Day Whatever:



The basil's sprouting at least.  I think I killed everything else. 

I like startling people on the train by poking my sister in the nose.  It's so taboo, with everyone looking at the floor, and edging away from each other.  Some old gent with a cravat comes and stands too close to us without realizing we know each other and boink I reach out and poke her nose.  They always look scared they're gonna be next. 

Today Raoul from Phantom of the Opera was on our train - shoulder-length blonde hair, ancient baggy-style trousers, the lot.  And then he very gallantly gave up his seat to a puffy man on his cellphone and his high-heeled wife.  Or maybe he was just pissed off because the guy he was sitting next to wouldn't stop talking into his cellphone, and figured the cellphone crew should hang together.  Maybe.

My oregano sprouted today!  I planted basil, oregano, and mint last weekend (aka what was left at Home Depot) and this is the first sign of green.  I'm hoping blogging about this prevents me from killing them like I do every other plant I've tried to grow.  Might have something to do with forgetting to water them. 

In other news, I worked all day on something I didn't care for but felt good afterwards because at least I worked hard on it.  And then when I finally escaped it was sunny, with a breeze, and I was actually wearing comfortable shoes.  What could beat that? 

Sorry, I seem to be on a roll tonight. 

It's Austen season on PBS, which means that I'm spending quiet Sunday evenings being generally pissed off about how the world doesn't understand my favorite dead author.  PBS is mostly serving up 2007 adaptations from ITV, the British channel that last year decided the 1990's versions of Austen's novels just weren't dishy enough for modern times.  They were written by Andrew Davies, who adapted the 1995 Pride & Prejudice, but bear little resemblance to that masterpiece.  Nor do they have anything on Gwyneth Paltrow's Emma, Patricia Rozema's Mansfield Park, or Emma Thompson's Sense & Sensibility.  That and all the women look the same to me for some reason. 

The New Yawker seems to think so too - they're a bit scathing about PBS' attempt to capitalize on all the Austen gliltz.  I'd have to agree about Miss Austen Regrets, but the comparative praise for Becoming Jane is, as I've said before, a cop-out and a half.  We're just lucky if Jane comes across as "smart," never mind silly and fictionalized.  Though I'm still boycotting that movie, so maybe Anne Hathaway suddenly says to Tom LeFroy, "But darling, I'm tired of being a piece of meat on the marriage market.  I'm going to go write the perfect novel on how ridiculously funny our idiotic society really is."

I just re-watched Aldous Huxley's 1940 P&P, which never made sense to me until I made the connection to Huxley's agenda and Brave New World.  "A Bennet Utopia!" and other echoes of Huxley's obsession with sexual repression abound - starting with the fact that it's really the Victorian version of P&P.  When Lizzy gets to Hunsford, Charlotte unpacks her nightgown, which is anything but revealing, and the two women giggle about how daring a garment it is.  Lady Catherine De Bourgh, a far cry from Judi Dench, practically fangirls Lizzy.  Laurence Olivier's Darcy carries himself with an obsequity that would rival Mr. Collins'.  Still, I'd almost rather they showed that on PBS than these 2007 films that are equally comic in their effort to give Austen a Hollywood ending. 

Ah well.  At least the Sunday night Austen means there's something to watch on TV until the writers get back in gear post-strike.

I watched the Westminster dog show this week, probably because I find this obsession as hilarious as the creators of Best in Show.  And I didn't catch any of these commercials by PETA, but they're even funnier.  And I have to agree, despite the backlash that's calling them publicity stunts.  This may have been an attention-grab, but it's the truth.  Why are we breeding these poor animals until they've got so many health complications that their life expectancies are falling?  Why are we breeding animals at all when there are already so many in shelters who need homes?  It's this strange phenomenon wherein we've created freaks of nature to serve and adore us.  And yes, it goes back a long way, and even "mutts" are part of that tradition, but that doesn't make it right or rational. 

Another counter-argument always seems to be - as if this were an affliction on dogs and dog lovers - well what about human children?  There are plenty of orphaned children in the world.  Should we all stop having children and adopt them instead?  Which is of course as silly as calling a member of the Westminster Kennel Club a member of the kkk, but at the same time, we do have children for the same reason we breed dogs.  We still have this primitive belief in bloodline and legacy that is tainted by adoption and mixed breeding.  We want to ensure our succession, and the easiest way to do so is to get knocked up.

