Girl Detective

The Master and Margarita was recommended to me long ago by my friend Trash, who is married to M. Giant who blogs at Velcrometer. Christopher Moore mentioned the Pontius Pilate chapters as an influence in interviews about his book Lamb, a fictional account of the early life of Jesus, which one of my book groups read earlier this year. When I offered it as an option for our group to read, several people clamored for it. (In the manner of book groups, most of those did not attend the discussion. Hmmph.)

After reading this article and its links, I chose the Burgin/O’Connor translation because it was a more complete text than some earlier editions, which were censored versions. The most recent translation by Pevear/Volkhonsky had some detractors online, though seemed fine when I compared first paragraphs in a bookstore. (I tried to do that on my nook, but found one of the nook’s shortcomings is the inability to pick a particular edition of a particular classic. The Kindle has the Penguin version but the nook had no translation at all. Again, hmmph.)

I’d known the book was about the devil, so I’d always assumed he was the Master of the title, while Margarita was the black cat on the cover. Completely wrong. But not a bad guess in a book where the devil appears on page 5, yet the Master doesn’t appear until a third of the way through, and Margarita not till the halfway point! This is a good example of why I found the book confounding, yet engaging. I could not predict what was going to happen. And when things did happen, it wasn’t like, oh, yes, that makes sense. It was a constant series of jaw-dropping, What-The? moments. Chapter 12’s theater show, and Chapter 20’s significant transformation were particularly mind boggling to me.

The chapters in which the devil and his crew appear and make mischief in Moscow drip with magic, some of it nicely presaging Harry Potter, Twilight, et al. These alternate with chapters from a book within a book, a straightforward, utterly non-mystical telling of the encounter between Pilate and Jesus, named here as Yeshua Ha-Notsri.

This was hard to get into, and a few of my friends who tried to gave up, based on the Nancy Pearl 50-page rule. Those who persevered, though, said they were glad they did, even if it won few fans as fervent as those who’d urged the picking of it.

I’m very glad to have finally read it. I appreciated its themes of repression, fear and bravery. The bizarre narratives swayed me, as did the background of the book, written by a dying man who knew it would not be published in his lifetime, or perhaps ever.

If you do want to give it a go, I strongly recommend reviewing the Faustian legend beforehand, and following up with this site, which has links out the wazoo, helps to explain its continued popularity in Russia, and includes video from various television and movie adaptations.

Have you read it? Are you a disciple, a liker, or a hater?

two pennies

Last week, I made quesadillas for supper. As I was washing dishes, 8yo Drake came in and held out two pennies. I thought he’d found them, and told him to put them with the rest of his savings.

He held them out again. “No,” he said, “they’re for you.”

I took them. “What for?”

“A tip. For the quesadillas.” He smiled. “Bet you don’t get that very much.”

I laughed. “No, I don’t.” I gave him a hug.

I do make very good quesadillas.

(Posted originally on Facebook, but again here for those who choose to abstain.)

I need to leave for a meeting directly, and am frustrated with myself for yet another morning of not writing. (Please do not point out that I am actually writing. Writing anything of consequence is what counts, here.) My blogging habit is off, and I fritter my mornings away on Facebook, email, this, that and the other, then it’s lunch, nap, and time to get the boys from the bus. Poof. The time I thought was so free and open is gone.

I have been doing other writing, though, so I’m not an utter deadbeat. I also rejoined my writing group once 5yo Guppy started kindergarten, and am having another go at a novel. The fiction writing moves like atrophied muscles, or old, unused gears. But there is movement.

Here is some of the other writing I’ve done elsewhere, until I get back on the blogging horse/wagon/what have you:

Easiest Pumpkin Pie

Easy Turkey Pot Pie

This is a reprint from the “spring” but became relevant again this week.

Preparing to Go Outside: The Order of Operations

First, determine the outside temperature. This system of layering will be too warm for above 20F, but below that should stand you in good stead.

Next, remember what your mother said: use the toilet.

If you wear eyeglasses, consider contacts, as they don’t steam up. I’m heading steadily into bifocal territory, though, so I rarely wear my contacts anymore. Steamed lenses are better than loss of close vision.

Apply moisturizer to face, neck and lips. Heck, everywhere. During the winter, I forego sunscreen to maximize what little vitamin D I can get from the sun.

