Well, the six crackers I ate yesterday conspired to ruin my entire night, but I have emerged the victor. Not only am I feeling much improved, I'm back to write about food. How do you like them apples?
At first I wasn't sure the Books 2 Eat: The Seventh International Edible Books Festival was for real, since it starts tomorrow, which is of course April 1st. But I checked out the official site (ups to Karen for emailing me the link!) and it looks legit. Woot!
You can't blame me for being a bit suspicious of this event, but in retrospect it really shouldn't have seemed like such a weird idea. You'd think I, of all people, would know what fuh-reaks book lovers are.
The premise of the festival is to celebrate great works of literature and the joy of the written word... in food form. (Take note of the edible dioramic homage to James and the Giant Peach to the right.)
Past entries have included: a likeness of Francis Bacon constructed 
entirely of bacon (also pictured right); William Blake's "Memorable Fancies" rendered as gorgeous pastries; and a guacamole book, which -- I won't lie to you -- kind of frightens me. (Go here to see a pretty nifty slideshow of dozens of participating edibles.)
This festival isn't kidding when it calls itself international. It's pretty much the Olympics of edible books, with nations as far-flung as India, Luxembourg, Russia, and Delaware reprazenting.
I got all hopped up when I began scrolling down the impressive list of events happening around the world and spied Canada. I scanned through the small but respectable list (hey, we're only got around 33 million people up here) of Canadian events, which starts on the east coast and moves west. Hey there, Cape Breton! Top o' the morning to you, St. John's. Nice to see you, Montreal. Toronto, always a pleasure. Howdy, Saskatchewan! How's it hanging, British Colu--
Well, dang.
It appears I've discovered yet another cultural weakness of the west coast. And yet I can't say this surprises me, given how few people I know out here who read seriously (and those of you who do read know who you are, god bless you). I know a lot of smart people, mind you, but reading is just not a major topographical element on the cultural map of these parts.
Maybe I'll have to host my own Edible Book Festival event next year. Who's with me?
So I'm already starting to give some thought to how I would create an edible book. Mine would have to be sweet, rather than savoury, because that's just the way I roll (and dude, a GUACAMOLE BOOK? Wrong, wrong, wrong). I thought perhaps a cookie codex. Or maybe a marzipan diorama of Mr. Toad's Wild Ride. Or maybe I'd go all pomo and get some candy-filled pens and edible paper and transcribe the entire text of Margaret Atwood's The Edible Woman. Hmmmaybe not. But I've got a year to work on it.
[Candicraft link via Pop Culture Junk Mail]
No big post today. I woke up at 6 am fighting queasiness, and I finally lost the battle at 9 am. I've been [insert your preferred euphemism for violently ejecting the contents of your stomach] ever since.* Blargh.
But perhaps all you people who live inside my computer can help settle a debate I just had via IM with Rusty. What is a "stomach bug" exactly? Is it flu? Or is it food poisoning? Help us, o wise brothers and sisters of the internet.
And so long as I'm asking questions, just out of idle curiosity, what IS your favourite euphemism for vomiting? I've always liked "barf." It's simple, onomatopoeic (is that a word?), and kind of old school. Just like me.
*No, I am not pregnant. In case you were wondering.
This picture was taken by fellow Bored Housewife Melissa last Friday. It's actually a crop of a larger photo, in which you can see yours truly making -- by sheer coincidence -- exactly the same face as Sam. Sadly, it is not such a cute face on me.
I finally saw Pride and Prejudice -- sorry, Pride & Prejudice (ooh, how that ampersand galls me) -- this past weekend, and I don't think I've enjoyed a Jane Austen movie adaptation this much since Persuasion.
The cinematography was great, the story was as faithful to the original as one could pessimistically hope, and even I, nitpicky moviegoer that I am, thought the casting was okey-dokey. I didn't have expectations good or bad of Kiera Knightley, so I was pleasantly surprised by the fact that she charmed me with her portrayal -- part sweetie-pie and part sharp-tongued minx -- of Elizabeth Bennet. And while I've heard criticisms of the male characters being flat, anyone who says such a thing has never read the book, because the male characters ARE kind of flat. I mean, at best, Darcy's a sort of brooding Heathcliff Lite. And Bingley's a bit of a doofus. And Mr. Bennet is kind of charming, but still remote. And Mr. Collins was great, even if he did remind me of Mr. Bean.
Watching the movie with Rusty was a hoot. As an occasionally dutiful former English major, he's read his share of Austen, but that was a long while ago. I, on the other hand, who dream of crawling inside an Austen novel and never coming out, have the book pretty much memorized. So there were many, many moments when, anticipating some horrifically vicariously embarrassing scene involving Mrs. Bennet and the younger Bennet sisters, I covered my face with a pillow minutes in advance, causing Rusty -- who is ten times more sensitive to such things than I -- to ask anxiously, "What? What? WHAT?"
And then there was this amusing bit of sofa dialogue:
"Hey! Someone should make a contemporary version of this movie. It'd be really good."
"Mmm... a little-known film called Bridget Jones's Diary... perhaps you've heard of it?"
One thing I noticed, though -- and perhaps those of you who've also seen the movie observed the same thing -- were all the subtle references to '80s teen movies. I mean, I know the film's tagline is "A romance ahead of its time," but props to the filmmakers for identifying the story's correct temporal setting as the mid-1980s.
