Notes from a Subway Journal

Pride and Prejudice and Zombies

2009-11-10T22:17:00.006-05:00

Yes.
I think we've established that I'm an avid - uhh - Jane Austen....ite. What can I say? I like 'er. Anyway. What you may NOT realize is that I also like zombies. Maybe not as much as Jane Austen, but I can't make everything my favorite, you know? Anyway. I'm glad I finally got to read this book. Hilarious from the very first second. I'm not even talking about the text - I'm talking about the cover! I hadn't really taken a good look at it before I bought it so when I actually got the book in the mail I was kind of surprised to see this:

when I own a copy of Emma that looks like this:

Hilarious, yes? I thought so.
Anyway. The book is great. It's the original story mashed up with zombies. eewwwww. Yeah. It's a good time and it's a good bit of fluff. There are even some pictures:

I really can't say too much more about it, except that I enjoyed the incorporation of the Shaolin stuff (having gone to see Soul of Shaolin at the Marquis this year) and I wish there had been more drama...more people turning into zombies and such. Also, I wanted Lady Catherine to be a total sham because that would be awesome.

Bringing Up Girls in Bohemia

2009-11-10T20:36:00.002-05:00

This was my first dip in the pond of Czech literature. Again, just one of those books that I picked up at the library. My whole literary life (for some reason) I've been drawn to authors who appear earlier in the alphabetic registry. Austen, Barrie, Bronte, Byatt, Dickens, Dumas, Fitzgerald, Jacques, Kerouac. In recent years, I've dabbled in the McEwans and McCarthys, Pearsons and Vonneguts. So to now have a Viewegh in the bunch is not necessarily new, but it's fresh. I only wish the translation was better.

It's got some great humor, parody, parody of parody, pastiche. On one hand, when you begin the novel, it feels like Viewegh desires a reader with incredible literary prowess. He quotes everyone on everything and uses it as irony, criticism, cliche and fact. If you want to "get it" you should probably know who these people are. That's what I thought. On the other hand, having now finished the novel, and being able see the whole picture, perhaps he's using his quotes to prove who is master holding all of the strings, and who (the reader) is at the end of the strings. The book is like a literary diabolical dynamo that just pulses quotations, generating and regenerating the responses of every reader.

Published in 1994, the book seems like a perfect way for me to incorporate my nonfiction reading on post-1989 Germany and Eastern Europe into fiction. It offers a fairly familiar plot of boy meets girl, but crossing economical, taste, and generational barriers. Viewegh manages to see the world through his narrators eyes which are inevitably wearing the sunglassed filters of the 20-year-old suicider, Beata. We see what the professor sees, but we feel what the 20-year-old dumpee feels. She's a disaster. But the quotes hold her in place, just as Viewegh wants them to.

"The heartbeats of a lover dead" (p. 124) The novel is a like a musical composition notebook. Each quote is the bass line of the next bar. One of my favorite quotes from the book amused me because it was me....and I know that sounds weird, but to be able to identify oneself in an obscure Czech novel is worth some points in my book: "Chvatalova-Sukova... rushed out to the school garden with the glass jar and a U.S. Army retrenching tool. As always, she moved her limbs in time with an inaudible composition playing somewhere beneath the dome of her skull." I think that's the nugget. I think that's what the book is. The quotes - the beat, the pages - the skull. Get it?

Catharine and Other Writings

2009-11-06T22:34:00.000-05:00

I’ve been reading Jane Austen for 14 years. I own all of her major works as well as the minor ones (Lady Susan, the unfinished The Watsons, the unfinished Sanditon). I have read Emma and Mansfield Park twice, Sense & Sensibility, Pride & Prejudice and Northanger Abbey multiple times, Persuasion about…. 70 times (give or take a few). I’ve read numerous essays and opinions on her work. I’ve read the histories on her life. For a few years now, I’ve owned a published collection of her letters. Unfortunately, there are only so many – Cassandra burned many of them when Jane died. I’ve only ever gotten so far as the introduction to the collection.

Something kept stopping me from reading on. I thought a part of it was that I had let her get into her head so much, I was almost afraid of her letters. After reading Charlotte Brontë’s Unfinished Novels, I decided to take a quick sweep by the letter A in the Fiction section of the library. And there, wedged between Emma and Mansfield Park was Catharine. I knew immediately that this was what I’d been waiting for.

Ever since Patricia Rozema’s 1999 treatment of Mansfield Park, I have craved Austen’s juvenilia. And this was the very first time a copy had been readily available at the library. It’s titled Catharine and Other Writings. Essentially, it’s the transcription of the three notebooks that Jane kept in her adolescence (age 12 to 18). It does for the Austen lover what Charlotte & Branwell’s stories of Angria do for Brontë lovers.

It reminds me very much of when I was younger, playing Barbies with my sister. Making up stupid-ass stories about their families; brushing out Ken-doll John Smith’s hair so he looked like Michael Bolton. There’s such resonant disregard for propriety that you do not see in her novels among the heroes, heroines and admirable side characters. Northanger Abbey is the exception, because she wrote it when she was still quite young. But even there you feel her reining in the silly girls and making them into strong women.

The main characters in these works are the infrastructure for all of her accessory characters. The Bennet sisters, the Musgroves, the Bertrams, the Elliots, Mrs. Elton, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, Marianne Dashwood, Lady Susan, General Tilney, Admiral Croft, Willoughby: they are all there. You can feel the wheels turning in her mind as you progress page by page.

This is what I have been missing. This is why I could not move on into her letters. It wasn’t because I was afraid to let her into my head; it was because I didn’t have the foundation. You can read all you want about Jane. You can read every history and every commentary by Deirdre Le Faye, you can read every opinion, every essay, ever finicky and sorely balanced sequel to her novels, you can watch every treatment of her works on film from every angle; still you will not understand.

Her juvenilia from dedications at the beginning of each volume down to every pen stroke that she edited, up to the spot in her prayers where you can feel (without even looking into the notes) the author change from Henry to Jane; every one of these things are hers.

This is the magic of Oxford World’s Classics. I’ve discussed this before in the case of Dumas – why I won’t read translations by other publishers, etc. OWC breathes life back into Jane’s lungs. If you’ve ever seen the Rozema “Mansfield Park”, you’ll know Jane’s “A History of England” (as well as “Love and Freindship (sic)”: “Beware of fainting-fits....Beware of swoons—Run mad as often as you chuse; but do not faint—“. ) OWC gives you not only what history she’s speaking of, but why she speaks in such a tone; why she was atypical in preferring roman Catholicism; why she characterizes herself as anti-Tudor. It defines every questionable word and motive, and not in a condescending way.

It is as if 16-year-old Jane were sitting next to you in 1792 explaining her word choice. And now I know I can move on, into her letters. Now that I know not what she has written, or been, but who she is.

Nectar in a Sieve by Kamala Markandaya

2009-10-27T19:59:00.003-04:00

"All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair--
The bees are stirring--birds are on the wing--
And Winter, slumbering in the open air,
Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring!
And I, the while, the sole unbusy thing,
Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing.

Yet well I ken the banks where amaranths blow,
Have traced the fount whence streams of nectar flow.
Bloom, O ye amaranths! bloom for whom ye may,
For me ye bloom not! Glide, rich streams, away!
With lips unbrighten'd, wreathless brow, I stroll:
And would you learn the spells that drowse my soul?
Work without Hope draws nectar in a sieve,
And Hope without an object cannot live."

- (Samuel Taylor Coleridge "Work Without Hope")

I've read a lot of Asian-American and Indian-American literature. My second English class focused quite a bit on "mixed" American writers. Korean-American, Indian-American, Japanese-American, Chinese-American, African-American, and the list, as I remember, goes on. It was an interesting period in my reading because I was reading literature that I would never have picked up on my own. Not to mention, much of it was in the form of short stories which I wouldn't find on my own. A lot of the work was photocopied specifically for the class out of books that I would never go near.

My favorites were the Indian writers. I think I lost my adoration for them a bit when I worked on Dharamvir Bharati's The Blind Age during sophomore year, though. Among these writers were Jhumpa Lahiri and Bharati Mukherjee (my favorite was Mukherjee's short story - "A Father"). Their work is so beautiful and honest and still retain a bit of grit. That being said, I'm very surprised that I never came across Kamala Markandaya. In fact, when I picked it up in the library's fiction section and finally looked to see what it was, my initial reaction was to return it to the shelf because I thought I HAD read it or that I should have, and I was not looking forward to reading something my teacher would have had me read. But then I glanced at the back and decided to check it out anyway.

I'm so glad I did.

It's the kind of novel you have to read the back of. Not because there's something lost in translation or because the story is hard to follow, but because you need to be prepared. I can best describe it as the story of a woman with nothing to lose who loses almost everything. It's sweet, it's damp and dirty, it's about tradition and modernity, it's honest and beautiful, it's tragic and it's wonderful. And even in its sadness, its tragedy, and its dirt, it is hopeful.

Even in its frankness, it is hopeful. In the first 2 pages, you know how it will end. You know all of the tragedies that will happen in this woman's life. And yet you're drawn in. You keep reading even though you know it's going to be a big bad scary path. And you're rewarded for going with her on her journey. The visual quality of Markandaya's writing allows you to escape into that world, pretty or not. Strongly - very strongly - recommended.