Wow, haven't posted in a while.  Mostly because I've been spewing crap at Bitchin' from the Kitchen.  But then I noticed that either I wasn't writing, or my writing was sucking.  So I'm back here to use livejournal to warm up.  That's right, LJ.  I'm using you to get a date with Microsoft Word. 

I got a job, and it's even one you need a BA for!  So now I'm on the threshold of adulthood, and it's like this pregnant pause in which everyone tells you that your life is going to be miserable from here on.  "So you're a wage slave now, eh?" says a neighbor.  "Pack a book and a hip flask for the train," offers his wife.  "Time to write?  HAHAHAHAHA," say my friends behind my back, probably.  Working adults wind you up for something awful, and then ask if you're excited.  Well yes, I can't wait to live on coffee and alcohol and be at the mercy of my arch-nemesis, the MTA.  But y'know, I've been living without a leash of any kind for five freaking months, besides for the parents, and while I've gotten rest and destressed, I haven't really accomplished anything (okay, besides for learning flash and getting a job, but still).  Plus I think the lack of anything pressing besides bathroom trips has replaced my bladder with a pomegranate seed. 

So I'd like a routine, even if that routine consumes my life.  Lately the only thing providing me with self-discipline has been the recent acquisition of an ice cream maker.  Gotta use that heavy cream before it spoils!  By the way, fresh strawberry ice cream rocks.  Fresh green tea ice cream not so much - unless you add cherries.  I'm planning pumpkin and apple pie flavors for Thanksgiving.  It's like my life plan. 

I'm wearing my green shirt again, so it's probably time to blog. 

The worst thing about little sisters is that they grow up and go to college.  Four hours away.  In the middle of nowhere.  This is especially bad when you've graduated college but still have no job and no driver's license.  If only the dog could talk. 

Last week I saw Stardust and liked it, apart from the fact that it was painfully predictable and the nagging feeling of "wow!  another story about a young male hero who inherits his granddad's kingdom.  how original!" But I admit it, I laughed. 

In other news, I saw wild turkeys, trampled peanut shells, and said incredibly nasty things.  Which isn't really news, is it?

I'm a snob because I feel very strongly about the Anne Hathaway movie that's come out, or is coming out, or whatever.  I'm a snob because I feel very strongly about Anne Hathaway. 

I'm really not a snob when it comes to film adaptations of Austen's novels.  I have trouble seeing second and third versions of anything but Pride & Prejudice, but I usually watch them anyway.  I think the people behind the 2005 version of P&P should be drawn and quartered, but I own a copy.  I even saw it in the theater. 

I'm going to say that "Becoming Jane" is a travesty and an insult to the greatest author who ever lived, and everyone will have heard it before.  Caryn James of the Times tells us we should have seen this coming, that we should be cheering; more Austen love, hey-ho!  I believe and hope that Caryn is wrong about the intentions of The Jane Austen Book Club, not because I swear by it, but because I have faith in Karen Joy Fowler. 

If we have to sex up Austen to make her popular, I don't want her to be popular.  If she needed to be sexed up to be popular, she wouldn't already have such a huge fan base for a "female writer." It's too much to hope that she won't be tainted by this film, that my witty companion won't be at least partly associated with the sexily subservient meerkat played by a woman who does nothing but reprise her role in "Princess Diaries" under different titles.  They admit it's fiction; they should also admit that they're making it fact. 

Maybe I'm a snob because I feel strongly about Jane Austen.  But please, don't boycott "Becoming." Do bring biographers to throw at the screen. 

Please read Neocons on a Cruise: What happens when you stick a liberal British journalist on a cruise with 500 American conservatives?  The obvious. 

Consider: He's obviously a talented and thoughtful person who worked hard to interview interesting people.  Some of what he dug up is simultaneously hilarious and frightening.  But none of it was really surprising, was it?  Is this actually what "conservatives say when we aren't listening," or more along the lines of "what conservatives say when we aren't around to argue with them"? And wow, the European press really needs to print more stereotypes of American Republicans - though to be fair, this approach was more curious and nuanced than most. 

I start wondering and worrying, though.  Could a similar piece be written about us American liberals, squabbling over foreign loss of life and mourning every little Republican political victory?  Waffling between possible solutions to economic problems and making crude jokes about the white man?  I mean, do people have to join every effing liberal Facebook Group there is?!  Err yeah.  Stop having one-track minds, everybody-in-the-world!