To wit:
Does anyone else see a certain Flock of Seagulls quality in Bingley's 'do?
And did anyone else have Lloyd Dobler-fuelled déjà vü during the scene where Darcy walks across the heath -- or field or meadow or whatever you want to call it -- near the end of the movie?
And I can't find a movie still, but surely I can't have been the only person who watched the (somewhat gratuitous) final scene and yelled "Sixteen Candles!" at the screen?
I don't know how much you know about the Curious George stories, but here's how the series starts off:
A man, ostensibly some kind of explorer, in a yellow hat -- thereafter referred to as the man in the yellow hat -- is on a jungle expedition. He sees a young monkey in the wild. "What a nice little monkey," he thought. "I would like to take him home with me."
So he uses his yellow hat to attract the monkey. The hat covered George's head. He couldn't see. The man picked him up quickly and popped him into a bag. George was caught.
Then the man in the yellow hat takes George back to the city with him and puts him in a zoo.
Pretty monstrous, huh? Margret and H.A. Rey, the husband-and-wife team who wrote and illustrated these books, don't mince the genesis of the stories. No explanations, no apologies. That's just how things go.
Now, you could think to yourself, "Well, that's just a sign of the times. After all, these stories were all written during the 1940s, '50s and '60s, when the idea of stealing wild animals from their native habitat was not widely considered a bad thing."
Or, if you're me, you could look at this as an allegory. And no, the allegory I'm thinking about -- right now, anyway -- is not about western imperialism over the environment and other cultures. Though we can talk about that later, if you want.
If you're not up on what the Curious George stories are about, here's the gist: after the initial story, George eventually comes to live with the man in the yellow hat. In subsequent adventures, George takes a job, learns to ride a bike, flies a kite, and in one ominously punitive cautionary tale, ends up in the hospital. In each story, George's powerful, irrepressible curiosity gets him into a tight spot... a spot from which he can only be rescued by the goodness and common sense of nice humans.
I know what you're thinking, but hold the anti-imperialism rant at bay for just a little while longer, okay? Because I probably would have dwelled solely on that angle myself if it weren't for the fact that I have an almost one-year-old son who is the homo sapien embodiment of Curious George. My growing tendency is to read these stories, not as political or sociological allegories, but as simple parables for early childhood development.
Or, to paraphrase Rusty when we talked about this, children are like wild animals, and our job as adults is to pluck them from the primordial jungle of childhood and force them to learn our ways. To be a parent is to be an imperialist, and if you can't accept that then next thing you know your naked three-year-old is running around and hurling his own feces at the other Starbucks patrons... behaviour that I understand is frowned upon by most.
According to Rusty, "We have to tame these savages. Children don't go feral. They're born feral. If we're lucky, they go civilized."
I was following him up till that point, but then he started talking about this in relation to The Epic of Gilgamesh and Marx and Lenin and Stalin, and I got caught up in preventing young Master Sam from once again grabbing the dog's penis (aka "his doghood"), and by the time I got back to the conversation Rusty had worked things around to Star Trek, and at that point I activated the tractor beam and sent him back to his home planet. Emergency transport! One to beam up!
I tend to agree with Rusty, though. You may think it seems cruel to nip childhood curiosity in the bud, but you haven't witnessed firsthand Sam's scientific pursuit of answers to such questions as: - What are cats made of?
- How does gravity work as it relates to the edge of the bed?
- Who lives inside the electrical outlets?
- Is playground gravel also food?
- Can I breathe underwater?
I've been thinking about Curious George a lot lately, mostly because we've had Jack Johnson's most excellent CD Sing-A-Longs and Lullabies for the Film Curious George (a gift from JennyO, who lives an incredible double life as a regular human being and a superhero) in heavy rotation these days. I never get tired of listening to it. If you have a kid, or if you used to be one, I insist you go get your hands on a copy. You can thank me at your convenience.
I love every song on the disc, even the hippie ones about recycling and healing mother earth that snuck into the mix, but my favourite tracks are "Upside Down" and "People Watching". Both of these songs pretty much sum up the experience of being a very young child, in that they are, respectively, about getting into crap and staring at people.
"Upside Down" is an especially awesome little tune. Sam starts bouncing as soon as he hears it, and I get a little misty-eyed singing along, it's that poignant. Who's to say what's impossible?
Well they forgot this world keeps spinning
And with each new day
I can feel a change in everything
And as the surface breaks reflections fade
But in some ways they remain the same
And as my mind begins to spread its wings
There's no stopping curiosity
I want to turn the whole thing upside down
I'll find the things they say just can't be found
I'll share this love I find with everyone
We'll sing and dance to mother nature's songs
I don't want this feeling to go away
Who's to say I can't do everything?
Well I can try, and as I roll along I begin to find
Things aren't always just what they seem
I want to turn the whole thing upside down
I'll find the things they say just can't be found
I'll share this love I find with everyone
We'll sing and dance to mother nature's songs
This world keeps spinning
And there's no time to waste
Well it all keeps spinning spinning
Round and round and upside down
Who's to say what's impossible and can't be found?
I don't want this feeling to go away
Please don't go away
Please don't go away
Please don't go away
Is this how it's supposed to be?
Is this how it's supposed to be?
People, I have to tell you: I'm fading fast.