Charlotte Bronte - Unfinished Novels

2009-10-25T00:45:00.008-04:00

Up until this point, I had read almost everything by Charlotte Bronte. I read Jane Eyre at age 17 (the perfect time, I think, to read it). I read Villette and Shirley shortly thereafter. I also, over the last 3 years, took it upon myself to read her juvenilia in the form of The Foundling, The Green Dwarf, The Spell, and The Secret as well as The Professor. I have yet to read Ms. Gaskell’s biography of the Charlotte, but I believe there's been some controversy over some of her facts and, to be frank, I hate biographies. In terms of her sisters, I’ve read Anne Brontë’s Agnes Grey and was completely bored. I’ve stayed as far away from Emily Brontë’s Wuthering Heights as humanly possible. The story makes me want to throw up a little bit. I’ve never seen a film version that’s redeemed it. So no Emily for me, either.

I’m really only interested in Charlotte. Most authors, especially those who passed on before their time, have tidbits and fragments and chapters of work that has gone unfinished. Dickens left us Edwin Drood. Jane Austen left us Sanditon, and Charlotte has left us Emma. In these cases, the authors have died before the narrative could continue. They were not voluntarily abandoned. Included in Pocket Classics’ edition of her unfinished pieces are works that WERE left alone voluntarily: “The Story of Willie Ellin”, “Ashworth”, and “The Moores.”

Perhaps the best way to introduce any discussion of Ms. Brontë’s unfinished works is with a quote from author William Makepeace Thackeray (Vanity Fair) that is included in the book as part of the preface to her final piece, Emma:

One evening, at the close of 1854, as Charlotte Nicholls [neé Brontë] sat with her husband by the fire, listening to the howling of the wind about the house, she suddenly said to her husband, ‘If you had not been with me, I must have been writing now.’ She then ran upstairs, and brought down, and read aloud, the beginning of a new tale. When she had finished, her husband remarked, ‘The critics will accuse you of repetition.’ She replied, ‘Oh! I shall alter that. I always begin two or three times before I can please myself.’ But it was not to be. The trembling little hand was to write no more. The heart, newly awakened to love and happiness, and throbbing with maternal hope, was soon to cease to beat; that intrepid outspeaker and champion of truth, that eager impetuous redresser of wrong, was to be called out of the world’s fight and struggle, to lay down the shining arms, and to be removed to a sphere where even a noble indignation cor ulterius nequit lacerare [ from the epitaph of Jonathan Swift, "cannot injure her heart anymore"), and where truth complete, and right triumphant, no longer need to wage war.
(Unfinished Novels, 96)

Emma begins with the aforesaid “repetition.” Like all of her completed novels, it begins in a school. And like all the others, it’s about a young girl in that school although it becomes quickly obvious that Emma is very different from Brontë’s earlier heroines. In fact, it reads even more similar to Frances Hodgson Burnett’s A Little Princess (which, it appears, WAS inspired by this or - rather - the original novella titled "Sara Crewe, or What Happened at Miss Minchin's" and Thackeray’s own Vanity Fair, published 7 years earlier (Ms. Brontë wrote this fragment in 1854, and it was published in 1860. Appropriate then, that Thackeray introduces it.

“Emma,” however, is not the longest fragment in the book. It is preceded, first, by a dredgy “The Story of Willie Ellin” which only makes a lot of sense in Charlotte’s voice if you know that she wrote it in the midst of editing sister Emily’s Wuthering Heights. It’s much darker than anything else of hers on the page. It’s also pretty lackluster and boring (cough). This is succeeded by “Ashworth,” the longest (45 pages) investment of the collection. This was my favorite piece I think because of its intricacies. It begins as the story of one man and carries on through to the story of his daughter. We assume that, had the novel continued past 45 pages, we would return to Mr. Ashworth (whose wife, by the way, dies after she asks him to pick her up at the window so she could see the sun….Cathy & Heathcliff, anyone??) but we are left in the care of his daughter, Miss Mary, who seems as lovely (though perhaps more sensible than) Mr. Thackeray’s own Amelia Sedley. Oddly enough for "Ashworth", it was handed down among various associates and relations of the Brontës and only “discovered” in the 1980s. Cool.

The third piece is, perhaps, the most interesting of those that Charlotte let go by the wayside. Titled “The Moores,” the focus is on Mr. and Mrs. John Henry Moore and, eventually, their respective relatives. The most markedly interesting aspect of this piece is the way the Mr. and Mrs. treat one another. In what seems like a scene right out of Vanity Fair or, perhaps, Dickens’ Great Expectations, the couple verbally harasses one another, Mrs. Moore ignores her husband and Mr. Moore tears a letter from her hand and burns it in front of her. To escalate matters, when Mr. Moore’s brother arrives and Mrs. Moore’s cousin takes to the piano, the men are narrated into a state of disgust in front of them. This is somewhat reminiscent of Edward Rochester’s playful disinterest in maintaining certain rules of decorum, a trait that makes him realistically and even modernly more endearing than the white-horse-white-glove-decorum-filled Austen heroes. Mr. Moore is, truly, a bit more extreme but his brother has the opportunity to become someone interesting, and it’s a shame that she put him aside.

As for Emma itself, we are cruelly torn away from the narrative right as our Matilda Fitzgibbon is stripped of her fanciful name and façade. Though the intro is somewhat academic and blasé, the world we enter into as the story progresses is terribly promising. It reads like A Little Princess, like The Secret Garden, like Vanity Fair, like Jane Eyre, like Great Expectations, like Mansfield Park and like Les Misérables. The real unfairness lies in our inability to foresee who little Matilda will become. Will she be redubbed as Emma? Will she grow up to be like Austen’s own Emma, who is proud and (unknowingly) cruel? Or will she be like Jane Eyre, subjugated and left to develop her character among those who are cruel or indifferent to her with one clear exception? An authoress by the name of Claire Boylan has completed the story in her own words (Emma Brown), making it into a well-made pastiche of Brontë's completed works. But we'll never really know what Charlotte wanted. In musing on this in relation to an unfinished painting of Titania, the fairy queen Thackeray says:

As I read this little fragmentary sketch, I think of the rest. Is it? And where is it? Will not the leaf be turned some day, and the story be told? Shall the deviser of the tale somewhere perfect the history of little EMMA’S grief and troubles? Shall TITANIA come forth complete with her sportive court, with the flowers at her feet, the forest around her, and all the stars of summer glittering overhead?
(Unfinished Novels, 97)

And then the ogre and the pharaoh went out for a drink and lived happily ever after

2009-10-22T01:45:00.006-04:00

SHREK

You'll recall my incident with TDF. The issue, of course, was my purchasing a tdf ticket for Shrek for the 13th and then being told, at the last minute, that - oopsie - you're going the 18th. I was sad BUT I could make it on the 18th so all was good. So after work on Sunday the 18th, I walked up to the Broadway theatre, very cautiously passed the box office rep my photo ID, and very carefully received a ticket from her. *Woohoo!*

I walk into the theatre and am immediately caught in a tide of children. Of course. I disentangle myself and walk up to the second level, sneak past the next tide of children bouncing away from the 2nd floor merch booth wearing their Disney-like-princess-crowned-ogre-ears-headbands, and walk up the final flight to the mezzanine level. My seat is in the 9th row of the mezzanine - center. I take my seat, take note of the scant leg room that forces the group behind me to rest their knees on the back of my seat (won't be putting my coat there...) and wait for the inevitable. Not that I'm not excited about the show, but the fact is I'm the only person currently in my row so INEVITABLY people will be showing up and needing me to stand and get out of the way while they crunch their way in.

While I wait, the bouncing girly ogre ears bound up the stairs and begin to fill the row in front of me. My view of the stage is fine and even with a few kids on their appropriately-green booster seats I'll be fine. Sitting in front of me are two families who have arrived together - A 30-something couple with two girls between the ages of 6 and 8, and a late 30-something-couple with a similarly obnoxiously aged girl, and a boy between 10 and 12. He chose not to don the princess ogre ears. I can immediately tell that these people will be the bane of my existence for at least 75 minutes. The kids were squirming, the parents were fussing, the kids were climbing over everything, the parents were letting them, the kids were crying for M&M's, the parents purchased them, and then ignored them (yes, at kids' shows on Broadway, many theatres have given in and offered snacks in the house itself. In Shrek's case they offer at least M&M's and bottled water, and not cheaply.)

Finally the people sitting next to me arrive, I let them into the row, and then I sit and wait for the last 10 minutes before the show begins, watching the children undermine their parents, and listening to the 19-ish group sitting next to me, only then discovering that they were at a musical, not a stage version of the movie. There's a difference. If it were just a stage version of the movie it would be a) crap, and b) bland, and c) not extremely musical. So they're sitting there reading the song list going "oh, I don't remember that song!.....ooh look the Donkey has a song!....What? But Eddie Murphy's not on the cast list!?....Oh look Christopher Sieber's in it! But they don't list that he played Mary-Kate and Ashley's dad on that show!....Yes it does! At the bottom!....Omg! You're so right! I guess I was right about him!....OMG I wonder if Mary-Kate and Ashley are at the show tonight!?.....OMG I wonder if they're sitting with Eddie Murphy!" ...................Literally. Word-for-word. Moving on.