I need to stop reading Harry Pothead and playing the Sims and resurface, obviously.  Assignments will be due by next election. 

...or began a few days ago, and then reached unparalleled temperatures last night when Harry looked up from a field in the middle of nowhere.  The hype is fun, the giggling with everyone in the entire theater is fun, but it's still a sickness.  A children-in-English-boarding-school plus mystery-thrill sickness.  But still I'm finding myself caught up in it, excited that everyone's excited.  There won't be a July like this again for poor 'arry 'otter.  The worst part of the seventh book coming out, however, is that small talk will go back to the weather in a year or two. 

So go see the movie with the very lowest expectations.  Lock yourself in a cupboard to savor the last written revelation.  And keep it communal. 

I'm probably crazy, attempting a literary review after seeing Ratatouille and being lectured on how pointless and cowardly critics are, but I just finished Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell and it can't wait. 

First: I'm fairly harsh when it comes to historical fiction.  No, this isn't supposed to be historical fiction.  It's "literary fantasy," or whatever the hell that is.  But there are several historical personages, events, and attempts to be England in the 18th century in this novel, so it reads like historical fiction.  As Neil Gaiman and Stephen King promised, you start wondering if England really does have a weird magical history that everyone mysteriously forgot about except Susanna Clarke.  Unfortunately, there are moments in the text that jerk you out of that wonderful illusion.  Every time Stephen Black, the bitter African ex-slave, reflects on race relations, you have to wonder if this guy has read Edward Said.  The women in the book are fairly insignificant chattel until a London publisher brushes past Austen's Emma - which happens to be Clarke's favorite book.  The publisher also happens to be Austen's publisher.  And Byron's, who is as funny but not as absent as he is in Stoppard's Arcadia.  At the end of the book one of the (few) main female characters has two feminist outbursts about the uselessness of husbands and the evil of men in general.  I hate saying this, but we need a better way to put strong women in historical fiction.  Which this isn't, of course. 

My second major complaint is this whole "Raven King" business.  It's a great story, but y'know, there's still that King Arthur guy who's supposed to return to England sometime soon.  The Raven King is just going to have to get in line.  I don't think this story should be set up as an "England needs its own legends" campaign, which is what I swear I read somewhere.  What the?  And don't even get me started on how easy British authors have it.  Psh. 

That said, this 800+ page book is worth ploughing through if only because the spells the magicians think of are hilarious.  I also love the idea of the restoration of magic as a political agenda.  And I like that so many male readers are flipping back to the byline to check if all this military and naval "non-history" was actually written by a woman - I just wish she didn't have to make so many sacrifices to bring that about. 

Yes, I contradict myself.  Ratatouille is awesome by the way.  Except for the snobby lecturing part, of course. 

I saw "La Vie En Rose," or "La Mome" the other day.  Afterwards I decided to sing on the streets of Paris and get addicted to pain killers.  All the reviews and adults said that the movie depicted her as this awful person, but I fell in love with her.  She seemed so confident and assertive, so in-your-face.  Eat merde, Mother.  I'm probably wrong on some level, but that was my gut reaction.  Then I spent the rest of the evening wondering why they left out about a dozen of her lovers and oh, that part where she rescued WWII prisoners.  Delightful. 

Yesterday I actually wrote a cover letter.  I'm not sure why I bother - I'm applying to the wrong sort of job.  But I don't have the right degree for the one I want.  But I got the degree I wanted.  Wow, I'm cryptic enough to be a professional no-risk work-blogger.  Hire me!

Today I read Austenland, by Shannon Hale.  I really liked Princess Academy, and I was slightly disappointed by this, though it did make me laugh a lot.  Of course, you can say I just can't admit that I'm like that too, Darcy-Firth-obsessed and too much of an Austen fanatic to have a real-life relationship.  But whether or not I'm in denial, did or did not identify with Jane Hayes (Jane Doe and Jane Austen and Jane Eyre in one), the book just doesn't grab me.  There's this assumption at the back of the book's mind-grapes that British people are just weird, that's why there's Austenland.  That's why there's actual men in Austenland.  British people are weird, but I can't see them buying into this that easily.  Also, Jane is not a wealthy American wifey, but that seems to be the usual clientele at Austenland.  I can see the Marie Antoinette appeal of the place, but that's not the kind of theme park we commoner Austen fans dream of.  It was hard to fathom why everything felt like a sexual role play until I realized that.  Wow that sentence is going to look wrong out of context. 