For the past couple of weeks, I've been dealing with Middlemarch, taxes, and the fact that the free ride my maternity leave is ending soon and therefore I must break in provide orientation for young Master Sam's new caregiver, who is a lovely young soul whose privacy I won't violate by talking about here. All that's been bolstering my flagging spirits have been the new season of America's Next Top Model and a steady diet of Cadbury Easter Creme Eggs. I dream of a parallel universe where every night is Wednesday and every meal is sickly sweet goo-filled chocolate.
But this site is called "50 Books" and not "50 Pathetic Whinge-fests", so for you I'll pull up my socks, unbunch my underpants, straighten out my girdle, and soldier on. (Soldiers do wear girdles, right?)
Sometimes, when things get a bit overwhelming and I'm not sure I can see the end in sight, I go into our dining area eating area place where we pile all our crap on the table, and I admire our newly orderly bookshelves. I've already gone on and on about the arduous job of culling the old mess and getting my books in order, so I won't do that again, but as some of you might know, that project was like bellows to the flame of my passion for beautiful, well-designed book storage. I covet. I fetishize. And sometimes I just go, "Whuh?"
Also in the "Whuh?" department, these Ready Made bookshelves kind of baffled me at first. According to the product description:
A filled bookcase is the ultimate reflection of the identity of the owner. Pre-filled with important literary works that together proffer high cultural status, the books in the Ready Made shelf, with spines that swing up when pushed, reveal what you really read.
Uh-huuuuuh.
The more I thought about this design, though, the more I dug it. I mean, I wouldn't want it in my home or anything, but it seems like a witty F-U to designers and individuals who use books as aesthetic objects or mere tokens of cachet. And I'm all about the witty F-U. It's also funny to me that this bookcase was conceptualized by NEXT Architects and manufactured by Droog Design, both of which are based in the Netherlands, which is also -- coincidence? -- home to legalized pot.
A week or so ago, Lisa posted a comment pointing us toward a new shelving concept from the Canadian home accessories design house Umbra. Called "Conceal", this shelving system was designed to be totally invisible, making your stacks of books look as if they're floating in the middle of your wall.
"Magic!" you say. Why, not at all. The back cover of the bottom book slides under a powder-coated steel shelf and is held in place by a tiny metal tab, as pictured to the right. Then you simply stack more books on top.
"Conceal" was designed last year by Miron Lior, an undergrad at Pratt Institute in Brooklyn, as part of a student design competition sponsored by Umbra. I'm not sure I like the idea of storing my own books this way, though it might be nifty with smaller collections, i.e. the coffee table books currently housed on the back of my toilet. But you keep on keepin' on, Miron!
And Rusty sent me this link, bless his soul. If, like me, you've ever had a hankering to build a secret tunnel or room in your house and hide the entrance behind a false bookcase, look no further than Hidden Passageway. (Don't feel bad. I thought it was the name of a porn site at first, too.)
Pull a favorite book from your library shelf and watch a cabinet section recess to reveal a hidden passageway.
Go to the "Videos" section and noodle around for a bit. Man, it's even better than porn. And possibly even better than America's Next Top Model.
If you care about such things, you may be looking at your calendar, fiddling with your abacus, and realizing that I haven't added a new book to this year's tally in... a while.
Here's the problem. I'm reading Middlemarch. Wait, wait, wait, all you Middlemarch fans! Let me also add that I'm reading -- and loving -- Middlemarch. I love the characters. I love Fred Vincy, selfish rapscallion that he is. I love Mary Garth, as everyone must. I love Will Ladislaw, who seems like a pretty cool, decent sort. I love Dorothea, even though she might drive me a little nuts if I knew her in real life. I love Celia and her neat little trick for making those daintily barbed comments designed to bring Dorothea on a much-needed trip back down to planet earth without being a jerk about it. In fact, I wish all the young people in this novel could get together for one crazy, unforgettable night and party like it's 1899. Even Rosamund and Lydgate, though they're both on the tedious side. Every party has to have one slightly boring, self-involved but beautiful couple, right?
But dang. Middlemarch is not a novel to be reading when you're embroiled in the stickiest tax season you've ever endured. I am not a person who deals with complex money situations well. Some people have a "bull" philosophy toward financial management. Me? I prefer the "ostrich" approach, where I pull my head out of the sand in mid-April and ask, "Is it over yet? Did we win?"
So imagine that you're me, reluctantly procuring the services of a tax accountant, making phone calls, and gathering forests of paperwork. You do this between bouts of chasing a crazed eleven-month-old baby who, despite not being able to walk yet, still manages to move at lightning speed, said speed motivated by his apparently burning need to climb the stairs, molest the dog, and then stuff tumbleweeds of cat hair and lint into his own mouth. At the end of the day you sink, exhausted, into your pillow and turn to your book to unwind.
And then the novel takes a major plot turn involving -- and I don't think I'm giving away a major piece of information here -- the death of a wealthy old man who leaves his estate in an utter mess. This happened three nights ago, and it wasn't until last night that I connected the re-emergence of my old friend insomnia to the fact that I was reading about WILLS and MONEY and FINANCIAL UPHEAVAL before turning out my light.
So no more Middlemarch for me. Until April, anyway. In the meantime, I've got The Complete Short Stories of Truman Capote to help ease me along to sleepyland. Don't misunderstand: these stories pierce my soul in a dozen exquisitely painful ways, as only Capote can, each time I pick them up. But I'll take that over 3 am panic attacks any night of the week.
