Interview with a Somewhat Attractive Blogger

I think it may be that the human mind can only comprehend a certain amount of excellence. Perhaps our memory fades, or newer memories push older experiences aside. It may even be that our mania for top ten lists is, in some ways, a defense against our inability to hold even ten excellent things or people or moments in our minds for any length of time.

This would explain why every conversation about the "top ten (insert superlative here)" anything always generates contributions that some participants consider extreme long shots, and why such conversations often degenerate into bickering about the basis for judging whether something is or is not among the top ten (insert superlative here) X, Y or Z. We are, essentially, making it up as we go along.

I do not, therefore, have a list of my top ten favorite books. I have a reliable list of books that I buy/recommend/give, depending on the recipient. "Harriet the Spy" has been given to many ten-year-olds of my acquaintance. Several of my brothers and one boyfriend have all gotten copies of "The Things They Carried," and I have given so many copies of "The Blind Assassin", I should probably buy the things by the case.

Predictably, I am very fond of "Pride and Prejudice," although I am terminally over-exposed to all things Austen right now, and have a bit of a literary ice cream headache where she is concerned. I read "Bleak House" last year and readily admit that it is a triumph and then some.

However, there are just two books that have earned an unshakable place in my heart, both for the same reason: I find myself forgetting that they were books and not people I once met. The first is "Whites," a collection of short stories by Norman Rush. The second is "Infinite Jest" by David Foster Wallace.

I know IJ is a tough slog. In a long series of "brilliant novels by new writers," it is a much harder read than Donna Tartt's "The Secret History" or Mark Leyner's "My Cousin, My Gastroenterologist," much less the breakthrough works of Dave Eggers or Jonathan Safran Foer or Zadie Smith or... well, you get the idea.

I have stopped recommending it to people and I have abandoned all hope of MG ever getting past the first twenty pages. If you're thinking of giving it a shot, I will offer the following advice: Get through the first two hundred pages, then decide whether to give up or not.

Maybe I am the only person who, years after reading IJ, frequently forgets that she doesn't actually know six recovering addicts from a halfway house in Boston. But something about DFW's writing blurs the line between thinking and experiencing. I have never -- could never -- meet Don Gately, and yet I feel like I could recognize his Prince Valiant haircut from across a crowded room.

All this is preamble to this link, from a commencement speech given by DFW in the spring of 2005. (I found it through Jackie Danicki's blog, which is a comforting blend of travelogue, diary and beauty advice.)

Like his best fiction, DFW's address seems like something you're thinking yourself, except, of course, you're not. Here's my favorite part:

This, I submit, is the freedom of a real education, of learning how to be well-adjusted. You get to consciously decide what has meaning and what doesn't. You get to decide what to worship.

Because here's something else that's weird but true: in the day-to day trenches of adult life, there is actually no such thing as atheism. There is no such thing as not worshipping. Everybody worships. The only choice we get is what to worship...

...Worship your intellect, being seen as smart, you will end up feeling stupid, a fraud, always on the verge of being found out. But the insidious thing about these forms of worship is not that they're evil or sinful, it's that they're unconscious. They are default settings.

They're the kind of worship you just gradually slip into, day after day, getting more and more selective about what you see and how you measure value without ever being fully aware that that's what you're doing.

And the so-called real world will not discourage you from operating on your default settings, because the so-called real world of men and money and power hums merrily along in a pool of fear and anger and frustration and craving and worship of self. Our own present culture has harnessed these forces in ways that have yielded extraordinary wealth and comfort and personal freedom. The freedom all to be lords of our tiny skull-sized kingdoms, alone at the center of all creation. This kind of freedom has much to recommend it. But of course there are all different kinds of freedom, and the kind that is most precious you will not hear much talk about much in the great outside world of wanting and achieving and [unintelligible -- sounds like "displayal"]. The really important kind of freedom involves attention and awareness and discipline, and being able truly to care about other people and to sacrifice for them over and over in myriad petty, unsexy ways every day.

That is real freedom. That is being educated, and understanding how to think. The alternative is unconsciousness, the default setting, the rat race, the constant gnawing sense of having had, and lost, some infinite thing.

Agggh! Windmills! In My Mind!