The show's about to begin and the parents are still talking, children still squirming. The announcements begin (Daniel Breaker, who usually plays Donkey, is out. So are 4 of the ensemble girls. Should be an interesting night.) The show then begins with a voiceover by "Shrek." This is happening; the lights are changing, etc. And the kids are still talking. And the parents are still talking. Dodo #1 sitting next to me decides, at the same moment I did, to shush them. One of the mothers turns around and says "Uh! You're shushing children?!?!" My response: "No, I'm shushing YOU." She turns around, she's huffy, she quiets her kids, and life goes on. Unless you're 2 of the girls. They've decided that, in order to see the show, they have to put their booster seats on the ground, fold their seats into the upright position and sit on the top of the seat with their feet on the boosters. Yeah. Didn't fly for me. Didn't fly for the other mother either so...one point to her - she told them to sit correctly and cut the crap.

I'd hate to spend my entire reflection on Shrek with the audience, so I'll move on now. I love this show. It's really got a special place in my heart. I don't really like the movies. I think they're cute but I think I was over them the moment I was asked to rescue over at the Shrek 4-D Attraction when I worked at Universal. In case you've never been there, the show attendants are dressed.... like Shrek. Canvas tunic, brown smocky thing, brown ugly pants, boot-spats to go over the sneakers.... stupid hat. You can kind of see a team member in costume in this picture:

Anyway. My point? Oh. Right. Don't really like the movies. But the show is so....I don't know. I think the thing is, it's SO cliché with the love triangle that it's moved beyond it. The villain is something you don't see in other shows, the protagonists are all something very special, etc. And it's empowering, you know? Shrek and Fiona love each other because they do. Not because of superficial reasoning. And the show's really well done, too, especially for a kids show. It has its moments (like the really loud RAWR that Shrek does to get a rise out of kids) but it's kind of endearing. And at the end of the day it's really NOT a kids' show. There's SO much adult humor in it. SO much. Shrek is played by Brian d'Arcy James whom I have loved for so many years I'm not even sure when it began - though it was probably circa 2000 when I first heard Lippa's The Wild Party. Anyway, love him. Adore him as Shrek. He's kind of the reason I got off my ass to see the show. He's leaving the show on November 8th and I knew I'd regret not seeing him. In January he'll be doing a play called Time Stands Still for MTC with Laura Linney (blehhhhh!), Alicia Silverstone (not knocking it till I try it) and Eric Bogosian (SIGN. ME. UP. SCOTTY.) So his standby, the incomparable Ben Crawford, is taking over the Shrek role.

Originally they announced that the show had opened up a new block of tickets through April, but as of yesterday it'll be closing in January. It's too bad, really. Sutton Foster is Fiona and is, simply, SPOT. ON. The casting for the show is really golden and I'll be sad to see the show go. It's had a healthy run, but it hasn't been selling well the last couple of months. When I attended on Sunday, probably a third or more of the mezzanine was empty. This worked out for me because the idiots sitting in front of me found other seats and I had all the room I wanted for Act II. But that's never really good news for a show. A commercial, production, at least.

I have to say though, even with the lacking audiences and the squirming in the seats, the actors put on a fantastic show. I'm not big on spectacle. I never have been. My high school theatre education taught me to be cynical when it comes to spectacle and my college theatre education improved on that and taught me to be careful when it comes to spectacle. As a result I tend to just shy away from it. This is probably the most "spectacular" show I've spent money on since moving her...and I don't regret it one bit. It's very balanced, very well-measured spectacle, if you will. It takes what is flashy and wonderful to large, typical audiences and fine-tunes it into what the atypical audience member will appreciate. As for those typical audiences, they're paying $20 for 3-6oz bags of M&Ms and 2 16oz bottles of water, and not knowing the difference.

AIDA

Back in July, I made the decision to get myself a subscription to the Metropolitan Opera. I felt like it was one of my first steps as a real adult. Opera subscription - check. For the price that most Roundabout Subscribers are paying for 5 shows, I'm getting 8 operas - Aida, Les Contes d'Hoffmann, Hamlet, Tosca, Lulu, La Boheme, La Traviata, and Turandot. My first reason for wanting an actual subscription was that, last year, I saw Satyagraha at the Met and fell in love with their space. The second reason was that I had caught, on PBS, the Met staging of Lucia di Lammermoor starring Piotr Beczala and Anna Netrebko, and I fell in love with the music and decided I had a total girl crush on Anna Netrebko. She's doing both La Boheme and Les Contes d'Hoffmann this season, so I decided I had to go.

Anyway, I ordered my subscription in July and secured a seat in the 3rd balcony box on the right, which is technically partial view, but you don't miss much. Last night was my first performance, Verdi's Aida starring Violeta Urmana (Soprano, Lithuania) and Johan Botha (Tenor, South Africa). Amneris was supposed to be Dolora Zajick, but she was sick last night so Olga Borodina (Mezzo-soprano, Russia) (who's scheduled to do Faust this Friday) went on in her place. And. was. brilliant. I do wish I could have seen Ms. Zajick because I feel like I never get to see American performers, but I think they're going to air it on PBS so I'll get to see her then.

I love the story of Aida. At 16 I saw the Elton John musical and of course loved it, but it can't hold a candle to Verdi. When the lights went down (or, in the case of the Swarovski chandeliers:
, were raised up) and Daniele Gatti conducted the violins through the first few sweet, cruel bars of the overture, I actually wept. Listen/watch here: Aida prelude

Overall, the production is beautiful. One of the great things about the Met is they have so. much. money. So their production values are incredible. This giant effing piece of set sinks into the ground to reveal the new set and audience freaking applauds I mean it's intense production qualities. And I did feel that way all around with two exceptions. The first was this costume that they put Ms. Urmana in for the 3rd and 4th acts. Now, if you'll let me branch off for a moment, if you look at the trifecta of performance art: Opera, Dance, Theatre, you'll note their differences in terms of who they select to perform - for dancers you really have to be fit like a dancer. There are no exceptions. For opera, you really have to have the voice for the opera. There are no exceptions. In theatre, you really have to act (at least, that's the running theory-coughginagershoncough). As a result, in theatre you get some skinny people, some fat people, etc. In theatre, it's who makes the role best. For the most part, they go with what looks best. So if you've got a 200-pound woman and a 130-pound woman both vying for the same part in, say, After Miss Julie, they're going to go with the smaller woman, even if her acting's not as good. In opera, it's as if the production qualities are so fantastic that the audience doesn't mind suspending their disbelief when it comes to the performers. As long as they sound like fab opera singers, they can be 200, 300 pounds, etc. In the Elton John Aida, you had Adam Pascal as Radames. He looked the part. Fierce warrior, strong leader, etc. In this Aida at the Met, you have Johan Botha as Radamés.

Not a small guy. You've also got Violeta Urmana as Aida.

Fierce, yes. Skinny, no. So in Act III/IV they put her in this dress.... and, you know, I get that she's Aida. She's a slave. I get that. So she shouldn't look like she's wearing the same clothes as the princess, Amneris. I get that. But Amneris is not wearing a modern day couture gown; she's wearing Egyptian chic. So Aida should not be wearing something my mom bought at the Dress Barn (mom, I'm talking like 12 years ago). It's this turquoise short-sleeved ankle-length cottony dress that they've "slaved up" with fringe that comes from the edges of the sleeves, the waist, the neck, the hem and then across the bodice. It's so ugly. It's so wrong! They couldn't have found ANYTHING else for her to wear?!?! This is the only kind of picture I could find of it, from an earlier performance:

Hideous, right? Right. My second aesthetic complaint is about something their lighting/special effects team did. In Act IV, they've got this "flame bowl" that an actor is supposed to "light" with his torch but we all know he doesn't actually light anything because it would never light in time. Instead, for safety and timeliness reasons, the electrics department uses a fuse that they can light by assigning it to one of the dimmers on the light board. So instead of a light coming on at full power when the cue tells it to, a fuse box ignites and, voilà: fire in a bowl. Only these boxes, first of all, have to be connected to the dimmer and, secondly, don't just light. It's not like there's a little guy in the bowl waiting to be prodded so he can set the thing on fire. No. There's an explosion that happens to make the fire happen. So firstly, there's a cord coming from this damn fire bowl that runs offstage but, of course, everyone not in the orchestra can see this damn cord, and secondly, when it gets "lit" there's a burst and a cloud of smoke like a magic trick gone awry which, I guess, is exactly what it is. Only you can see the rabbit's tail up the magician's sleeve.

But aside from those two things, the production is enormous and beautiful. I cracked up when the audience applauded the horses being onstage. And, all in all, it was a wonderful evening.

I lost my list...

2009-10-17T15:20:00.003-04:00

I've been keeping track of the books I've read, starting each May. Since May I read like....15 books? And I've lost that list. Fail. BUT I'm using Librarything.com now and it's awesome. My collection is here.

