffman, 106).

“What has happened to me in this new
world? I don’t know. I don’t see what I’ve seen, don’t comprehend what’s in
front of me, I’m not filled with language anymore, and I have only a memory of
fullness to anguish me with the knowledge that, in this dark and state, I don’t
really exist” (108).

Does Eva finally learn to navigate through this foreign setting? Will she ever penetrate the particular nuances of this new language and culture, while salvaging her fragmented sense of self? I’d love to divulge that delicious mystery, but I’m sorry – you’ll have to read to find out.

Backstreet's Back, Alright!

2008-11-25T14:57:00.000-08:00

So the boys are back together, after all. And with them returns the blogging itch.

But don't run for the hills just yet.

Since my blogging routine has been put on ice for a considerable length of time, it may take a while to warm up the smug bantering muscles. Just getting this introductory paragraph out is making me ache all over. No joke. So, I zapped the trusty (and ever so infantile) livejournal long ago. Not that anyone was lamenting its demise. Now that I've finally made the decision to take this writing business seriously (are you laughing yet?) blogger.com seemed like a great way to stretch my limbs. Keep my game in tip-top shape, so to speak.

I'm feeling loose and limber already. We're having such fun, aren't we?