Halfway through last night's viewing of the 1968 version of "The Thomas Crown Affair," I realized with a pang it is the bizarro universe version of "Out of Sight."

I have seen the literal Thomas Crown remake -- made, by coincidence or not, a year after "Out of Sight" came out -- and remember liking it okay. But I'm startled to discover that everything that I love about "Out of Sight" -- the rhythmic editing, the syncopated graphic elements, the irresistible performances, the inescapable story logic -- has a joyless, dire twin within the original "The Thomas Crown Affair."

I don't think Elmore Leonard was consciously aware of the overlap when he was writing OoS, although if he was, I tip my hat to him. TTCA is such a shambling wreck of a movie, one fairly itches to take a crack at repairing its biggest flaws.

To wit: although Thomas Crown (Steve McQueen) is a stone fox, his most likable quality is that his crimes are very, very nearly victimless (not counting the guy who takes a bullet to the calf.) Sure, the bank is out the cash, but if anyone has ever been able to make an audience root for and sympathize with a bank, I will give that person a dollar.

Meanwhile, Vicki the insurance investigator (Faye Dunaway) exploits a hapless bankrobber's marital discord, steals his car and kidnaps his boy. Crimes so full of victims they're practically a victim fruitcake. By the time Vicki is telling the robber that his boy is fine and he can have his car back, I was consumed with hate for her and desperate to see Thomas humiliate her utterly.

That's not good.

"Out of Sight" fixes all those problems. Jack Foley is loyal, resourceful and kind. Karen Sisco gets dragged into the story against her will, and her interactions with criminals show a moral compass -- she gives a scraggly loser a second (and third) chance, but beats the crap out of a threatening thug.

The later film takes chances that could have backfired disastrously, and yet they work where TTCA falls flat. First: "Windmills of Your Mind." OMG. Also: TTCA's grid-and-panel credit sequence, which made me think that Thomas Crown would end up stealing a Mondrian. Um, no.

And: Faye Dunaway's implausible glamour. Seriously. Is Faye Dunaway making nail extensions out of her plucked eyebrow hairs? Why do her brows get thinner and her nails get longer in every movie? By "Chinatown," she's like one of those neurotic birds that plucks itself bald.

I don't, actually, think the similarities are anything more than coincidence -- I mean, how many ways are there to tell a caper story? Although I will say that "Three Days of the Condor" conversation is just a little suspicious. Yes, Karen and Jack need some shared point of reference, and it's a nice touch that they talk about two characters who quickly fall in love. But it also happens to be a Faye Dunaway movie with a handsome blond costar.

Ear Python

This has been going through my brain since an ill-advised tipsy viewing of "The Mikado."

(Which, btw, was wildly over-edited, with badly eroded vocal tracks -- granted, the print might be over 50 years old, but still. Hey, PBS! As soon as you're done with the Compleat Austen, let's get cracking on the Compleat Gilbert & Sullivan.)

Three little maids from school are we
Pert as a school-girl well can be
Filled to the brim with girlish glee
Three little maids from school

Everything is a source of fun
Nobody's safe, for we care for none
Life is a joke that's just begun
Three little maids from school

Three little maids who, all unwary
Come from a ladies' seminary
Freed from its genius tutelary
Three little maids from school
Three little maids from school

One little maid is a bride, Yum-Yum
Two little maids in attendance come
Three little maids is the total sum
Three little maids from school
Three little maids from school

From three little maids take one away
Two little maids remain, and they
Won't have to wait very long, they say
Three little maids from school
Three little maids from school

Three little maids who, all unwary
Come from a ladies' seminary
Freed from its genius tutelary
Three little maids from school
Three little maids from school

Smells Like Anhedonia

I miss sushi. Yes, I realize, Los Angeles has sushi. But I miss *my* sushi. The spicy tuna roll made with chunks of tuna and just a little spicy mayo, not this pureed mush they sell all over the Southland. I miss the Green Turtle Roll, delicious treat topped with shrimps and a wasabi creme. (Yes, I said it: creme.) I miss sushi that was easily obtained on my way home, or with a short walk around the corner. Maybe most of all, I miss sushi restaurants that are nice and good and not ridiculously overpriced. You can get two out of three, tops, on this side of the 405, but that's it.