"A Big Bright Beautiful world.....but not for me"

2009-10-13T20:37:00.002-04:00

All I wanted to do tonight was see Shrek. I had it all planned out -- I'd go tonight at 7pm so that I could leave right from work and then come home, maybe watch Biggest Loser, and then get to sleep in because I work 12-8 tomorrow. That's all I wanted. So, on Sunday night (very late) I ordered my ticket for Shrek on TDF. I received my confirmation email. All's good. I was really really excited because I adore Brian D'Arcy James and he's leaving the show soon and I just knew I had to see him in it.

I hadn't really listened to the music from the show at all until about two weeks ago. Before that I'd listened to maybe one song? And then it came on while my iTunes were on shuffle. Specifically "I Think I Got You Beat" and I was surprised at it. I liked it! So I sat down on the train and listened to the whole thing and was completely in love. That whole cast just makes me giggle. So I've been excited for two days.

This morning I got up and went to work and realized, half an hour or so into my commute, that I was wearing a Shrek-colored shirt. I was anticipating it so much that I'd ogre-ized myself subconsciously. All day at work today I had this knot in the bottom of my stomach. I thought I was just hungry because I did not ingest many calories at ALL today. On top of that, I had NO nasty callers today. None. That's gotta be a record for me. (Do you feel it yet? Can you tell something's wrong here?) So work ends and I sat at work for an extra hour not on the clock because the show wasn't til 7. I was going to check my email but other people where on the computers so I sat at my desk.

At 6 I got up and went towards the Broadway theatre. I had a tickle at the back of my throat so I stopped in at Duane Reade because I didn't want to cough all through "When Words Fail." I get to the theatre and get out my I.D. I walk to the box office window where a friendly-looking older guy is waiting to help. I pass him my I.D. and he looks in the cubby......no tickets for my name. Still very VERY friendly (I wish I'd gotten his name because he was SO nice) he asked how I had gotten the tickets (by this time I'm re-living flashbacks of when Carlos couldn't find my staff comps at Bye Bye Birdie because Jaimie had fucked up) and I told him it was TDF. He grabbed the TDF list and checked it 4 times....not on it.

A little downtrodden... (okay, a LOT downtrodden) I ask what I can do (even though I already know the answer) and he says I should call TDF and get the order confirmed and perhaps they'd be able to sit me somewhere else tonight. I know better than to ask for TDF's phone number. TDF is....difficult, to say the least, and they DO have a phone number but their offices are only open 10-6 and they don't give a shit if you've got an issue with your tickets. Thanks, TDF. So I step outside and turn my phone back on and get onto the internet where I check my email. Perhaps, I'm thinking, I should have done this while I was back at work. I'd had that knot in my stomach like something was wrong--I thought I was hungry or that, maybe, it was somewhat-conscious concern that someone wouldn't be in the show tonight (by the way, Chris Seiber IS out tonight so I'd have seen an understudy for Farquaad which, I'd already said, I didn't want to do).

I go to my email and the VERY first thing I see is an email received at 5:23 (it's now 6:35). It's TDF. It's basically a copy of my confirmation email but the date is no longer 10/13. It's 10/18. The show is still 7pm, but there's a notation below it, saying that my initial confirmation was incorrect. Sorry for the inconvenience. What? Apparently even though I know I confirmed 10/13 as my date and have an email to prove it, that's WRONG and I actually have this Sunday evening. Now....I'm very sad. I can make the Sunday performance. I WILL be going, but I was SO excited to see it tonight--second only to my 11-yr-old anticipation of seeing Phantom of the Opera with my dad....that sounds pathetic, I know, wtf it's SHREK! But....that's what it is.

I wanted to come home and blog about how much I love Brian D'Arcy James and his cohorts. Instead, I'm just blogging. From the email and from my tdf account I can't tell what went wrong. I have no idea why fate decided to choose me today. But it did. Maybe I'm just not meant to see Chris Hoch understudy the part of Farquaad. Who knows? It's very fortunate that I can make it this Sunday at 7pm otherwise I would have to call that TDF number and hound them until they paid for a month of my rent or something. I don't know. I just don't get how that happens. Of course, I shouldn't say that. One of MY co-workers managed to sell tickets to Pal Joey for March 12th when it closed on March 1st. I should know that anything is possible. But I'm still sad. Not enough to go out and buy ice cream over it (ew) but I am sad. And I'll probably watch Biggest Loser and then mope and watch some Brian D'Arcy James on Youtube and somehow go to sleep not wholly unhappy. There's still Sunday. For now, I give you, awesome.

Shall we all meet in the autumn?

2009-10-07T20:26:00.000-04:00

Every season has its indicator. For winter, it's the change to bitter cold. For spring it's the new buds on seemingly dead trees. For summer, it's a change in the quality of the sunlight. For autumn (at least, for me) it's the smells that linger in the air. It's the aroma of apples - as if still on the branch - in front of fruit vendors. It's the wafting smell of a wood-burning stove coming from a house or restaurant probably a mile away. Its the incomparable scent of crinkling leaves underfoot. Perhaps they have a scent of their own or perhaps they've just been coated in the dust that floats down from the wings of autumnal fairies. I like to think that autumn smells russet, orange, pumpkin-colored and spaghetti-squash-colored. As a child, it smelled like wax crayons and pencils, like glue and watercolors. Autumn smells like a harvest, like an ending and, in the heart of a schoolchild, like a beginning as well. It is as if the world becomes painted in autumnal splendor and what we smell is the colors melting vibrantly off the page to reveal a snowy white blank slate of winter, to be re-sketched in spring, re-shaded in summer, and painted again in autumn.

"We are merely the stars' tennis balls, struck and banded which way please them."

2009-09-18T21:27:00.002-04:00

Every time I walk into the Mid-Manhattan Public Library, I walk out with at least one treasure. Sometimes it's something that I've planned and sometimes it's not. Often I'll have books waiting for me, but even then I make sure I stop in the fiction section. I walk into an unassuming row of books and snatch something down from a shelf--whatever catches my eye. I usually don't even check to see what it is until I'm at the check-out counter. This time, it was Stephen Fry's The Stars' Tennis Balls which I thought would end up being some kind of ridiculous romp through Stephen Fry's ever-so-comedic-and-well-timed-mind. In a way, I was right. The prose smells of Fry's sometimes-grotesque humor. But it's also a frighteningly well-written adaptation of (of all things) The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas pére. Now, I could not have known, looking at the color of the book or even the cover, or even reading the first 12 pages, that it was going to be an adaptation of one of the most brilliant pieces of literature ever undertaken (which also happens to be one of my most favored books). And yet, there it is. If I'd glanced at the back of the book, where the Literary Review comments were featured, I would have known immediately. It says right there "A Count of Monte Cristo for the dot.com generation...." But I didn't glance back there. I try to avoid it. It wasn't until I got to about page 53, where Ned (Edmond) is on his sailboat that things started clicking. Up until that point, it had been a simple page turner. But suddenly I realized what I was wrapped up in. I remember being stuck on page 53 for about 10 minutes while I worked backwards, pulling names out of the text and figuring out where they fit in. If not brilliant, it's next to brilliant. And Fry respects the reader enough to not give him a bullshit ending. Everything happens in its turn and you cannot be dissatisfied with the ending. I'm not very eloquent so you can read someone who is, HERE

Cheese addiction

2009-09-13T22:38:00.007-04:00

It's not even cute. I love cheese. I love.....MOST kinds of cheese....and much of it. literally, if you handed me one of those cheese plates they have at parties I could probably slobber down 2/3 of it in one sitting (and only because I wouldn't like the rest). Hand me a pound of mozzarella cheese (mind you, it has to be a good brand), and I will peel the entire thing apart and eat it over the course of 6 hours. I've never, happily, tried that....but I'll bet you $10,000 I could do it. I say $10,000 because no one will bet me that and if they do I'll happily eat the pound of mozzarella in exchange for being able to pay off my student loans, thanks! Seriously. It's bad. And it's bridged into other kinds of dairy. I've always liked butter. Butter on my everything bagel is heaven. I eat one of those and it's like I've grown fucking wings and am flitting about Elysium fields sipping nectar from giant effing butter flowers coated in everything...ness.

My food budget being what it is and with summer hours at work being....evil....I limited myself over the last two months. I didn't buy butter. The only cheese I bought was laughing cow wedges. I made do with salt-free seasonings and olive oil. And then Key Food decided to have a sale on the day I got a slightly larger paycheck. Kraft singles, buy one get one free. Polly-O Mozzarella cheese 1lb, half off. Breakstone lightly salted butter, 30% off. Bad move, Key Food. Bad. Move.

Not that I can blame a supermarket for my then eating cheese. I can't do that any more than I can blame the laundromat for my clothes being all over my bedroom floor. I bought cheese. I bought butter. I caved. I partly blame the fact that I'd *abstained for longer than I ever have with those two products, and also on the fact that I had PMS and also on the fact that I'd been thinking about the meat-free meatballs I'm gonna make for xmas which made me think about lasagna which made me think about cheese. That'll do it.

Food is a terrible terrible thing. Food should go rot. And it will. But not honey. And, apparently, not figs. Note to self: Bring those damn figs home tomorrow!!

My dairy obsession hasn't reached milk yet. Never been big on milk. I should toggle my dairy setting to milk so that I have that instead of cheese. I eat yogurt. I love yogurt. I want yogurt right now. But I have to go to bed soon. No yogurt.
Seriously, I need to just...stop. With the cheese and the butter. I was doing so well. I felt so good and so much more healthy....and now this weekend I feel/felt like shit. My stomach was like WTF are you putting in me, how dare you, get rid of it, and get your ass on the elliptical or Bob Harper is coming into your living room this Thursday and murdering you. Thanks, stomach. I'll keep that in mind.

