Girl Detective

Oh, the geek in me loves how simple and functional this is, especially the bookmarking feature. Link from Boing Boing.

My re-reading of Bryan K. Vaughan’s comic-book series Y The Last Man continues with volume 3, One Small Step. A plague wipes out all creatures on the planet with a Y chromosome except for Yorick Brown and his pet monkey, Ampersand. They team with Agent 355 of the mysterious Culper Ring, and Dr. Alison Mann, a geneticist, to cross the country in search of more information. Along the way they encounter Russian special forces, Israeli commandos, astronauts, and travelling actors. There are secrets, lies, at least one love triangle, and a ninja, to boot.

If there’s one thing I hate, it’s crappy works of fiction that try to sound important by stealing names from the Bard.

This volume, like the previous two, was a quick read that I found hard to put down.

Did you know that Newbery-award winning author Paula Fox was the biological grandmother of Courtney Love? I found this memoir by Love’s mother.

The review by Jennifer Reese in Entertainment Weekly was so good that I borrowed Hari Kunzru’s My Revolutions from the library, instead of reading something off my shelf. It did not disappoint.

The novel is situated in Vietnam-era England. Mike Frame’s carefully constructed life shows its fragile foundation when one, then another, person appears and reminds him of his radical past. At a young age, he was Chris Carver, a suburban kid drawn to the counter-culture. Starting with peaceful protest, things escalated for him physically and psychologically.

Standing in the crowd that morning with my fist in the air, there was one thing I was certain of: I’d had enough of my father’s world, enough of the idea that life was a scramble to the top over the heads of those poorer, slower, or weaker than yourself.

Carver’s story shifts fluidly between past and present, and back and forth within them, too. Impressively, Kunzru pulls off this complex non-linear narrative; I always knew where I was in time. Kunzru spins out his tale to the end, filling in details that he’d hinted at along the way; the shift from revolutionary youth to the suburban Mike Frame, is finally made clear and sensible.

It’s a powerful, politically unsettling story, well written. It reminded me a bit of Sigrid Nunez’s Last of Her Kind, one of my favorites of 2006, which was set in Vietnam-era New York. Both revolve around a magnetic and politically adamant woman that the narrator is unable to forget, even after the passage of years, and much pain. I highly recommend them both.

I’m afraid I draw a blank when I try to remember how I celebrated my 20th birthday. 19 and 21 were sloppy, exuberant affairs, though, so it was probably similar. Two decades later, things have changed. I called family the day before my birthday and asked that they not call on the day; what I wanted for my 40th was some peace and quiet, which is hard to come by with two small boys. I turned off all phone ringers and took the boys for a playdate at a kind friend’s house. Then I had several hours to myself, and did the things that are important to me, now. I showered, read my book, took a nap, and did some writing.

The next night, girlfriends and I went out to a new neighborhood restaurant, The Red Stag Supper Club. I had a fabulous meal–chop salad, pork chop over barbecued cheese grits with shrimp/bacon succotash, and a truffle tort–accompanied by my favorite tap beverage: root beer, from the Sprecher Brewing Company in Wisconsin.

And this week I’m going on a date with my husband G. Grod. We were going to go tonight, but Guppy woke us with croup in the night, and Drake woke this morning hollering with pain from a high fever, so we changed the plan. Thus far, it’s been a lovely, quiet, quality celebration, which nicely reflects life in general.

If you’re reading this on a feed, you might want to click through to see the new look. In honor of my 40th, I looked for a new Wordpress theme. I found two I liked–Coffee Chick, and Sakura with cherry blossoms. Coffee Chick seemed to suit the mood of the site more, but I was sad to forgo the cherry blossoms, since I like them even better than Coffee Chick’s yellow roses. And then, voila, my tech-monkey husband G. Grod combined them, so I get coffee chick, plaid, AND cherry blossoms. Hurrah! In many and various ways, I am a fortunate woman.

Sorry if the title offends; it’s a quote from the adorable Daniel V. of Season 2.

Christian and Tim have a walkoff on the roof. Why wasn’t this on the show? (Link from the fabuloso Tom and Lorenzo at Project RunGay.)

For there are, it seems, people who feel stress about owning volumes they haven’t read. Evidently some of them believe a kind of statute of limitations is in effect. If you don’t expect to read something in, say, the next year, then, it is wrong to own it. And in many cases, their superegos have taken on the qualities of a really stern accountant – coming up with estimates of what percentage of the books on their shelves they have, or haven’t, gotten around to reading. Guilt and anxiety reinforce one another.

Who me?

At Inside Higher Ed, Scott McLemee considers some of the online kerfuffle over books on the shelf (link from Bookslut), and offers a kinder, yet still literary, alternative:

If you are going to have a moralizing voice in your head, maybe it’s best for it to sound like Francis Bacon….“Some books are to be tasted,” writes Bacon, “others to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and digested; that is, some books are to be read only in parts; others to be read, but not curiously; and some few to be read wholly, and with diligence and attention.”