I miss anger. I know it's around here somewhere -- or else, why did that cat flyer bother me so much? But for the life of me, I cannot seem to get angry about things that deserve my anger. No, those things only make me very, very sad. The best I've done so far: Some irritation with people who insist on walking in the bike lane. That's not going to cut it!

I miss delight. I don't know where it went. Maybe it's hanging out with anger? But nothing seems to do it these days. The movies in theaters seem like well-marketed wallpaper. Chocolate frosting helps for about 30 seconds, and then... blech.

Yes, I can connect the dots. I've been to this neck of the woods before -- dissatisfaction with the available options, local factory belching out the oppressive smell of unhappiness? This is Depressionville, population: me. My brain chemistry is protecting me from something, some lingering realization that's slouching towards me with a wicked gleam in its yellow eyes. In the meantime, my lobes slosh around in a tepid chemical mix, devoid of highs and lows, just this exhausting constant non-anything.

And like the driver of a 1981 Dodge Horizon, puttering through Gary, Indiana at 53 mph, there's not much I can do but roll up the windows, put the A/C on recirc and study the horizon, waiting for the distant outline of my destination to slowly emerge from the haze.

Go Ask Alice

The coffee shop around the corner has a flyer on its community board. The headline reads "I hate my life." Then there's a picture of a fluffy tabby cat.

Underneath the picture is this caption: "It was bad enough when my owners got a second cat. Then they got a dog! But to add insult to injury, they've started having kids -- two so far! Please take me away from this hellish existence. My name is Alice. I am seven years old and have been using a litter box since I was a kitten. If you adopt me before April 15, I will even help with your taxes."

Ha ha ha. So amusing. I am amused.

Also, incredibly, incredibly angry. Who are these fucking bastards with their humor and their droll attempts at covering up their total lack of decency? You love Alice enough to see her placed in a new, loving home AND YET not enough to say, slow down your rapid acquisition of non-Alice compatible lifeforms?

Understand that as I say this, underneath my chair is Anna, a napping jellical born in 1993. She's grumpy and stiff on cold mornings, has clumps of fur on her backside where she cannot lick herself anymore and when unhappy, tends to venge-poop 6 to 12 feet from the litterbox. But she's in my house, living with me. In fact, I adopted another cat some years later to keep Anna company, because I thought my long work days were making her lonely. Two years after that, MG moved in with his cat Fifi. Three cats in one apartment -- it can be done. It helps if you have a closet or a bathroom to hold the litterboxes, but it can be done.

Would we love to have a dog? Yes. Ideally a big, elegantly-nosed black lab along the lines of MG's beloved Lucy. But labs need space and we live in an apartment. With three cats. And in our weaker moments, we're not so much writers as shut-ins. So, no dog for us just now. And don't even get me started on why we're not hip deep in kids.

Really, it's the seven years that kills me. Anyone can decide that a kitten isn't working out after a week or two, and return the blameless animal in time to place it in a better home. But to hold onto an animal, leading her to trust you, and believe she has a home with you, and then cast her out because she's not as much fun as the rest of your menagerie? Because you like your bright-eyed Jack Russell terrier better? It's more fun to watch Spongebob Square Pants with your kids than clean Alice's litterbox, so what the hell, why not just toss Alice out on her tabby ear?

It strikes me as unforgivably mean, and it leads me to think that the flyer's author was righter than he or she will ever know: Alice does hate her life, or she soon will.

Oh, Malcolm Gladwell!

How could you?

It was with great personal satisfaction that I rolled my eyes and clicked away from Jack Shafer's recent anti-Gladwell dissertation on Slate. Mr. Gladwell's great crime? He'd told a funny story in public, and then, allowed the funny story to be taped and broadcast on "This American Life." Like virtually every funny story since the dawn of time, this particular tale wandered some distance from the literal, historical truth.

Yes, I said it. Sometimes, in order to be funny, people will fudge the truth. Worse, many writers are unable to resist the temptation to be funny. Sweet Jehosaphat on toast! Can you imagine? A person so addicted to being amusing that they do not report their experiences with the cut and dried precision of an AP News brief! Someone call Dr. Drew.