I wish I could travel back in time ten years and tell myself that this crazy "world wide web" thingummy being served through my crappy, crashtastic dial-up connection would one day:
- be occupying more of my free time than television through something called "blogging";
- spawn so many fantastic "blogs" that some of them would be turned into books, also known as "blooks"; and as a result
- spawn a literary prize just for blooks.
I may be arriving a little late for the party, but how cool is it that the self-publishing web geniuses at Lulu have recently announced the first annual Blooker Prize? It's not chump change, either. The winner gets $2,000, which isn't too shabby compared to more established prizes like the National Book Award and the Pulitzer, which only give out ten grand each.
The panel of judges includes Cory Doctorow, one of the editors of BoingBoing (point of note: I used to buy BoingBoing regularly in the early '90s, when it was only a print zine. Are you impressed? Because there was no point in my mentioning that if you're not impressed), and Paul Jones, one of the great minds behind, among other things, Project Gutenberg.
Looking at the shortlist of Blooker finalists makes me worry, though. I mean, I've been frittering away my time on the internet for years, so how have I managed to miss so many of these blogs? Has my frittering been for naught? Perhaps I'm not the skilled fritterer I've always believed myself to be. But that's a dark path of thought I shall not follow today.
I took a few minutes to tool around some of the contenders' blogs, and so far I'm rooting for Gus Openshaw's Whale-Killing Journal, if only because it -- on top of my friend Shona's urging -- have me now hankering to read Moby Dick. And that's no small feat, let me tell you.
From the introduction:
On June 11, 2004, an Oakland, California cat food cannery worker began keeping an online diary (known as a "web log" - or "blog" for short) to enlist the public's aid in finding the whale he alleged had eaten his wife, infant son and arm. The first few entries appear below.
But why click and scroll when, in just a couple of days, this blog apparently will be available in old-fashioned book form "at BarnesandNoble.com and in bookstores throughout the Seven Seas." Arrr, matey... that's good readin'!
Edited later to add: I take those last three paragraphs back. After reading Carrie's post in the comments section, I went to Gary Openshaw's Whale-Killing Journal and actually read several entries, rather than just superficially enjoying the premise the way I did in my last go-through. And not to mince words, but it kinda sucks. Sorry, Gary Openshaw. I wish you the best of luck on the high seas. Don't take any crap from that whale.
So... can anyone else give me their informed scoop on these Blooker contenders? Who are you rooting for, if anyone?
Spring is in the air, new life is all a-bud, and I've got a hankering to make a list.
Now, you might not guess this to look at me, but I may be the only non-pothead in the western world who likes stoner movies. I saw Wayne's World in the theatre, like, five times. Don't believe me? Ask Glark. He was there, too.
I've seen Dude, Where's My Car? more times than I can count, and not just, as Rusty attests, in order to watch Ashton Kutcher and Seann "All My Names are First Names, but My First First Name Has a Mysteriously Superfluous 'N'" William Scott making out. I also really liked Dude, Where's My Car? II aka Harold & Kumar Go to White Castle.
I even liked Pootie Tang.
Here's my theory. Pretty much all movies can be slotted into four categories:
- smart smart - a movie that wants to be smart and succeeds, i.e. The Philadelphia Story
- stupid smart - a movie that tries to be smart and fails, i.e. almost anything by Steven Soderbergh
- smart stupid - an entertainingly stupid movie made by smart people, i.e. Super Troopers
- stupid stupid - an unentertainingly stupid movie made by stupid people, i.e. anything starring Rob Schneider
Since there are tragically few smart smart movies in the entire history of film production, your best value for your movie dollar is smart stupid. These are predominantly the movies I like.
Okay. So maybe by now some of you regular visitors to this site have a bead on my literary habits and tastes. And maybe you can even correlate mine to yours, and figure out if you'll like or hate anything I've read based on your previous comparisons of our tastes. So let's take this exercise one step further and play the Amazon "Customers who bought this also bought..." game with our respective movie libraries. I'll show you mine if you show me yours.
The Big Lebowski
This isn't exactly a smart smart movie and it isn't quite a smart stupid movie. It's a smart movie about a simple guy. (Get your life jacket! Things are getting deep over here!) I've found that the Coen brothers' movies that I end up loving the most are the ones that seemed most messy the first time I watched them. The Big Lebowski is a classic example.
Super Troopers
Based on the trailer, I so expected this to be an irredeemably dumb movie. Which just goes to show that trailers cannot be trusted, because Super Troopers redeemed itself within the first five minutes. It's a textbook example of a smart stupid movie.
Wet Hot American Summer
And here's another textbook example. I would never have even glanced at this movie without Wing Chun's adamant recommendation. You know that moment when you're watching a movie and something happens onscreen to reassure you that you're in more than capable hands and all you have to do is sit back, relax, and wait to be entertained? Where the movie is so easy to enjoy that you get the sense that, if they could, the filmmakers would reach through the screen and administer direct firm-yet-gentle pressure onto your diaphragm to make it even easier for you to laugh? For me that moment comes at about the one-third point in this movie, during a musical montage of the counsellors going into town for a break. Funneee!