In order, don:

1. Underwear (underpants, and bra if you wear one)
2. Undershirt (thermal or silk, longer length is best)
3. Long johns (thermal or silk). Pull waistband over bottom of undershirt. This will keep your lower back (or overbutt, as my 7yo calls it) from unwanted exposure.
4. Socks, long and thick. Pull tops over bottoms of long johns.
5. Shirt(s)
6. Pants, over bottom of shirt. Do NOT tuck overshirt into long johns.
7. Sweater
8. Snowpants
9. Boots, hat and scarf
10. Gloves/mittens. Gloves inside mittens is the warmest, but diminishes dexterity.
11. Coat. The lower the temp, the puffier and longer it should be, covering at least your butt and the top of your thighs.

This order of operations has you always pulling something over a previous layer, rather than tucking in a subsequent layer, which makes for a smoother line and means you don’t have to double back, for example if you accidentally put boots on before snow pants. Also check out Sal’s post at Already Pretty on Layering Without Lumps.

Stay warm. And remember, it’s only six months till spring.

I found out about Murder My Sweet a while back in this article at Tor on Chandler adaptations. Since The Big Sleep and The Long Goodbye (which gets wrongly dissed in the article) are two of my favorite films, I wanted to check out this, since Chandler claimed Powell was his favorite actor to portray Marlowe.

Marlowe is hired by a thug just out of jail to find his ex-girlfriend. He’s also asked to accompany a guy who is afraid he’s walking into an ambush. Surprise! He was. The guy is dead, the police suspect Marlowe, and all of a sudden there’s a vampy blonde and an earnest brunette, and things get complicated and shoot-y. Good stuff.

I recently read Voice, the latest collection of Carla Speed McNeil’s long-running comic book series Finder. It reminded me how I loved the series. Even though I own all the single issues cected in it, I picked up the recently published Finder Library volume 1, put out by Dark Horse, a comic book publisher known for respecting artists’ rights. The first four story lines, all 22 issues, are included in this volume, as well as covers of individual issues and previous collections, plus pages and pages of notes. Kudos to Dark Horse for recognizing a quality series, and for packaging it in a smart, attractive edition.

At $24.99, this is a bargain for what it includes (coming out to slightly more than $1 per issue) yet a steep ticket to entry to those who don’t know the series. Here’s what I recommend. Check out McNeil’s website, on which she has art samples and a webcomic of the ongoing series. Or buy or borrow the Talisman graphic novel. It’s a great example of the kind of art, humor, complex fantasy world, and characters that populate Finder. I’m trying to think of something to compare it to, as in “if you like x, you’ll like this” but I’m drawing a blank. I can’t even come up with “it’s x crossed with y.” McNeil calls it aboriginal science fiction. I call it a solidly plotted, well-drawn fantasy comic book series with characters I love.

Good thing my mom and step-dad-in-law notified us the blog was messed up. The rest of you are slacking!

Just kidding.

Anyway, I think the coffee chick with pink plaid and yellow roses may be beyond repair, so I’ll work with tech support (ahem, my husband) to come up with a new look. And maybe update the stuff on the side, which is at least a year old. Sigh.

In the meantime, enjoy this super-clean theme, and please let me know if you have any other blog-related snafus.

(The end of October marked 16 years from when I met the man who is my husband, G. We join the story, already in progress.)

So, there we were, G and me, picking out songs on the jukebox and hitting it off. We talked with my friend A, who’d encouraged me to introduce myself to G. Another friend of mine, C, joined the conversation for a bit*, then moved on. I found out G was: 23, living with his parents, had recently given up on grad school, was selling insurance for a company with a cult-ish sounding name. He found out I: recently started grad school, was 27, was leaving in the morning to visit my sister who lived in Nashville, had a tough week of papers coming up in school. The night wore on and he had a 45 minute drive ahead of him. He asked for my phone number; I gave it to him. He tried to say his goodbyes, but my friend A, fearing he’d leave without being suitably impressed by me, offered to buy him a beer. We reassured her he’d gotten my number, so she allowed him to leave. I returned to my apartment that night and stayed up for another hour emailing my sister about the cute guy I’d met that night even though I’d be seeing her in mere hours, and thus arrived in Nashville a few hours later, cross-eyed from lack of sleep.