I won't give away the ending, I promise, but what?!  Anyway, it's worth reading for the gags and occasional feminist blurt.  Hasta La Vista, baby. 

Young Jim, accompanied by flaming lover Pete, came out at his older brother's wedding.  There was a pause, and then the guests went back to eating. 

The local radio station reported that several women at a nearby college had banded together to form a sorority dedicated to stopping domestic abuse.  As part of the station's recent effort to boost jockey morale, the reporter then asked, "Hey Tom, do you beat your wife?"

Mrs. Tom could not be reached for comment. 

Dad stumbles out of bed to ask me to close his computer - only to find me stomping through the halls with a fly swatter.  Uncontrollable laughter ensues on his side while I heft the swatter menacingly. 

"Oh you're hunting.  I thought burglars had gotten in."

Look, I know I have a problem.  If this is my coping mechanism, so mote it be. 

When it's raining I can feel my mortality, because there's nothing I can do about it.  Dingo, on the other hand, seems to feel that there's lots I can do about it.  I'm obviously making it rain so that I can be lazy and not walk her outside.  Something must be off about this rain though, because the scar I've had on my face for at least fifteen years is suddenly aching like I've torn my gums out of my mouth again. 

Or maybe I just need to brush my teeth. 

This is the lovely view Mr. A beheld every time he headed into the Old House at Braintree, Quincy.  The Park Rangers don't let you take pictures inside, so you'll have to take my word for it - he's got some pretty fine upholstery. 

[New York State Attorney General Andrew M. Cuomo] said the agreement for Columbia to contribute $1.1 million to a fund run by his office to educate students and parents about financial aid was “commensurate with their relative liability.”

No conflict of interest there, right Cuomo?  I understand that what Charlow did, investing in the company he was tirelessly pushing as well as taking some big presents from the company, was far worse, but couldn't you have like, given the money to someone uninvolved?

My dad and I walked the dog to the public library tonight. This is the new three-story library with multi-stall bathrooms and a somewhat improved fantasy/scifi section. We had to cross two highways to get there, but it wasn't until the way back that I realized the silence was bothering me. There's so much noise pollution, but once you get used to it, you enter a kind of noise vacuum. Inside the car you don't notice so much; you have the radio going or you're talking to someone in the car. But outside the highway is a voiceless echo of loud motorists. Even the dog stopped reacting to the loud truck engines that always drive her crazy - though that might've been because many of them were under the overpass.

It's strange, because you think of quiet in the country or a forest; not the total absence of quiet on a suburban road. It's not delicate, or temporary, like the quiet on a suburban side street while everyone's away at school or work. The quiet is gone and the road is noiseless, simultaneously, somehow. At the library I was shocked to hear human voices again, when a woman approached me or my dad barked at the dog (frightening some poor man into freezing in place). And then you head off the road, back into those bobbing lawn lights to get drenched with sprinkler water. Home sweet home.

I don’t need to tell anyone that the The New Yorker is good. But I had to share that Larissa MacFarquhar’s profile of John Ashbery (published in 2005) made my heart palpitate. I’ve never even read any John Ashbery, for goodness’ sake, and this just hurt:

He’s young, he knows, but he isn’t as young as he once was–he’s twenty-two, and sooner or later he’s going to have to figure out what to do with himself. What if this block lasts for the rest of his life, and the poems he’s written already that he’s pretty proud of were just a fluke?

I had a dream the other night that I was forced to attend my old sleepaway camp the summer after graduation. “They agreed to let in a twenty-two-year-old,” my dream-mother said. I’ve been wondering why I thought I was 22 in the dream - I’ll be 21 for at least another six months - and Ashbery’s uncertainty grabbed all my anxiety and threw it in my face. What if I’m a failure at twenty-two? What if my writing never goes anywhere? And how do I know whether to trust my friends’ and teachers’ opinions?

More importantly, what the hell do I do now?

Today a kid couldn’t spell ’shirts’, but she proudly showed me how to spell ‘fuck you’.

That one wasn’t even in my SAT vocab.

I’m getting tired of this whole g- business. G-mail, g-calendar, g-docs, g-notebook - I mean, what’s next? G-spot?

I do hope they think that one through.