On a somewhat less murderous note, I've been a vegetarian for 255 days. Woohoo. No meat for me. On that end, at least, I have been successful. I got over my chicken and bologna cravings. I think I'm still craving brisket though. A nice moist brisket. From Hill Country. Mmmmm. Need to get over that one. Can't go to Hill Country till I'm over it. Dangerous. Very. Dangerous. OH and ribs. Yeah. Gotta steer very clear of Hill Country and Dinosaur BBQ. Yeesh.

*(quick note: in the original draft, I spelled "abstained" as "abstigained" which I'm going to henceforth use as terminology for when a girl feels like she's gained weight b/c she doesn't have enough sex....like the girl on TextsFromLastNight: "(347): Need sex. Gaining weight." Ha. Abstigained. I like it. New word: "abstigain". def (v) to gain weight as a direct (or imagined) result of not having sex. (var) abstigains, abstigaining, abstigained.)

Darwin in America

2009-09-13T08:09:00.004-04:00

This upsets me in huge ways: Charles Darwin film too controversial for religious America

I don't get it. I don't get how ALL of the major distributors are refusing to take on this film. Jeremy Thomas, in the article, is cited as saying "It's quite difficult for we in the UK to imagine religion in America. We live in a country which is no longer so religious. But in the US, outside of New York and LA, religion rules." How about for those of us IN New York. I can't FATHOM the suggestion that only 39% of Americans believe in evolution. What the FUCK, America? How is it that the rest of the world can at least take on this film, be it as science or as fantasy, but we can't get our heads out of our asses? I'm completely incredulous right now. The most popular films in the US are the ones about magic, man-made disasters, natural disasters, violence, superheroes, aliens, talking animals, and princesses. But we can't watch what is considered by some to be the best film of the year because a man who lived 150 years ago challenges 61% of us to think outside the box. WHAT?

How effing self-centered can we BE as a nation? I get it...the popular films in America? The ones about superheroes and aliens and violence...oh. right. Those are about AMERICA. Those are about AMERICAN VALUES. Think Sam the Eagle, here. Work with me. But what about all the fantasy films we watch? Oh...well...that can never happen. That's just fantasy. Those are kids' films. Why can't 61% of you go see it and think of it as fantasy while the rest of us enjoy our film? Oh. Right. That's right. Because it THREATENS you. It threatens your beliefs. It threatens your understanding of your god and your faith.....aren't ALL of the major faiths about having your beliefs challenged? I mean I know some people....mostly Americans...take that to an extreme and hate everyone, but isn't testing one's beliefs one of the major functions (watch me be crucified for the use of that word) of religion?

The funniest part of this is: half of the people who will (no matter how it is supplied in the end) refuse to see this film, will go see The Fast & The Furious or some incarnation thereof or There Will Be Blood or Saw in a heartbeat. America is full of wimps. Wimps who will watch violent and horror-filled films to show their American machismo but who will refuse everyone else their right to see one film that will challenge something bigger than their machismo. Everyone is a hypocrite in their own way. I'm ready to believe that Americans are the most ridiculous hypocrites. Not that I have anything against violent or terrifying films. When they're good, they're good. But to say that they are acceptable but a modern film about Darwin is not, is absurdity.

Fall Semester Day One

2009-09-08T06:43:00.002-04:00

I wish.

Yesterday was Labor Day. The commercial ending to the summer. Beaches had their last day. Parks had their last summer festivals. So now, according to the city of New York, it's autumn. Even without a calendar, the coming of autumn could have been predicted a few days ago with the 65 degree morning weather and by the scarecrow and pumpkin-decorated bowls and welcome mats lining the shelves at CVS.

Growing up in Orlando things were a little different. School started a few weeks early, before the sweat of summer was over. And in high school I only had 5 weeks of summer because I would spend all of June in summer school, getting courses out of the way so I needn't worry about them later on. Once I got to college I anticipated this day with unbridled glee for weeks. My longing for school was 40% new books and school supplies, 25% friends, and 35% occupation. I hated to be stagnant. I still hate to be stagnant. Even now. I paid my dues, I finished my classes, I got my degree....and still I wish I were back. Employment is not necessarily occupation. In my case, it's not at all. It's busy work. My job is an annoying pop-quiz and all I want to do is be studying for the midterm. I want homework. My brain has suffered these two years with no papers to write. I crave instruction and knowledge and, quite honestly, the chicken fingers and fries from the caf.

More than once I've felt myself tempted to treat all the term papers saved on my computer as rough drafts and re-write them. Perhaps I should. But to what end? It's not good enough.

I want to go to grad school next year. Next to no way am I going to be able to fund it. And that's really upsetting. Part of it is my choice of employment and part of it is my choice of residence. In the latter I am satisfied, though it eats my wages. In the former I am lackluster. I am disappointed. It would be one thing if the company gave us any reason to rally around it. Or any reason to like it. Or any kind of self-respect at all. But the economy is broken and theatre is breaking and non-profits are drowning and we, as a result, have nothing to be proud of. My integrity remains in tact, but for how long? And second jobs are hard to come by. I feel broken. Completely in two.

I sometimes think I should go back to what I've been trained.....what I trained myself to do. Back to that with which I occupied myself. But I think it's too late. I'm bored with theatre. I marvel at very little anymore. The jade curtain has come down, and I've already returned to my books.

As autumn approaches, I could berate myself on my lack of inspiration. But I know I'll have time enough for that when winter comes. For now I'll just wait and see where the semester takes me.

Why I will not teach

2009-08-28T20:29:00.003-04:00

I was reflecting today. I had a conversation that made me take certain things into account and come to terms with them. And suddenly I remembered the first time I had a tingle of a feeling of superiority over my college professors. It didn't happen often because most of them were extremely intelligent, but every now and again there was a moment of WOW why am I still sitting here getting fed this bullshit.

This particular remembrance was also one of the only times that I protested. I was in Sarah Zimmerman's freshman English class. Not comp/rhetoric. The other one. Second semester. There were I think 12 of us in the class which was held in the tiniest classroom ever. Literally the size of the bedroom in my first post-college apartment (8.5'x9'). Somehow we fit a few narrow tables in there and we sat side by side around the square we made in the most claustrophobic position I've ever found myself. We were I think halfway through the semester and we were reading Toni Morrison's The Bluest Eye. We'd already figured out that Zimmerman really didn't like to accept anyone's opinion other than her own.

She kind of assumed that everyone in the class was a bad writer and therefore a hopeless reader so she just kind of....talked at us. And she would go on and on and on. And with papers it was an easy A- class. You got to re-write all of them for a better grade after she gave you extensive notes on them and allowed them to weigh heavy with her literary superiority. I think the A minuses were pity grades. Anyway, we were reading The Bluest Eye in which at one point a character named Cholly Breedlove rapes his daughter because he discovers it's the only way he can express his love for her. Fucked up, I know. But there it is. Now, for WEEKS Zimmerman had very specifically referred to Cholly by pronouncing his name as "Chōley" (think the Cho of "Cho Chang" meets the Lee(s) of Old Virginia. Chōley. But we're told that his given name is Charles. The story takes place in Ohio so one assumes that some sort of Midwestern accent is probably present. If Charles has a nickname it's likely Charlie. With that certain Midwestern accent, it could very easily be pronounced "Chahlly" (replace the TR in "trolley" with a CH). Probably spelt: Cholly...as it is in the novel.

This seemed obvious to me. So I brought it up. It was towards the end of a class. Zimmerman asked if we had any other questions. I asked. She continued to insist that it was "Chōley." After my explanation, it was agreed among most of the classmates (after class of course) that she sounded even more like an idiot, having defended it with "well the teacher who taught me said Chōley." Oh the savagery of the proud defender. I'm pretty sure I got a B on that paper instead of an A-. If, in teaching, we are meant to learn nothing but simply to memorize and mimic the actions of those instructors who come before us like one does a flight attendant snapping shut their sovereign seat belt, then I will not teach.

nu'upē

2009-08-25T23:15:00.002-04:00

i was doing really well for 5 days. watched my calories, carbs, proteins, fats, sleep, exercise. but then i dreamt 3 nights in a row about reeses pieces and i had to have them. so i got some. and that threw me down the hill. yesterday i ate 3x my usual calories. contrary to what many people probably believe, i don't each much. at all. i'm lucky if i get in 1000 calories a day. and yesterday i had like....3000. today I was back down to 1500 because i felt carb-sick, but still wasn't eating right. tomorrow's another day I suppose. but i feel so gross. I hear Bob Harper's a vegetarian now. It makes me happy. It also makes me happy that, at least in this 48 hours of gross I haven't reverted to my meat-eating ways. I think those days are really and truly over. I craved chicken for the longest time. Then it was bacon. Then it was chicken again. But now I think about eating meat and...can't. I just can't. I love my tofu. mmmm tofu. and veggies.