*G told me later he’d been flirting with C and me. What I knew at the time that he didn’t was that C preferred tall African-American women. He had no chance with her, so it was good he thought I was cute, too.

When I first got Let the Right One In (the Swedish original, not the American remake) dvd from the library, my husband G Grod pointed out an article that said it was flawed. Instead of the evocative translation from the theaters, where the film had been a surprise hit, the DVD used a looser, sloppier set of subtitles that fans said didn’t do the film justice. The studio said it would release a version that also had the theatrical subtitles. And it did, though this clarification isn’t on the package, but only on the menu. I can’t speak to the comparison of subtitles, but found this Swedish vampire film about a friendship between children spooky, not too gory, and even touching.

I have almost completely broken myself of the habit of requesting new/bestsellers from the library. Almost always, they come in when I have a boatload of reading to do for my three book groups, and I can’t possibly squeeze in whatever book happens to show up when it’s finally my turn. I returned both Swamplandia and Chris Adrian’s Great Night without reading them.

(Yes, yes, I know I can put freeze the reserve for a time to hold my place, but I’m not quite organized enough to be able to do that efficiently. So they show up seemingly randomly.)

I should not have even requested Jean Thompson’s new novel The Year We Left Home. Her short story collection, Who Do You Love? has been on my to-read shelf since about 2002. Nonetheless, I requested it long ago when I read glowing reviews, and when I got it from the library I had a short break between books. Thus I read it. And am glad I did.

The book is labeled a novel, but reads more like a series of linked short stories, all told by members of the Erickson’s, a middle-class Iowa family. It begins with a wedding in the 70’s, and continues to the early 00’s. There is a great deal of sadness, some tragedy, and also some happiness, though it’s usually short lived. The family, the struggles of its members, and how they grow and change over time, felt very true and real to me. The Booklist blurb on the back of the hardcover captured one of the themes well: “the lure of away and the gravitational pull of home.”

The bride and groom had two wedding receptions: the first was in the basement of the Lutheran church right after the ceremony, with punch and cake and coffee and pastel mints. This was for those of the bride’s relatives who were stern about alcohol. The basement was low-ceilinged and smelled of metallic furnace heat. Old ladies wearing corsages sat on folding chairs, while other guests stood and managed their cake plates and plastic forks as best they could. The pastor smiled with professional benevolence. The bride and groom posed for pictures, buoyed by adrenaline and relief. There had been so much promised and prepared, and now everything had finally come to pass.

In its style, writing and structure I was reminded of Olive Kitteridge. In its subject, I was reminded of Joyce Carol Oates’ We Were the Mulvaneys. It was moving, with terrific characters.

Last Week was the 16 year anniversary of the day I met G Grod, who is now my husband. When I’m asked how we met, I usually respond, flippantly, that I picked him up in a bar. While this is technically true, and I fancy it amusing, it is not the whole picture, which I find makes for a pretty good origin story.

In the fall of 1995, I was recently single and unemployed, both of these by choice. After several years, I’d left a job in educational services to study religion. I’d also broken up with the man I’d been living with and engaged to. I was heartbroken, terribly lonely and overwhelmed by the rigors of grad school. Former co-workers invited me to a party at the 16th Street Bar and Grill in downtown Philadelphia. They promised to invite a good-looking pre-med student and set us up. I put on my favorite sweater and a slick of hopeful lip gloss.

At the bar, my friend had bad news. “He can’t make it,” she said, of the cute doctor-to-be. “He said he’d try to stop by later.” I’m sure my face fell. Then she gestured to the guy sitting next to her at the bar. “But this is G., and when you walked in he said ‘Who’s that?’ You should talk to him.”

I checked him out. Thick black hair. Big brown eyes. T-shirt, jeans and Chucks. Cute. I gathered up the shreds of my self-esteem, went up to him and asked if he had any quarters for the jukebox.

From my husband for Halloween, Boing Boing has an updated, spottily scientific Candy Hierarchy.

Bit-o-Honey, for example, might be called a lower tier member, but why bother? It says to your trick-or-treaters, “Here, I don’t care, just take this.” The lesson of Bit-o-Honey is: you lose. Goo Goo clusters, too. You’re making a social statement–”I hate you and everything you represent”–when you give these out.