In his better moments, Mr. Shafer is a impish avenging angel, swooping down on weasel words and wringing the breath from ill-researched trend stories. For these acts of righteous journalistic vengeance, I have nothing but gratitude. But for whatever reason, Mr. Shafer is drawn to the Personal Yarn as if it were the journalistic killing fields, site of all that is horrifying and unethical in the world. (Note, for example, that Stephen Glass is not known for his hilarious monologues.) But he is, inexorably, drawn back to this topic every few months. Not too long ago, he went off on David Sedaris, and, as I say, last week he took aim at Mr. Gladwell.

Why this seems such a slippery slope is beyond me. Yes, we want Mr. Gladwell to be scrupulously honest in his reporting, but I have no difficulty believing he's capable of such effort and still, say, crack a joke now and then. One would sooner confuse the veracity of a Sedaris article with a Susan Orlean feature.

Ah, well. That was my position, anyway. And then Portfolio ran an article about Mr. Gladwell's spotty fact-checking. Then, a few hours later, they pulled the post.

Thank you very fucking much, Portfolio. Now I feel like a boob for writing off Mr. Shafer as a journalistic bluenose. And, for bonus points, I feel certain we can expect weeks, if not months, of additional posts on this subject from my favorite journalistic bluenose.

Get the Honorable Gentleman from Virginia Some Oil of Cloves

HBO's "John Adams" continues to alternate between thought- and giggle-provoking.

First and foremost, I would very much like some kind of primer on What Is The Deal with Wigs?

I can see, and even approve of the production designer's decision to keep George Washington and Thomas Jefferson in their own hair, at least through the second installment. (Likewise, Ben Franklin goes au natural, but then, how would you know he was Ben Franklin if he wasn't bald on top, with flowing gray locks?)

But the whole variety of wigs raises a lot of unanswered questions -- what does a man wear a wig in his natural hair color, even if he has no hair of his own underneath? When does a man decide to switch over to a gray wig? And what are the subtexts of the curly sheep's wool wig vs. the frizzy crown favored by South Carolina's Mr. Rutledge vs. the carefully styled option favored by everyone from the Quaker Mr. Dickinson to the Unitarian Mr. Adams?

Then, and this presses on me most fearfully, what is the deal with curious head bandage/unraveled turban worn by Dr. Franklin's fellow Pennsylvania delegate? I've been through Wikipedia, HBO and an interactive version of John Trumbull's painting, without finding any information. Really, it's most distracting.

And lastly, there is a kind of ludicrous grandeur to the entire proceedings. MG has issues with the dialogue, but that's not what bothers me. Rather, I wish we could have skipped scenes like the one in which an unknown delegate walks to Adams and regrets that they are not all on their way home already. Adams is like, "Uh, yeah, I guess." This aimless conversation continues for a few moments until, at last, Adams addresses the delegate as Mr. Jefferson. That mystery solved, Jefferson excuses himself, while the narrator explains "And that was the day that John Adams met Thomas Jefferson." Except, you know, not.

I'm still not clear on why Washington wore his military uniform to a civilian gathering, except that it, along with his perennial expression of "Cripes, my teeth are killing me", are his chief identifying qualities.

It seems I can expect no shortage of such moments, considering a later scene in which Franklin revises the Declaration of Independence, then compliments Jefferson on the excellence of his newly invented chair. The only thing missing was the moment where Franklin fishes out a key, ties it to a kite string and walks out into a pouring rainstorm.

Also the Final Season of "Blake's 7"

Dear "Torchwood,"

I love you, but you are not a good show. Sorry, but it had to be said. That wedding episode was full on retarded, up to and including the final scene in which, OF COURSE, it turns out Captain Jack was once married. Jesus, what hasn't that guy done? Give birth by C-Section? (Note: That would have been a much better idea, btw. Not that you asked me. I'm just saying.)

Nothing personal, I am a fan of the not good (see also "Scarecrow and Mrs. King," "Wizards and Warriors," and long stretches of your older cousin, "Original Formula Doctor Who, Now With Even More Monsters Made From Garbage Bags.")