Raising Arizona
I was sixteen when I saw this movie in the theatre, and man, did I ever miss the joke. I did not get the overdone characters. I did not get the convoluted plot. I did not get the post-ironic sentimentality. I wish I could remember what thoughts were going through my head as I watched it. Probably trying to figure out which matching-neon-socks-and-shirt combo I was going to wear to school on Monday.
American Graffiti
This was the movie that made me realize that Richard Dreyfuss wasn't always histrionic and irritating. I'd always thought he was born that way. Rusty tells me that I would've realized this earlier if I'd watched Jaws, but I like swimming in the ocean too much to do that to myself. Not to get all film-nerdy, but this movie does the most amazing thing with its soundtrack by weaving it in and out of the actual action of the film. Rent it and pay attention to that aspect. It'll blow your mind. I think this movie may actually be smart smart, but I can't get past my girlish crush on John Milner to figure it out.
South Park: Bigger, Longer & Uncut
Yes, the South Park TV series bugs. But don't even tell me you don't like this movie. I don't want to hear it. And if I tell you that this is one of the most important, meaningful movies to come out in recent years, you just nod and smile, okay? And if you tell me that Satan's stirring rendition of "Up There" isn't one of the best songs you've ever heard in a musical, you're going to make me weep a single picturesque tear. For you. Because you're dead inside.
The 40-Year-Old Virgin
Maybe it's just because I haven't left the house to see a movie in over a year, but I loved this movie SO much. I was expecting it to be stupid, yes. And funny, of course. But I wasn't expecting it to have heart. I'm a sucker for heart. Steve Carell is my new secret boyfriend. If you want to share him with me, that's cool, because I've got Paul Rudd and Seth Rogen here for backup.
The Royal Tenenbaums
Like The Big Lebowski, this is a messy movie that I wasn't sure I even liked the first time I saw it. But multiple watchings (and re-watchings) have changed my tune. And years from now, when Ben Stiller has finally degenerated into Richard Dreyfuss Lite, as seems to be his destiny, let's all remember his moving portrayal of Chas Tenenbaum and sigh a little sigh together.
The Philadelphia Story
Hey, when did this list stop being about stupid movies? Well, too late now. I loveloveLOVE this movie. In fact, it might be my favourite movie of all time. Katherine Hepburn! Cary Grant! James Stewart! Witty dialogue and a snappy plot! And what's that over there? A social message, albeit a somewhat charmingly dated one? This was probably the last smart smart movie ever to be made.
The Treasure of the Sierra Madre
Is this a smart stupid movie? Smart smart? Who the hell knows. Who cares? Badges? We don't need no stinkin' badges! We don't have to show you no stinkin' badges!
Three things:
1. I've been meaning for a couple of days to refer you to landismom's site, where she mentions that the New Orleans Public Library system is seeking book donations. If you've got any good books for people of all ages, head on over and get the shipping info cash donations. Go here for detailed information on how to help rebuild New Orleans's libraries.
2. I've had this idea swirling around inside the ol' melon for a couple of weeks now. Let me run it past you, and tell me what you think.
Ever since Kim posted an awesome found quote in the comments section here a few months ago, I've been haunted by thoughts of how great it would look on a t-shirt. (You should know that my sartorial motto is "A plain t-shirt is a waste of real estate.") I looked around the internet to see if it already exists, and lo! It does not.
So without taking any credit for the original quote WHATSOEVER, I've been thinking about getting a bunch of tees silkscreened with this saying. I've found a good source for silkscreening, and they use American Apparel t-shirts, my favourite. They look good AND they use fair labour practises... sexxxy!
So I went ahead and did a rough mock-up of how the t-shirt could look, which is something like this:
I might change it up a little bit, but I'd keep the text small and left-justified and sans-serif. I personally like the plainness of the design. It looks bookish to me.
And because I'm just a teensy bit of a whore, I'd probably want to put my URL on the t-shirt, too, but I swear it'll be tiny and super discreet, maybe kind of like this:
(For you Americans, that .ca designation is the domain suffix that Canada gets to use for its very own. Isn't that cute? We Canadians are so perky!)
So what I'd like to get an idea of is how many of you folks might be interested in getting one (or two or three or twelve) of these. I'm not asking you to order them now, nor does your expressing an interest now mean that you've committed yourself later. I just want to see if it's even worthwhile to keep thinking about this.
If I do this and you WERE to order a shirt from me, I'd probably charge around $20 USD plus shipping (I'd look up shipping costs once I figure out the weight and dimensions of the parcels), and you'd have to have a Paypal account because that's the only means of payment I'd be able to accept.
If you're interested, email me at 50bookstees [at] gmail [dot] com. I'll get back to you all in the next week or so to let you know if I've decided to go ahead and if so, to show you what the final design will look like.
3. Have a great weekend! I won't say "Don't do anything I wouldn't do," because if you knew what I used to get up to on weekends, you'd (a) be scandalized, and (b) realize how intimidatingly high the bar has been raised. So instead I'll just say, "Do your best."
...........
Edited later to add: Thanks to everyone who's already emailed me about the t-shirts! To answer some of the questions I've received:
- I'll be getting boy tees and girl tees made up, and I'd get that info, along with your size, when I officially take orders.
- I'll probably only get white tees, for the sake of my precious sanity.
- I'll ship them pretty much anywhere you're willing to pay shipping costs. I'll probably look into shipping costs for Canada, the US, the UK, Australia and New Zealand to start, since I think that's where most of you are from. I'll post the figures the post office quotes me here.