First of all, what the heck does post-tertiary mean especially as it’s situated between top and second tier? Tertiary means third. Perhaps it’s an Anglicism. I encourage reading the comments to get global perspectives on candy, such as Cadbury’s v. Hershey’s, different names for items, etc. From its placement, I’d guess post-tertiary means, almost as good.

I recently threw away a few pounds worth of old candy from a. Halloween 2010 b. Easter 2011 c. Fourth of July 2011, and will use this in my analysis:

Top Tier: Take 5s, most anything with dark chocolate, full-size bar

Post Tertiary (runners up) Dum Dums cream soda lollipops, root beer bottle caps, those round, red and white striped peppermints, Twix, mini Snickers, mini Milky Way Midnights

The Middle (i.e. stuff my kids will eat that I don’t bother with: milk chocolate, Crunch, smarties, Starburst, butterfinger, reese’s cups)

Bottom: cheap pencils from the dollar aisle Target, unmarked candy of any sort, things in waxy wrappers (Mary Jane’s, brown blobs in orange or brown wrappers, bit o’honey, tootsie rolls.)

Discuss.

Every year Mental Multivitamin reminds us of St. Crispin’s Day, October 25th, and of its central role in the battle speeches of Shakespeare’s Henry V. Every year I watch the video of that speech, am moved to tears, and am glad for the reminder of Branah’s Henry V, which was my gateway into both film and Shakespeare.

In early 1990, I was trying to clean up my act, having gotten into no little trouble from partying too much. One Friday night, a friend invited me to see Henry V at an arthouse theater in DC* where it was showing on a giant screen. At 2 hours and 17 minutes, the run time had me worried. I suspected I’d be bored, but also figured it was better than the alternative, which was staying home in baggy sweats to study. I got my treat of choice for that era**, a small Sprite and a box of Milk Duds. I remember it was a particularly fresh box. The chocolate-coated caramels were soft and gooey, not hard and stale.

“Fresh off the Dud tree,” my friend joked.

The movie began, and drew me in immediately:

O! for a Muse of fire, that would ascend The brightest heaven of invention; A kingdom for a stage, princes to act and monarchs to behold the swelling scene. Then should the war-like Harry, like himself, assume the port of Mars; and at his heels, Leash’d in like hounds, should famine, sword, and fire crouch for employment.

There was the tennis ball scene. And the scene with his friends at the bar. And so 2 hours and 17 minutes flew by. I didn’t know history. I had no idea the English would win, or the historical significance of those long bows. I wasn’t familiar with Shakespeare. I didn’t always track the language, and had no idea what a stellar cast I was watching: Judi Dench, Derek Jacobi, Brian Blessed, Ian Holm. Even the rookies: Branagh as actor/director, his then-wife Emma Thompson, Christin Bale! And oh,that courtship scene:

King Henry V: Fair Katherine, if you will love me soundly with your French heart, I will be glad to hear you confess it brokenly with your English tongue. Do you like me, Kate?

Princess Katherine: [unable to understand his English] Pardonnez-moi, I cannot tell what is ‘like me’.

King Henry V: An angel is like you, Kate.

Sweet, romantic, funny, a perfect antidote to the grisly battle scenes. I loved that movie, and went to see it again. And again. And again. A total of four times at that theater; it ran for months, first on the large screen then on the small. I bought a copy of the play and read it. I bought the film on VHS, then bought it again years later on DVD. I will probably buy it yet again on Bluray. Since then I’ve seen the play and many others, on film and on stage. I’ve read many of the plays and wrote papers on them in graduate school. Twenty plus years later, it’s hard for me to imagine a time when that film, films in general, and works of Shakespeare weren’t part of my life. And every year I am reminded of that on St. Crispin’s Day by Mental Multivitamin. Thank you.

After I read this year’s MMv entry, I had a proud moment: 8yo Drake is supposed to practice handwriting every day for 15 minutes. He hates it. He moans. He flops. He procrastinates and generally makes us all miserable. I showed him the video of the speech, then opened up a copy of Henry V for Young People, which I’d hopefully bought several years ago. He moaned. He groaned. He started to copy the speech. At nine minutes he asked how much time he’d done, then banged his head on the table when I told him. But then, he got it. He got into that speech, and copied the whole thing out, and didn’t even notice when he blazed by the 15 minute mark to finish after 21 minutes. I wish I could say every writing practice since has gone as well. No dice. But for that one, brief shining moment, I could share that little thing with him, and that was more than enough.