Your with great affection and not especially reliable taste where genre fiction is concerned,

Kate

On Insane Conversations

Sometimes, all you can do is wait.  Wait for lunch to come so you can set it up for the
read through.  Wait for the call to come so you can transfer it to right line.  Wait for the
call to end so the writers can go back to breaking the episode.  Wait for the notes to
come in so you can make the necessary changes and publish the next draft.

Wait, wait, wait, wait.

At times like this, I think of Kenneth Koch's poem "The Boiling Water."  It begins:

A serious moment for the water is when it boils
And though one usually regards it merely as a convenience
To have the boiling water available for bath or table
Occasionally there is someone around who understands
The importance of this moment for the water -- maybe a saint,
Maybe a poet, maybe a crazy man, or just someone temporarily disturbed
With his mind "floating," in a sense, away from his deepest
Personal concerns to more "unreal" things.  A lot of poetry
Can come from perceptions of this kind, as well as a lot of insane
   conversations.
Intense people can sometimes get stuck on topics like these
And keep you far into the night with them.  Still, it is true
That the water has just started to boil.  How important
For the water!  And now I see that the three is waving in the wind
(I assume it is the wind) -- at least, its branches are.  In order to see
Hidden meanings, one may have to ignore
The most exciting ones, those that are most directly appealing
And yet it is only these appealing ones that, often, one can trust
To makes one's art solid and true, just as it is sexual attraction
One has to trust, often, in love.  So the boiling water's seriousness
Is likely to go unobserved until the exact strange moment
(And what a temptation it is to end the poem here
With some secret thrust) when it involuntarily comes into the mind
And then one can write of it.  A serious moment for this poem will be
   when it ends,
It will be like the water's boiling, that for which we've waited
Without trying to think of it too much, since "a watched pot never boils,"
And a poem with its ending figured out is difficult to write.

That is not, rest assured, the end of the poem. Like water about to boil, what seems
to be the end turns out to be the start of something else.

Occupational Hazards

I've been tortured lately by the spectacularly butter/vanilla aroma that wafts off even a very small amount of 21-year-old Black Maple Hill bourbon. Tortured because a) it smells AMAZINGLY GOOD and b) I'm not much for on-the-job drinking.

Add to this that 21-year-old Black Maple Hill bourbon is necessarily a limited edition item, and it's currently sold out throughout most of North America, and I have a real problem on my hands.

But thanks to the delightful gentlemen at Fireside Liquors, we are now the proud owners of 17-year-old Eagle Rare bourbon, which is maybe not EXACTLY as good as BMH, but still very, very good indeed. It's like taking little high octane sips of essence of a delicious, if slightly spicy creme brulee.

This leads to me to wonder how I can track down a bottle of the other whiskey I really like -- Bruichladdich, which some kind friends (hi, Kate & Jon!) were kind enough to bring for us when they went to Scotland some years ago. My memory fails me, but I think it was about 12 years old, and it bloomed like a rose with about three drops of water.

What Have We Learned So Far?

1. It is almost impossible to work and blog and get 7 to 8 hours of sleep. Something has to give. And I come from a long line of Olympic-grade sleepers, so...

2. MG loves the Rutles. We went to a Rutles event earlier this week and--wait, wait. I realize some of you might wonder, who are the Rutles? To express it in SAT terms, Nightline: Daily Show:: Beatles: Rutles. Cool? Cool.

Okay, getting back to the topic at hand. MG loves him some Rutles. Here's what he said about our outing:

Rutles reunion? Some said it couldn’t happen. Most said it shouldn’t happen. All I know is, Kate and I were raring to go from the moment the evening was announced. But being non-celebrities in a celebrity-driven town, it was not as easy as all that. First, tickets sold out almost immediately; second, Kate had to promise not to run up to Jeff Lynne and kick him for overproducing the Threetles.

Dude, for real. Jeff Lynne has some shin kicks coming. Man needs to keep his hands OFF THE SYNTHESIZER, YO. Isn't it a danger sign when your music turns out to be the pitch-perfect soundtrack for a film about a rollerskating rink where 1980 versions of the Greek muses like to hang out and, uh, rollerskate?*

For the rest of the story, check out MG's post on what by my count is his nine millionth blog, this one mostly about the Beatles.

* Not there is anything wrong with rollerskating. Rollerskating is effing cool.