Edited yet again: Because I'm a sucker for anyone who calls me charming, I'll concede to tuckova's request for white lettering on black tees. But that's it. White tee or black tee: these are your choices. (You wily minx, tuckova, you!)
As you may already know, I have a minor obsession with bookshelves. A while back, I thought these were the weirdest shelves I've ever seen, but I think this design might trump them.
They're made by an Italian company called Cedri Martini, and according to quintessential lifestyle navigators Charles & Marie, they're billed as "adhesive book shelves":
The concept is as simple as it is visually stunning, an always repeating pattern is attached to the wall (with screws, not adhesives…) and then you can have a blast and fill them up how ever you want to.
I mean, they're visual, and I'm definitely stunned, but I dunno about "visually stunning." Maybe I'm just old-fashioned, but I like to keep my books on something that doesn't remind me of my shower surround.
But, hey, I thought some of you weirdos might like them. So voila!
I loved this article so much I read it three times. It's Annie Proulx's unapologetically pissed-off dressing-down of the Academy Awards, and you know what? Before you write this piece off as sour grapes, Annie beats you to the punch and says, "For those who call this little piece a Sour Grapes Rant, play it as it lays."
Because dude, this is Annie Proulx. She's seventy years old and she's tough as nails and she divides her time between Wyoming and NEWFOUNDLAND, fergodsake, and in the very first paragraph of her short story "Brokeback Mountain" she has a guy peeing in his sink. And I'm not saying she would clock you with her Pulitzer, but I bet she could if she wanted to. What I'm saying here is that this is Annie Proulx, and she sure as heck doesn't give a tumbleweed fart about your, or my, good opinion.
I'm glad we got that out of the way. Because my Annie Proulx love goes way back, and while I don't expect you to love her, too (though, hey, that'd be great!), the woman demands respect with a capital R.
Check this:
Everyone thanked their dear old mums, scout troop leaders, kids and consorts. More commercials, more quick wit, more clapping, beads of sweat, Stewart maybe wondering what evil star had lighted his way to this labour. Despite the technical expertise and flawlessly sleek set evocative of 1930s musicals, despite Dolly Parton whooping it up and Itzhak Perlman blending all the theme music into a single performance (he represented "culchah"), there was a kind of provincial flavour to the proceedings reminiscent of a small-town talent-show night. Clapping wildly for bad stuff enhances this. There came an atrocious act from Hustle and Flow, Three 6 Mafia's violent rendition of "It's Hard Out Here for a Pimp", a favourite with the audience who knew what it knew and liked. This was a big winner, a bushel of the magic gold-coated gelded godlings going to the rap group.
As you may know, I didn't watch the Oscars, but man, now I sort of wish I had, if only so that I could have invested my mosquito-like shrilling with the resonant, sardonic detail of Proulx's commentary.
After reading this piece, I was inspired to get out my copy of Close Range and re-read "Brokeback Mountain," and I'm so glad I did. I still haven't seen the movie, but that's only because I have to wait for it to come out on DVD. The minute it does, though... I mean, dude, Jake Gyllenhaal making out with Heath Ledger? Sign me up for a lifetime subscription to THAT. Colour me superficial, but if enjoying watching pretty men get it on is wrong, I don't want to be right.
If you've got a hankering for more Proulx, you should check out her official site, which contains, among other thing, her CV, a handful of her essays, and FAQs about "Brokeback," including, in answer to the question "How long did it take to write this story?" the following statement: "Roughly six months, about twice as long as it takes to write a novel." Ha!
(Thanks to Hissyfit for the link!)
So here's a funny op-ed piece from The Times. Entitled "To Cuddle a Mockingbird," it's all about columnist Ben Macintyre's one-man campaign to lighten up great literature:
Madame Bovary could also do with some cheering up. How about this: Emma marries Charles, a terrifically entertaining and virile country doctor, they have eight children, someone invents Prozac, Emma buys an Aga and wins first prize for home baking at Yonville agricultural fair.
Why stop there? Macbeth is much too depressing. In my version the gentle, unassuming and monosyllabic thane settles down at Cawdor, where Lady Macbeth develops a profitable line in soap that leaves the hands spotless. Hamlet finds a shrink, marries Ophelia and goes into insurance. In the revised A Farewell to Arms, Catherine has a fat and healthy baby, and she and Henry establish a successful pacifist ski resort in the Alps.
Godot finally turns up.
Heh.
As much as I'm continually on the search for good, funny books, I think I fall into the tiny camp of readers (one in fifty, apparently) whom Macintyre identifies who like stories that are on the sad side. When I think about some of the most powerful books I've enjoyed -- Where the Red Fern Grows, Not Wanted on the Voyage, A Thousand Acres, Anna Karenina, Horton Hears a Who -- most of them are of the tear-jerking variety. In fact, all of these books are notable for having made me cry like a schoolgirl. Although Horton ends happily, at least.
I wonder why it is that so many of us feel such discomfort at being moved to tears by books. Is it embarrassment at having one's weaknesses revealed by mere words on a page? Is it that we just don't like feeling sad? Or is it, as my great friend Schimpky once stated emphatically, that we don't like feeling manipulated by books?