*I think it was the Cineplex Odeon Outer Circle, since closed, which was north of Georgetown on Wisconsin Ave.

**My current favorite treat is a dozen spice drops mixed into popcorn with real butter with either water or a Mug or Sprecher root beer.

Continuing our home-movie binge:

Ocean’s 12 (2004). Some good bits but nowhere near as entertaining as its predecessor. (Rather like Iron Man 2 in that respect.) This blog post posits it’s because it’s not a heist film, but an art film. If you wonder, like the author, why so much of recent film has a blue/orange look, this article has a good take on it.

Zombieland (2009). Some good parts, and one part at the end that I would’ve liked even more if it hadn’t been spoiled (my fault for waiting so long to see it). Some clever takes on zombie tropes, and Woody Harrelson is entertaining.

A Knight’s Tale (2001). For the first hour or so, this weird mix of late 20th century rock and medieval story was bizarrely entertaining. Then, the movie dragged on to over 2 hours. Note to filmmakers: B movies should not be much more than 90 minutes.

Captain America (2011) on Bluray, which looked really, really good. The special effects of having Steve Rogers start small and asthmatic and transform into Chris Evans were impressive. Like Iron Man and Thor, a solid tentpole leading up to the circus that is going to be The Avengers. A solidly entertaining B movie.

My disappointment at the end of Knights Tale put me over the edge, and I’m now going to have to take a break, and get back to reading.

For the most part, I buy comic books when they’re collected into graphic novels–this makes it easier for me to remember what’s going on, is often cheaper than buying individual issues, and means I don’t have to suffer through the eye-searing ads of most monthly books. DC Comics has restarted all its titles (again) so I thought it might be a good time to dip my toe back into superhero books to see if I might want to dive back in.

Nope. I read the first two issues of Action Comics, Animal Man, Batwoman, and Swamp Thing. They felt much like clumsy television pilots, trying to cram a lot of exposition into a small space. And telling with words isn’t what makes the comics medium fun for me. None of these comics made me interested to read further. Instead, I had the urge to go back and read the graphic novel collections of great past arcs of these titles: Animal Man and Swamp Thing by Alan Moore were two of my gateway comics, both Moore and Morrison have done great things with the Superman mythos, and the recent Batwoman collection, Elegy, really engaged me. It’s good I’m not the comic-reading majority, or monthly super books would die, but for now, I’m happy with my status quo, buying a few books in individual issues (iZombie and anything by Ed Brubaker), while getting others as they’re collected (Unwritten and now Sweet Tooth.)

Anyone else out there have any thoughts on DC’s new 52 titles, or individual issues vs. collections?

I was delighted to see the latest collection of the comic book series The Unwritten: Leviathan, on the shelf last week. Tom Taylor is the real-life son of a famous author who penned a Harry-Potter-esque series featuring a boy named Tommy Taylor. Good and evil are battling on the grounds of fiction and storytelling in this series that manages to be hyper-meta while still telling a good story. If you are a fan of the series Fables, or the novels of Jasper Fforde, this will likely be your cuppa.

Sweet Tooth was the recommendation I got at the comic shop recently when I asked “what am I not reading that I should be?” I’d heard good things about this book for a while, so was open to give it a try.

In a post-apocalyptic world, a boy named Gus lives with his father in the deep woods. The twist is that he’s something called a hybrid–he’s got deer antlers which seem to be a result of whatever catastrophe caused the outside world to collapse. The father warns the boy never to leave the woods, but when he inevitably dies, the boy meets with a mystery man who promises to lead the boy to a haven.

Sweet Tooth is indeed worth reading. Gus is engaging, and I quickly cared about what happened to him. The book uses many, many elements of post-apocalyptic fiction. I was strongly reminded of The Road and Riddley Walker

I'll take a moment to vent a pet peeve that's been growing for a while and that disappointed me with this book. ENOUGH WITH PROSTITUTES. Especially enough with them as convenient plot devices to stand for people without power. Using them as stock characters is lazy and insulting storytelling. Cut it out. I mean it.