And ultimately, of course:

It is, finally, a matter of taste.

The Morning News is holding its annual NBA alternative, the 2008 Tournament of Books, starting March 7. (Link from Bookslut.) Judges have been announced, but brackets are yet to come for these contenders, all of which are discounted for the tourney at Powells.com:

Run by Ann Patchett
On Chesil Beach by Ian McEwan
Tree of Smoke by Denis Johnson
Then We Came to the End by Joshua Ferris
Petropolis by Anya Ulinich
Ovenman by Jeff Parker
The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot Díaz
You Don’t Love Me Yet by Jonathan Lethem
New England White by Stephen L. Carter
Remainder by Tom McCarthy
The Shadow Catcher by Marianne Wiggins
The Savage Detectives by Roberto Bolaño
Let the Northern Lights Erase Your Name by Vendela Vida
Shining at the Bottom of the Sea by Stephen Marche
What the Dead Know by Laura Lippman
An Arsonist’s Guide to Writers’ Homes in New England by Brock Clarke

I am not romantic you know. I never was. I ask only a comfortable home; and considering Mr. Collins’s character, connections, and situation in life, I am as convinced that my chance of happiness with him is as fair, as most people can boast on entering the marriage state. –Charlotte Lucas to Elizabeth Bennet, Austen’s Pride and Prejudice

In the March 2008 issue of the Atlantic, Lori Gottlieb makes an argument for settling that reminded me strongly of Charlotte Lucas’s speech explaining her acceptance of the boorish Mr. Collins’s proposal of marriage. Gottlieb, who decided to become a mother even though she’d not found “Mr. Right,” wonders if settling earlier for “Mr. Good Enough” would have made for a happier and easier life.

It’s a fair question, and clearly one that’s been around some time. It made me wonder what advice Jane Austen might have given. The recent PBS Masterpiece showing of Miss Austen Regrets had a few conjectures. Austen commented to her niece that “The only way to get a man like Mr. Darcy is to make him up!” Later, a reader comments to Austen that Elizabeth Bennett only realized she was in love with Darcy after she saw what a big house he had. Austen herself never married, and Miss Austen Regrets raises the question of whether she later wished she had settled. While we can’t know, it’s interesting to wonder, especially since Austen’s ideal of marital bliss as portrayed in her novels was (nearly?) always a combination of financial security and romantic love.

“Stop writing in my books!” said my husband, G. Grod. This was funny because the book, Smilla’s Sense of Snow, was one I brought into the relationship, and one which he has now read several times. G. hates notes in books; he feels much as Katherine, from Shakespeare’s Henry VIII: “What need you note it.” (II, iv)

I, on the other hand, like to write in my books. I am more in line with Helena, from All’s Well that Ends Well: “Worthy the note.” (III, v) If I bought the book, it’s mine. Each time I make a note in it, I’m claiming it, as well as abnegating the American public school education that penalized me for taking notes in books. Notes help me learn, or show me how I’ve learned from previous readings. Yes, I value clean, well-maintained books. But writing in them makes me feel at home with them, like I’ve opened the door, walked in and sat down. They make the books familiar and comforting, like the old friends they are.

Today I turn forty. I feel mostly calm and good about it. I think the number embodies a sense of gravitas and power. I’ve been around a bit, but still have a ways to go, I hope.

Any regrets I have tend to be wishes that I’d gotten to things that bring me joy and balance earlier in my life–yoga, motherhood, writing, reading to learn, resting. What can I say; I’m a late bloomer and a slow learner in some ways. It’s a heartening regret, though, because it means I’m doing what I want now, which is better late than never.

Build a library into your staircase. No good for those of us with small kids, but one can dream. (Staircase Library link from Boing Boing)

Drake’s Aunt Ruthie got him a battery-operated Caterpillar dump truck for one of his birthdays. The batteries operated the dumper, and made loud, raucous sounds, so they “disappeared” before the day was over. Drake complained bitterly about this.

Recently, I agreed to replace the batteries, since Drake had been behaving well and asked nicely. I regretted giving in as soon as the toy’s “voice” shouted, “Caterpillar Power!”, “Move it out” and “Back it up!”, but 4yo Drake and 2yo Guppy were delighted with the “new” toy. It made sounds, the dump mechanism worked, and it went backwards and forwards at the touch of a button. Best of all, though, is a music button that plays a guitar-metal-ish tune while the truck vibrates. Drake yells out, “Dance, Guppy! Dance!”, then they caper around the living room, rocking out.

It amuses me to imagine a real-world counterpart. In the middle of a hot, sweaty day on the construction site, the foreman presses a music button on the dump truck, and orders everyone to dance. The workers toss their hats in the air and get down, much like at the end of the John Waters Simpsons episode.