Let me tell you about the time a book got to me the most. It was more than ten years ago. I was reading James Agee's A Death in the Family, a deceptively simple novel about the death of an ordinary man, and how it affects his wife and children. The story starts with the death, which takes place far from the man's home. Men are dispatched to travel to his house and tell his family. It's late at night. His wife, who has been sitting up waiting for him to come home, already suspects that something bad has happened, but she remains quiet and strong. The men arrive and tell her. She is utterly devastated, but holds on to her dignity by her fingernails. In the morning, she must tell her children.
That's as far as I've ever gotten with this book. I started it in bed late one night, and by the time I put it down -- forever, it would seem -- tears were POURING down my face and I was choking down my sobs so as not to wake up Rusty.
Dude, I'm getting a huge lump in my throat right now just thinking about it. And I'm not a crybaby. Well, not that much of a crybaby, anyway.
Still, I consider this book one of the best, most affecting novels I've ever (almost) read. The Pulitzer folks clearly agreed with me, because they honoured the heck out of it in 1958, the year it was published. Strange, though, that such a stirring book has ended up pretty much forgotten by later generations. Or I guess, if Ben Macintyre is correct and all we want are feel-good endings to our stories, maybe this isn't such a surprise after all.
I can't believe I almost forgot to mention this, but I finished two books -- short story collections, to be specific -- a couple of weeks ago. The fact that I'd forgotten about them is probably telling.
Café le Dog and Living on Water by Matt Cohen (#7 and #8)
If you live in Canada and you frequent used-book stores, then you know Matt Cohen. Oh, maybe you've never actually read any of his books. But you're familiar with the sight of them, peeking down at you from the "C" section. And maybe you've even thought to yourself, "Who the heck is Matt Cohen?" or "I really should pick up one of Matt Cohen's books one of these days" or "Gee, that Matt Cohen guy sure is prolific."
So one day I took the bull by the horns (inasmuch as buying a book can be compared to bullfighting) and picked up not one but TWO of Cohen's short story collections. Café le Dog is a collection of stories that were originally published between 1979 and 1983. Living on Water, released in 1989, six years later, is lauded as showing Cohen "at the height of his powers." Hm.
I read them in the order they were published, so when Café left me feeling meh, I was still optimistic about Living. And yet... meh.
It's not that Cohen is a bad storyteller. He can construct a finely nuanced, multi-layered narrative with the best of them. He's not short on perceptive insights, nor on lovely turns of phrase. It took me a while before I realized that the problem was the characters. Not only did I not like any of the characters in any of these stories (with the exception of the very last one I read, "Racial Memories"), I got the impression that Cohen didn't like them, either. His characters are, for the most part, clever, neurotic, arty, academic types. They have affairs and complex multi-person relationships. They're packing a middling-to-above-average load of angst. Sure, I've just made them sound unlikeable with those descriptors, but it's possible to write such characters in such a way as to make them sympathetic and/or charming. But Cohen doesn't do this. Which made me think, well, if you don't even like them, why should I be expected to care about them? And if I don't like them or care about them, why should I bother reading about them?
Since we're all in the trust tree together here, can I confess to you that I flirted dangerously with a vague theory about male short story writers versus female short story writers? Something along the lines of how flawed characters are always more interesting to read about, but female writers are better able to imbue these characterizations with warmth and sympathy, if not outright affection, than male writers. I got to this idea when I thought about all the great short fiction writers I've read over the past couple of years: Alice Munro, Carol Shields, Margaret Atwood, Annie Proulx, and Mavis Gallant, to name just a few.
But then I put paid to my own theory when I rolled the tapes back a bit further and thought about some of my other favourite short story writers: Guy Vanderhaeghe, Sherwood Anderson, Truman Capote, and a certain author named Anton Chekhov. Perhaps you've heard of him?
So let's light a candle together and share a moment of silence as another half-assed theory bites the dust. And now Cohen's going to have to bear the brunt of his unsympathetic characters on his own shoulders. No fobbing it off on his Y chromasome. Sorry about that, guy.
So, in lieu of a solid book recommendation, how about... some baby pictures!
They're photos from a hike we took yesterday. Every so often we realize that the mountains we can see from our house are actually REAL and not just chromakeyed over a bluescreen, and we're taken with the urge to get up there and tool around. So it being a magnificent, sunny day and all, we chucked young Master Sam and Dobbs in the ol' pick-up and headed for the hills.
It was Sam's first experience with real snow, and he was such a trooper. Despite the fact that the sled tipped over twice. Well, really only once if you define "tipping over" as "dumping the baby headfirst in a ditch." I wish I could say he doesn't often look at us with such trepidation, but then I'd be lying.
Dobbs always loves a good romp in the snow, despite the fact that his hair is such that snow tends to clump on his legs in increasingly larger snowballs until it looks like he's wearing white pompom pants.
We saw Bambi over by some trees. This is Sam's best impersonation of "Disney eyes."
It's such a cliché to end a series of photos with a picture of people walking off into the sunset or whatever. And yet here I am doing just that.
So, we watched the latest Harry Potter movie last night. Baaaaad baaaaaaad baaaaaaaaaad movie. And by "baaaaaaaaaaaaad" I mean BAD. Let me say it again in case you haven't been paying attention:
bad
Rusty raised a good point while we were trying to ignore the vicariously embarrassing spectacle on our TV screen, which is, man, is Hogwarts an unsafe school or what? Like, would you send your kids there? And this Tri Wizard Tournament, with the goal being to SURVIVE three challenges... call me namby-pamby, but isn't that the kind of thing you should clear with parents first?