A dear friend of mine highly recommended A Suitable Boy to me many years ago. I was suspicious of its length, and put it off for years. Finally in 2007 I had a long stretch of time so I decided to dip my toe into A Suitable Boy and see what happened. A few weeks later, I came up for air, disappointed to be leaving the characters I’d come to love and admire.

Since then, I’d meant to read Seth’s shorter novel, An Equal Music, so when a book group member suggested it recently, I was excited for the opportunity. Then I began the book. I waited for it to involve me. And waited. Asked other friends in the book group what their experience had been. They said it took a while to get into it. I kept reading. But my dislike of the narrator, a self-involved violinist pining for the girlfriend of youth, only grew. When the past love was introduced, neither did I care for her. When something was revealed about her, I was told it was tragic and horrible; I never felt this.

The only thing I felt as I read this novel was a sense of duty to the members of my book group to continue to the end. Which I did. And was glad, very glad, to close that book and leave it behind. I found it dreary and uninteresting. I do look forward to our discussion of the book, to hear what other readers found and felt where I did not. If you, like me, disliked this book, do not let it deter you from A Suitable Boy, which I continue to hold dear, even if one character married THE WRONG PERSON, which I’m still angry about, years later.

We’ve been on something of a DVD bender since getting a new DVR, high def TV, and Bluray player. While I’m not sure it was prudent, we did it anyway, and now might as well enjoy the fruits of our folly. The high definition takes some getting used to, as all movies now look somehow more like real life, whatever that is. But we figure, the more we watch, the more accustomed to it we’ll be. So it’s for our own good that we’re watching all these movies. Really.

The Social Network (2010) d. David Fincher. My husband declined to watch it, but I’m glad I did. No matter how much of it is really real, the story it tells is a compelling one, well acted, and intriguingly constructed and told. From IMDB trivia, some of the cameras used in production were lent by Steven Soderbergh, director of:

Ocean’s 11 (2001) My husband’s pick, and a continuation of our Soderbergh kick. We saw it originally in the theater. Cool, clever, fun and funny. An enjoyable and entertaining way to spend a few hours. That rarity: a well-crafted popcorn flick.

Zodiac (2007) d. David Fincher. WAY too long. Engaging in its focus on how the serial killing messed up a bunch of lives, instead of as a straight procedural and with good performances. Robert Downey Jr, much like Al Pacino, has come to a point where he tends to play a version of himself–a smart-ass, kind of crazy, substance abusing pain in the ass. He’s good at it, but I wonder if he’s able to play anything else, or if the public would pay to see him play anything else. And so…

Iron Man (2008) d. Jon Favreau. Robert Downey Jr. playing Tony Stark, a womanizing, drunk, pain the ass. This is a solid execution of a superhero movie. Fun, funny, tense, but not overly so, and not overly long. Great performances by actors who seem to be having a lot of fun. The next film seemed obvious…

Iron Man 2 (2010) d. Jon Favreau. With Mickey Rourke as the Russian villain, and Scarlett Johannson as the undercover agent. A bit too big for its britches, it overplays its charms and explosions, but still has some fun moments and snappy dialogue. Don Cheadle ably plays Rhodie, which Terrence Howard did a fine job with in #1.

What with Thor as our first Blu ray purchase, my husband and I are geeking out on Marvel’s well-orchestrated buildup to The Avengers. Joss Whedon. The Avengers. Squee! And in general I’m much more of a DC babe than a Marvel one, so whoever is driving this bus is doing a bang-up job.

A long-ago recommendation from Mental Multivitamin, Slings and Arrows is a Canadian television series about a Shakespeare company that’s led by a former mental patient who’s being haunted (or is he?) by the ghost of the former director. It’s a wacky ensemble piece in which each season centers around the production of one main play. Season One was Hamlet, Season 2 was Macbeth (aka the Scottish Play, yanno). Like my friend at MMv, my husband got me season 1 on DVD, which we enjoyed, but when we went to get season 2, it was cheaper to get the complete series of all three, which came with better extras. So we thought season 1 was so nice, we bought it twice. Then perhaps enjoyed Season 2 perhaps even more than Season 1. At only 6 hour-minus-commercials-long episodes per season, it is a lot of delight in a short amount of time. Its a great blend of funny, sad, bitter and sweet. Rather like the Bard’s own work.