Back to the topic on hand. I feel disgusting. I think I'll be having a serious low carb day tomorrow. And I don't start work til 12 so I should be able to get in a whole hour of Bob Harper. Even if it is exhaustingly and overwhelmingly hot (kō'epa'epa). Bleh.

Aloha ahi ahi a hui hou a hiki i 'aloha kakahiaka.'

Pō

2009-08-22T07:55:00.005-04:00

1. nvs. Night, darkness, obscurity; the realm of the gods; pertaining to or of the gods, chaos, or hell; dark, obscure, benighted; formerly the period of 24 hours beginning with nightfall (the Hawaiian "day" began at nightfall. cf. ao 1) Fig., ignorance, ignorant. Cf. Halāli'i, Pō'akahi, Pō'alua. Hō'ike a ka pō, revelation from the gods [as in dreams or omens]. Inoa pō, name suggested for a child in a dream. Mai ka pō mai, from the gods; of divine origin. Kāne o ka pō, Wahine o ka pō, husband of the night, wife of the night [spirit lover: it was believed that a child born of such a mating might resemble an eel, lizard, shark, or bird, or might have supernatural powers; sometimes death or sickness followed nightly visits]. Nā pō o ka mahina, days [lit., nights] of the month. Pō 'ahia kēia? What day of the week [or month] is this? Pō nui ho'olakolako, the great night that supplies [the god as revealed their will in revelations and dreams at night.] Pō pouli 'a'aki, a night so dark it bites with the teeth. Pō i ka lā'au, darkened by the tree. Ua pō, it's late [not necessarily night, but usually said if one is in danger of not being home by dark.] Ua hana māua ā pō ka lā, we worked until night; lit., until the day darkened. Ua hana māua ā ao ka pō, we worked until daylight; lit., until the night lighted. Kēlā pō ā ao a'e i nehinei; lit., that night until dawned yesterday. Kēia pō, tonight. Ka pō nei, last night. 'O ke kumu o ka pō i pō ai, (KL line 8), the source of the night that was dark. Ua hiamoe akula kona pō (FS 99), he spent the night sleeping. Kou pō ua moa 'ia, 'o ko'u nei lā, 'a'ole (song), You slept during the night, but not I. Iho i ka pō, ā i ke kolu o ka pō, ola hou mai, descended into hell, the third day rose again from the dead. He aha ka puana a ka pō? What declares the night [any revelation from the gods? what is to happen in the future?] 'O 'akahi ka pō, 'o 'alua ka pō...lele wale ka pō (FS 47), one night spirit, two night spirits...the night spirits fly off. ho'opō. To behave in an ignorant matter, perhaps purposely; to keep out of sight, to stay in the dark; ignorant (PPN poo.) 2. vs. Thick, dense, of flowers or heady fragrance; to issue perfume. See ex., niniu. Ma'ema'e Līhau pō i ka lehua (song), lovely Līhau dense with lihua. E pō puni ana ke 'ala o ka haia, the fragrance of pandanus spreads everywhere and is overpowering.

Pride

2009-06-28T19:54:00.002-04:00

I walked up 7th Avenue today. Between 40th and 41st Streets the crowd suddenly swelled a bit. As it did, a man in khaki shorts and a clean bright yellow polo shirt stepped to my right, carrying a slice of pizza on a paper plate, wrapped in a brown paper bag. The grease from the cheese had made an impression on the bag from the inside that looked kind of like America. On the other side of this man were some caricature artists near the curb--sidewalk art--tourist art.

The artists are, for the most part, very well trained Chinese, Japanese, Korean, Indian, Philippine and Thai artists who have found, upon arrival on America's shores, that the only way to make money on their art as non-citizens is to sell their personalized and often very beautiful caricatures on the street. They didn't come to America to do so. Many of them came with higher hopes for themselves, for their families, for their art. But America seems to have a problem with welcoming them. America has a problem with art, too.

The polo-wearing-America-pizza-stain-carrying man brushed past me just as the crowd swelled. Instead of getting behind or in front of anyone, he pushed his way into the crowd of artists--nearly tripping on one who has seated, working. When his balance saved him from falling, he looked down, sneered, aimed at the man's tin of charcoals placed next to him, and kicked it, barely missing a step in his stride. The charcoals scattered across the sidewalk, crackling under the feet of the ever-swelling crowd. And surprise never left the artist's face. And the polo-wearing-America-pizza-stain-carrying man swaggered on, pounding fists with his friends.

America must be so proud of its boy--who cried when Michael Jackson died, who doesn't know where Iran is, whose sneakers were made by orphans in Indonesia, whose pizza was made by Mexican immigrants, whose girlfriend was the prom queen that never went to college. How proud America must be to let their boy carry on--the boy who speaks English good. The boy who can't tell the difference between charcoals, chalk and oil pastels.

And how proud America must be to be rejecting and denying artists who wish they were American, who once were the orphans making toys in Taiwan, the orphans making sneakers and soccer balls in Indonesia. How proud America must be to have the polo-wearing-America-pizza-stain-carrying boy as their poster child for the American dream.

I....am a librarian.

2009-06-13T23:31:00.002-04:00

Tonight I shall watch The Mummy and imitate Rachel Wiesz: “I….am a librarian!”

It seems silly, and it is, but it’s one of the first references I have for why I’ve made the decision I have. Indiana Jones was the very first. And true, he’s no librarian, but the library in The Last Crusade made me want to cry. As did the towering of the stacks in The Mummy and the grandeur of the shelves in Beauty and the Beast as compared to the measly offerings of Belle’s town bookshop. I think the Last Templar is the most recent inspiration I’ve come across. No one it is a librarian and I doubt very much that they ever even talk about a library, let alone enter one. But the story made me wish I was surrounded by hundreds of very old books.

My truest inspiration, I think, is “And Tango Makes Three” which is a children’s book that came out just a few years ago. It tells the true story of two male zoo penguins who, lacking female companionship, bond together to raise another couple’s extra egg/baby. There was a lot of controversy surrounding its publication because of its theme in the realm of homosexual unions. I love the book and I think it’s absolutely brilliant. But ultra-right-wing-christian-conservatives beg to differ. It was the number one most frequently challenged book, according to the ALA in 2006, 2007, and 2008.

There are other books that were focused on during the election/Prop8 business of the last year. Agencies for the protection of “traditional” families argued that children in K and 1st grade should not be exposed to books like Daddy’s Roommate and Heather has Two Mommies, if their parents didn’t want them to be. And I remember becoming very angry that any parent would feel the need to so control what their children are reading. I can understand wishing to control the level of violence or the level of promiscuity….but what is so very different between a book about a heterosexual couple and a homosexual couple? Both exist in our world and have for quite some time, so why shouldn’t our children be knowledgeable of that fact. Sure, that may go against your belief of what is acceptable based on your church, but if that is your argument, then you should send your child to private school or homeschool them so that you can control the rate at which they become their ultra conservative parents.

You are raising ignorant children! And how dare you! My parents never made an attempt to “control” my reading. As a child, my reading skills were something that I took a great amount of pride in, and even if they HAD tried to control my literary urges, they probably would not have stopped me. How is “whoever the kid is has two mommies” any different from when, in the Babysitters’ Club series, Dawn’s mother started “dating” Mary Ann’s father and then got married, so Dawn has two daddies?!? What about the promiscuity of the adults? The Babysitters' Club is more suggestive than Heather Has Two Mommies! And then there’s Redwall. I have no idea how my first book of Redwall, Martin the Warrior, ended up in my 11-year-old hands. But it did. The Redwall books contain a good deal of violence and terror…but they’ve got their morals.

Not all levels of violence are “bad” books. Which brings me to the subject of “banned” books. This is something that truly makes my stomach boil and make me want to retch. The ALA has a list of the most frequently challenged books…formal complaints from patrons based on “unsuitability.” The Perks of Being a Wallflower, a book that changed my life at the age of 18 is a pretty consistent member of that list, as is Huckleberry Finn, the previously mentioned And Tango Makes Three, and The Bluest Eye. I don’t get it…do you just want your children to be completely ignorant? To have no idea what the world is like outside of Mommy and Daddy and church pew? Oh and one of those highly contested books during the election: King and King. I have to enjoy that Harry Potter is on these ridiculous lists. The “complaints” seem to die out after 2003…it dropped from the #2 spot to not being in the top 10. Of course, that was after the first two movies had come out and parents had no choice but to buy into it. The idea of something “not belonging in a library” is baffling to me. Baffling and sad and frightening, really.

ALA.org provides the Radcliffe 100 – the top 100 Novels of the 20th Century. The Top 9 are either banned or challenged. Let that be a lesson. If you deny your child books because you think they’re “unsuitable” then perhaps you should reevaluate whose life you’re living, yours or theirs. The top 9 are The Great Gatsby, The Catcher in the Rye, The Grapes of Wrath, To Kill a Mockingbird, the Color Purple, Ulysses, Beloved, Lord of the Flies, and 1984. There's more violence in the newest Shia LaBeouf film than there is in those books put together! (The newest SL film is Transformers...for the record, I love transformers. I am not dissing transformers. Thank you). Out of the 100, 42 have been banned or challenged. Of the 42, I have read 19. Of those 19, I can say that 11 of them changed my life or made me the person I am today. Most of them were invaluable history lessons that out-taught ANY history teacher I EVER had.