We imagined the permission slip might look something like this:
Well, yeah, OF COURSE we signed. Do you think we want our kid to lose face in front of his friends? And also... dude, that's ETERNAL GLORY he's vying for. That's got to be worth something, don't you think?
Hey, guys, did you know the "Oscars" were a few days ago??? Some of you might not be familiar with this "insider" slang term for the event, so perhaps I should refer to it by its formal name: The Academy Awards®. Ring any bells? Yeah, me neither.
Apparently, the "Oscars" are kind of a big deal in the movie business. I, my very own self, am in the books business, and ever since 1994, when these "Oscar" people dissed Winston Groom, author of Forrest Gump -- one of the laugh-out-loud funniest books I've ever read -- by not even mentioning his name, much less thanking him, during the movie's (a movie that was unadulterated pap. Pap, I tell you!) award sweep...
Well, let me just say I've found better things to do with these six hours of my life every year. Including this year.
Maybe these "Oscar" folks think they've won back my support by lauding the incandescent Philip Seymour Hoffman, one of my favourite contemporary actors, in his turn as Truman Capote, one of my favourite twentieth-century writers. Nice try, Academy, but unlike you, I'm not a whore!
Taking a quick look at this year's nominees and winners, a few things stuck out... like a big hairy wen:
Tim Burton's The Corpse Bride was a too-long, boring remake of a Jewish folk tale that's actually quite interesting and creepy. Yet nowhere in any of the marketing material around this animated feature have I found even a mention of the source material. Boo, Tim Burton! And did I mention that this film was boring? Double boo!
I haven't seen Pride and Prejudice yet (oops, exsqueeze me! Pride & Prejudice!), but I've heard it's fairly good. Kiera Bigteeth didn't win the award for her role as Elizabeth Bennett, so we'll never find out if she would have remembered to thank the little people -- such as oh, say, one of the most important female writers in the history of the English language -- in her acceptance speech. So no boo there. But half a boo for that title. Really, people, AN AMPERSAND? Was the print shop charging by the letter?
Memoirs of a Geisha? Man, that was a crap book. And I'm guessing a crap movie, too, judging by the fact that its only win was for art direction. But I just had this happy thought that maybe the publishing industry has this genius ploy of tossing out books like Memoirs specifically for Hollywood to latch on to and ruin, kind of like that second birthday cake Marge always makes for Homer... so thanks for coming out, Memoirs people! Keep up the good work!
Harry Potter and the Goblet of Pie... er, I mean Fire. I've read all the Harry Potter books, but I'll be durned if I can remember what happens in this one. And I haven't seen this movie but I probably will some day, if only so that I can instantly forget it, too. So I'm taking my best guess at the plot. Um, Voldemort menaces? Hermione scowls? Harry does... stuff? Am I close?
Whose idea was it to tack that TERRIBLE, WRONG, TERRIBLY WRONG ENDING on Charlie and the Chocolate Factory? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Trust me, if you haven't seen this movie yet, by all means go out and rent it. And then STOP THE TAPE five minutes before the so-called end of the movie. Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?
Jeepers creepers. I'm emotionally exhausted right now. And all I did was read the list of nominees. You can see why it's been more than a decade since I've watched the actual awards, right?
(Apropos of less than nothing, if you want my opinion as to the best line on the America's Next Top Model season premiere last night, hand's down it was Dani's declamatory non sequitur: "I know all about gay people! I was a cheerleader!" Hey, like in that movie! Way to bring it back round, Doppelganger.)
I like tattoos. I mean, I'm not a freak about them or anything, but I have two tattoos that are almost ten years old and I still don't hate them, which is pretty cool. Or just lucky.
And I love chairs. Yes, that's right, I said I LOVE CHAIRS. I'm a bit of a design enthusiast, particularly about mid-century modern design (along with about a gazillion other people these days, it seems), and in my opinion, furniture design reaches its apex with the chair. Any schlub can design a decent sofa or a nice table, but it's the chair that challenges designers and reveals true genius.
A few years ago, if you'd asked me which chair I'd choose if I had a few thousand bucks burning a hole in my apron pocket, I would've answered in a heartbeat: the classic Eames lounge chair (with the matching ottoman, natch). Preferably in cherry and upholstered in black leather.
But lately -- and maybe it's the brain-softening effect of motherhood at work -- I've got a wistful hankering for Eero Saarinen's Womb chair, also with the matching ottoman. Ooh, baby... bring mommy the comfy!
(My second choice -- and it's tight finish -- is the Bertoia Bird lounge chair and ottoman. You're sensing a theme here with the ottomans, right? Let me be blunt: life is nasty, brutish and short. If you can't at least PUT YOUR FEET UP from time to time, what's the point?)
Where am I going with this?
Quick recap of topics discussed: Tattoos. And mid-century chair lust. Much as I dig both, they just don't strike me as two great tastes that taste great together.
The premise of the festival is to celebrate great works of literature and the joy of the written word... in food form. (Take note of the edible dioramic homage to James and the Giant Peach to the right.)
entirely of bacon (also pictured right); William Blake's "Memorable Fancies" rendered as gorgeous pastries; and a guacamole book, which -- I won't lie to you -- kind of frightens me. (Go here to see a pretty nifty slideshow of dozens of participating edibles.)