I’m betting this is not what the makers of the Caterpillar vehicle line thought their toy would inspire.

Wow. I’d forgotten how good this graphic novel was. I thought the first Whiteout was a good mystery, crime and spy thriller. Whiteout: Melt is excellent, one of those rare sequels that outdoes the original. US Marshal Carrie Stetko is called in to investigate a fire at a Soviet base. Danger and intrigue ensue:

Carrie Stetko, WHAT are you THINKING? You’re in an emergency shelter, in a storm, in the middle of Wilkes Lane in East Antartica…blackmailed by your government into finding three pocket nukes stole from Russians by Russians…working with a Russian agent who you’ve been ordered to betray if you get the opportunity…and who will probably do the same to you… you’ve nearly died twice today…and you’re thinking about THAT?

Bryan K. Vaughan has recently concluded his well-reviewed comic-book series Y the Last Man, so I’m re-reading the graphic novels from beginning to (I hope) the end. A mysterious plague has wiped out all animals on earth with a Y chromosome, excepting Yorick Brown and his pet monkey Ampersand. In Volume 2, cycles refers, at least, to the motorcycle Yorick trades for their passage, and as well as to the women’s monthly event. Yorick travels with Agent 355 of the mysterious Culper Ring and Dr. Alison Mann, a cloning specialist. They’re heading from the east coast to California, where Dr. Mann has a laboratory. They stop somewhat short of California, though:

Yorick: Where the f*** am I?
Sonia: Marrisville. In Ohio? Where did you come from, Yorick? I thought all the men were–
Y: Wait, how the hell do you know my name?
S: Oh, it was on the your membership card for the um… “International Brotherhood of Magicians.” Are you really a magician? Like David Blaine?
Y: No, I am NOTHING like David Blaine, thank you very much. I’m an escape artist.
S: Is that how you survived? You…You escaped death?
Y: That’s cute. But listen, I really have to get out of here.
S: Actually…you should probably stay put.
Y: And why’s that?
S: um…
Y: Jesus! What did you do with my pants!

Complicating things, there are Israeli soldiers, a desperate woman who speaks Russian, and a very angry woman from Yorick’s past. This quick-paced volume is by turns funny and serious. It’s a good entry in a thus-far good series.

Coming soon, Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day is based on one of the selections from the charming and lovely Perspehone Books. Miss Pettigrew is a nanny sent to the wrong address, who ends up living the high life with an actress for the day. It’s a sweet, funny story. I’m holding my breath, because with Frances McDormand as Miss Pettigrew, and Amy Adams as the flighty actress, this has some of the pieces in place to be a good adaptation.

Democrats do have an historic race going, Hillary Clinton vs. Barack Obama. Normally, when you see a black man or a woman president, an asteroid is about to hit the Statue of Liberty.

–Jon Stewart, from the opening monologue

What is happening?!

–Diablo Cody, on winning Best Original Screenplay

Fair play to those who dare to dream and don’t give up.

–Marketa Irglova, co-winner for Best Song, brought back onstage by Jon Stewart after being rushed off by the orchestra

Mazel tov to the Coen brothers, who scored a hat trick with No Country for Old Men. Did you know they’d only won one other Oscar, for the original screenplay for Fargo?

Did you notice how The Bourne Ultimatum won all three awards for which it was nominated? I think the Academy members were trying to give that film, one of my favorites of last year, more of the love it deserved from Oscar.

Overall, I was disappointed in the fashion. Black, red, and blage. Where was the color? Where was the joy? Oh, I sound like Michael Kors on Project Runway. Hated the peekaboo shoulder bullseye on Katherine Heigl’s dress; was she promoting for Target? And who did her makeup? Hated what Jennifer Hudson’s dress did to her should-have-been voluptuous chest. And while Tilda Swinton is weird, there are quirky dresses that are pretty; she didn’t have to choose a velvet garbage bag and forgo her bra. For more fashion dishing and dissing, Go Fug Yourself.

I saw No Country for Old Men a few hours before the Oscars began. My husband G. Grod and I tag teamed to the theater. He went to the early matinee, I went to the later. Not only does this save on babysitting, but really–how important is it that you see the movie at the same time? G. didn’t care for it; I thought it was great. It had strong performances all around, and was visually engaging, with its many blurred reflections and shadows. It’s not a feel-good film, and the last twenty minutes are hard to understand, much less enjoy. But the bitter humor, the beautiful visuals, the crisp storytelling and the great acting combine for an impressive whole. I saw four of the five films nominated for Best Film this year. I not only think it was the best of the five; I think it likely WAS the best film of last year.

4yo Drake and 2yo Guppy, voicing frustration on two separate occasions:

Drake: This toy isn’t helping me!
Guppy: This toy isn’t listening to me!

In both cases, they meant the toy was not doing what they wanted it to do. Clever boys, they have picked up some of the ways I articulate my irritation when THEY don’t do what I want them to.