Banning books is absurd. It’s one thing for an extremist government to ban books that argue against their social structure….that’s an ENTIRELY different situation and, while I don’t condone extremist governments, it makes SENSE to me. What DOESN’T make sense to me, is the people of a society censoring freedom of speech, something we so treasure as the formidable nation we are. If you don’t like what your kid is reading, then you should talk to them about it, gauge their reaction, etc. Like I said, my parents could not have stopped me from reading whatever I wanted. I was going to read everything my fingers and eyes could find. If you’ve done your best to soundly moralize your children, then you have nothing to fear from them reading “rubbish” because they will probably see it as such or they’ll at least be able to apply their morals to each item.

But not all libraries are school libraries. You can’t protect your children from every written word. Honestly the daily newspaper is much more threatening to a child’s moral stance than a book like the And Tango Makes Three is. You cannot deny a child their right to the world and all the knowledge it contains. Guide them, surely. Monitor them, for certain. But do no attempt to control them. You’ll end up finding renegade copies of Goosebumps and A Separate Peace under their beds and you won’t know what to do because, secretly, they’ve become braver and smarter than you. Read with your children. Read what your children are reading. Talk to your children. We live in a society of Disney Channel and fear because parents are afraid to talk to their children about reality. 50% of what I know of reality, I learned from books. Novels. Classics. 25% of what I know of reality, I learned from experience. The other 25% I learned from my parents. Because, while they left a lot up to self-education which of course thrived in my copious reading, they never told me NO do NOT attempt to read that book, it’s too big for you, or it’s unsuitable. My mother forced my 6th grade class to read and test on The Giver. I know adults who today could not HANDLE the Giver because their parents would not let them breathe in the stacks. Let your children read. Let your children breathe.

sharing

2009-06-08T12:13:00.002-04:00

I know

I know

I don't post anymore. I suck. blah blah blah. I've had blogs floating around in my head for months that have never gotten written. Oh well. But I'm here. And I just wanted to share something.

This is a podcast from DIS featuring my mom talking about her business, Gifts of a Lifetime. She starts at about 19:20 and signs off at about 45:51. Enjoy!

PODCAST

Writing

2009-04-24T01:37:00.003-04:00

I've almost lost my drive for this. Summer will make it easier. When I'm planning to do something nearly every day it'll be easier. It's when I'm actually doing something every day that it's harder. Between the move and trying to work on Rosetta Stone and still cleaning up here, and the arrival of spring and my laziness and my worries...I've been afraid to put it down here. I've written some of it out on paper...especially the part about my worries. But there's only so much I can write on the train before some bitch at 96th street rudely pushes my bag out of the way so she can share the short bench with me on a half-empty car. Really? you've gotta sit here? I spend nearly an hour on this train and you HAVE to sit HERE for the last 10 minutes of it? Come the fuck on. Also, I've been working on this charity/non-profit that my dad has started. It's based in Florida but I'm kind of masterminding the aesthetics of the operation. It makes me feel important, having a project. Keeps me from going mad. Does not keep me from watching 2 hours of television every night.

I need an elliptical machine. Treadmill. Something to make the 2+hours worthwhile. Plus it'll drown out the sound of people getting cut in half on Harper's Island. Ew. Why do I watch that?

I love my new apartment. Yes, it's causing me to reevaluate every dollar I've ever spent/will ever spend, but I love it. It's quiet, it's spacious, it gets a lot of light, it's convenient and it allows me to be alone with myself in a way I haven't experienced ever. If I wanted to, I could line the walls with stuffed animals and blue glass bottles, set up a cot to sleep on in the hallway and put large planters in the middle of both rooms and grow tomatoes and jackfruit. This is freedom. I don't have to worry about how loud I'm practicing my Rosetta Stone lessons. As long as it's not 2am I can sing in my bedroom. The only thing below me is the basement. I can dance around my apartment. I could play basketball in my apartment if I so chose. The fridge and cabinets are stocked full of MY things. I have two large closets to myself. I have my own bathroom. Only I am responsible for the dishes in the sink. I don't have to worry about bolting the top lock and possibly locking someone out because I'm the first and last person in the door. All of the dishes are mine so if I decide to leave all of my plastic spoons hanging in glass bottles in my bedroom (as one is right now), I can. I don't have to worry about my apartment smelling like hamburger helper or disgusting sausage or chinese food or cologne. The medicine cabinet and shower caddy are ALL MINE. I don't have to fight anyone for the shower in the morning. I don't have to wait to pee in the morning. I can walk around my apartment naked. I don't have to worry about asking a roommate when I want to have guests over. I don't have to fight over who's using the DVR. No one else's food in the kitchen is going to draw bugs. Toilet paper lasts a LONG time. Paper towels last a really long time. I'm the only one using the ice. If a pot wasn't washed after use, that's my fault. I don't have to use someone else's idea of a good dish soap. I can brush my teeth in the kitchen while watching Craig Ferguson. There's a 7-11 across the street. Viva la slurpee. If I want to, I can install a ball pit in the back room and only use it as a ball pit. My pitcher of crystal lite can take up as much room in the fridge as I want it to. There's no open rotting bacon in my fridge. I don't drink coffee so I have plenty of counterspace now. I have a super and they live across the hall. They are not elusive. I know the bills will be paid on time because I'm paying them. I can hide in my bedroom with the door wide open. No one else's guests will just show up and spoil my morning routine. I can take bubble baths. I can have candles and incense without worrying about someone else's allergies. I no longer live right on a busy street with constant dust seeping in through the windows and infecting my lungs with tar to cough up every morning. I can leave my muddy flip flops at the front door without worrying if someone's going to walk in and trip on them. No one yells YOOOOOOOOOOOO outside my window at night (unless it's a Saturday night around 4am, and even then it's more like mumbling spanish and it goes away in about 15 seconds). No one else lives here so no one else can complain profusely about the miniscule problems that I already know exist and don't need to be reminded of. There is no whining. If I wanted to take an afternoon and line my books along the walls in order of alphabetical title, then sorted by author, date of publication and number of pages, I could. I can leave my laundry wherever I want to leave it. The trash certainly takes longer to pile up...

Yes, I love my apartment.

Just in case any of you win the lottery...

2009-02-05T20:01:00.002-05:00

....and would like to make a gift of about....$1.1 million to me, this is where I'd like to live:

CLICK ME!

the extra money, of course, is for my furniture

including my $9,000 couch.

A Doll's Life

2009-01-29T23:11:00.002-05:00

With the announcement that Roundabout will be producing "After Miss Julie", I find it increasingly pertinent to bring this subject up: A Doll's Life. I was reminded by Phil that this musical existed. Yes. Musical. According to Wikipedia, the real plot goes like this :

"Set within the framework of a contemporary rehearsal of Henrik Ibsen's classic play A Doll's House, it addresses the question of what might have transpired after Nora slammed the door and abandoned her tyrannical husband Torvald. Borrowing the fare from a young violinist, Otto, she takes the train to Christiania, where she accepts work in a cafe and soon becomes involved not only with Otto, but Eric Didrickson, the wealthy owner of shipping lines and fish canneries, and Johan Blecker, a lawyer, as well. Throughout the show, scenes in her new life mingle with intermittent flashbacks to the one she left behind."

Okay. Great.

THIS is how Phil and I think it should go:

A Doll's Life
A New Translation by Lauren Zhigang (yes, I'll be writing this after I marry the one-armed Kung-Fu master, Zhang Zhigang)
Sc. 1: Nora goes to Red Mango. Experiences freedom from fatty yogurt oppression. Hijinx ensue.
Sc. 2: Nora goes to Macy's and hits the sales.
Sc. 3: Nora rides a motorcycle in a gown designed by William Ivy Long. The tassels get tangled in the gears, she crashes, she dies
The End.

Okay so it's not very good, but at least it's better than the current "production" of Hedda Gabler....

Arguing with my mother via blog

2009-01-02T06:38:00.002-05:00

Dear Mother,

On my my recent stay in Orlando, I discovered that the liner in Rory's bathroom shower had still not been replaced after having been missing for over a year. When I brought this up and offered to buy a new one, you told me that that would not happen because shower liners are dangerous. You, without names or anything, cited the reason: dangerous chemicals brewing in plastic liners, mold, etc. At the time I didn't argue the point. But now I am :).

First of all, they make anti-mildew fabric liners. You're not using crazy chemical-filled pvc curtain, then, AND you can wash it! Secondly, even if you DID have a plastic liner, if you air it out for a week before hanging it, the chemical content will be much much lower, cancer-causing agents will be pretty much gone, and if you continue to ventilate after use, there's next to no harm. Obviously the fabric curtain is still better, but think about it!

As it is now, the one curtain in Rory's bathroom gets soaking wet AND allows water all over the floor. Get a fabric liner! It'll make that bathroom SO much more usable by myself and other guests. There'll be much less risk that I, or one of Rory's friends, will come crashing down after a shower because the curtain is insufficient.

Please know that I say all of this out of concern, and not out of "wanting to be right," as I'm sure you'll interpret it. I'm only looking out for the safety issue.

Love you,

Lauren

New Year

2008-12-31T10:56:00.003-05:00

I had this amazing dream last night. A real dream about how a lot of things COULD HAVE been. Everyone got along. Even the dog. Tall grass and pool. Everyone so mouth wateringly sweet. I wanted it to be like that. For life to come together like that. But I woke...knowing that it was too far past that point to ever make it back...and accepting that.

It’s a new year tomorrow. I’ve spent the last approximately 12 months on a rollercoaster, never getting off of it. Just riding the curves around and around, sometimes (early on) not noticing the most dangerous of turns, only recently seeing how scary they are. Originally finding joy in the loops, now barely recognizing them. I need to get off of the ride. I need to go back to the beginning. The entrance to the queue. The beginning of the line. I need to wait my turn again, for I’ve become jaded by the light. It’s time that I go back to the point of entry, the beginning of this existence and either begin again, or wait while the coaster’s repaired. Then again, this life is too short to be spent on one ride.

I've got so many plans in my head and I still haven't learned how to put them on paper without enhancing the ability to then ignore them. I need to paint a huge calendar or something. I need a pensieve and tiny little bottles of memories.

Growing up is hard.

When I move in a few months, I'm installing a ball pit.

Twilight

2008-11-28T22:20:00.005-05:00

Okay. Here goes.

You must understand something first and foremost: I like to reject pop culture trends. Gossip Girl. Harry Potter. Wicked the Musical. Ugg Boots. Twilight. All things that I rejected from the get-go. Not because they probably weren't good, but mostly because the masses were embracing these things far too quickly for me to believe in their lasting power. Gossip Girl...is still on my bad list. Harry Potter....I wanted to see the first film. My mother told me (after my sister had already read the books that were out at that point) that I could not see it unless I'd read the books. This was a challenge. I accepted it. I read the books. I've never looked back. Wicked. I still reject Wicked. With most of the fibers of my being. I don't like the music, I don't even like the story. I will admit that, in German, it sounds a little prettier (I know, what?)...but I still reject it. Ugg boots are mostly here for comic relief. I encourage everyone to reject them in order to save one's soul. And then there's Twilight.

Oh Twilight.

It started with Facebook. Suddenly, about a year ago? a year and a half ago? All of these "bumperstickers" appeared with mentions of "Edward Cullen" and "Bella Swan." The mass-appeal was.... nauseating. It was like a swarm of 14 year old girls running over my brain in an 18-wheeler. No thank you. I get the picture: "Oh Edward Cullen...why couldn't you be real? Why can't I be Bella? Waa Waaa Waaaaah." I wasn't interested in joining the masses that I had left behind so well back when I exchanged watching Smallville for watching House. That was my transition.

So this went on for years at this point...and the movie's coming out. Still not interested. My sister, by now, is...quite wrapped up in her love for Twilight. I still don't get it. Then the fourth book comes out and so many people are talking about it and I take one look at the cover art and say no, that's okay, thanks, have a nice day. Still rejecting. Then my sister calls me one day and says oh by the way....Cedric Diggory is in Twilight.

Excuse me?

Cedric Diggory is in Twilight. In the movie.

Oh reeeeallyyy?

Cedric Diggory, known in the human non-dork world as Robert Pattinson, is playing Edward Cullen (*insert 13-yr-old forlorn sighs*).

Interesting.

I decide, about a week before the film is released, that I will see it...but only because Robert Pattinson is soooo pretty.
He is. Don't try to deny it. He pretty. He so pretty. And I don't even like pretty. But I like him. He pretty. And he's 22. Which makes me feel not as bad about thinking he's pretty.

Film is released...mixed reviews...I don't read any of them. I'm still gonna plop down in a theatre with a giant bowl of popcorn and watch pretty Robert Pattinson. I go to work that Sunday and a friend from work tells me that she's gonna go see it after work (she's read the books). I decide, for Robert Pattinson and popcorn's sake, that I will join her.

So we go see Twilight.

And about 20 minutes in, I realize what a fool I was (*insert My Fair Lady music*).

Why did this not come out when *I* was 14, I wonder. Why the hell am I only getting this now? Rawr. The movie...is not....wonderful. Let me rephrase....it is not....*sigh*....for having such a low budget, it's pretty good...but for what it is, it's not perfect. But it got me to read the books. It got me to change directions entirely, to reverse my rejection, to download freaking limewire and get the books that way. It reshaped my thoughts...entirely.

And I read the books.
Oh I read them.

I actually began, much to my sister's chagrin, by reading "Midnight Sun" which was Stephenie Meyer's illegally leaked rough draft of "Twilight" but from Edward's perspective. Rory didn't think that I should start with that, but I was still trying to decide the best way to get the 4 books cheaply and since I'd seen the film, I figured it wouldn't do much damage. So Sunday night I read Midnight Sun. Monday night at 9:30pm, I began "Twilight"...which is not BAD. I'll admit that it was about halfway thru that I realized how not very good the writing was....but since Midnight Sun's writing was actually QUITE good...I decided to continue. I finished "Twilight" sometime on Tuesday when I was at work. Began "New Moon" (the worst of the saga by far) that day and finished it Tuesday night...or Wednesday morning around 3...at which point I lunged into "Eclipse." I finished "Eclipse" at about midnight on Wednesday night. I took a breather and launched into Book 4, "Breaking Dawn." At about.....4AM on Thursday morning, 4 hours or so into the book, I reached Part II of said novel which was from Jacob's perspective. I hate Jacob by now. Not lovin the Jacob. And it's 4am. And I've gotta get up and get ready for Thanksgiving in about 6 hours. Time to sleep. So I stop reading and push Breaking Dawn aside for what ended up being about 17 hours. At 9:15 Thursday night, I arrived home from dinner, splayed out on my bed, and began Part II....I was very reluctant because, by now, the writing has gotten....BETTER....but it's now from a perspective that I want nothing to do with. I later understood why it was necessary...just as I very quickly understood why they had done what they did with the film. I stopped reading at about 2am this morning and fell asleep. Woke up at 8 and read another 20 pages or so. Went to work. Had a bad day at work. Snuck in reading another 300 pages or so in the course of the work day. Came home with 100 pages left. Finished at 9:30pm. Exactly 4 days after I'd started "Twilight."

Do I feel accomplished? Yeah a little.

Do I feel special? No, not really.

Have I turned into a swooning 16-yr-old in love with imaginary Edward Cullen?
No. Actually. No, I haven't.

As much as I appreciate all of her characters and as much as I see the attraction in Edward Cullen (my sister said something about a cross between Lestat and Mr. Darcy?), I'm not swooning. In fact, i find myself very critical of him as a character. And as pretty as Robert Pattinson is, it doesn't change the fact that my fully developed adult mind cannot wrap itself around the idea of wanting to be 17 forever with him. I guess I'd have to actually BE Bella Swan to get that. But let's not forget: She's imaginary, too.

All in all, I really really enjoyed the past 5 days....from seeing the movie to finishing the last novel....I admit that my rejection was mislaid in this case. But all of that doesn't stop me from analyzing the strength of the writing, as I've said. It's not VERY well written! It's just not. Stephenie Meyer's real strength lies in her limiting the number of characters "on screen" if you will. It gets a little dangerous in the last 1/8 of "Breaking Dawn" because there are just SO many people there...and you start to lose your grasp on what exactly is happening...but she recovers. The writing...it reads like a really good fanfiction. For real. Twilight....no: Midnight Sun...probably the BEST out of all 5 examples. It's the most recent and it shows the growth that she's experienced in writing the first four. I really hope that she continues and rewrites that one so that it can be a fully fleshed novel because she really does have more potential. But "New Moon" and "Eclipse" and "Breaking Dawn"...even if they get better IN THAT ORDER, still read like EXCELLENT fanfiction. It's just a little too....it plays into the reader's hand just a LITTLE too easily.

I went through a phase...for like 2 years...where I read a LOT of Buffy fanfiction. a LOT. And there was one writer who obviously had the best grasp on the characters I was most interested in. And her writing was very good....Stephenie Meyer quality, at least. I felt like I was reading that writer's stories when I was reading these books. Not because there are vampiric ties. Not because the supernatural is inevitably a fixation. But because of the way that the characters and the situations play into the readers' hands. The reader gets exactly what they want out of it. It's kind of precious in that way. It allows me, as the reader, to not feel intimidated by the author. But then, I also lose an extremely large amount of respect for her in that same moment. I mean...Alexandre Dumas instills fear in me. Lots of fear. But that's why I love his work. That's why I read them over and over and over again. Stephenie Meyer: a little too influenced by Jane Austen for a generation that needs Dumas. Not that I don't love Austen, but...for this genre? At LEAST stick to something a little later, more Charlotte Bronte. Not Emily. Please god. Eclipse focuses WAY too much on Wuthering Heights and that pissed me off. There are SO many other parallels she could have drawn and instead of going by an intelligent route, she chose the 15-yr-old route. Wuthering Heights is NEVER an answer. (Unless we're talking about Jeopardy in which case the question would be "What is the suckiest most patheticly drawn out piece of nonsense literature written in the 19th century?")

Sorry if you don't get...some of that. I realize that my literary references could alienate some people but I can't help it.

So the point of all this is as follows: I really enjoyed reading the novels. I really really liked the film, even with all of its flaws. Robert Pattinson is REALLY pretty. Never choose Wuthering Heights.