(This isn't in the vein of those Craigslist Missed Connections ads, because this girl is nearby, though some height up from me, and there may be another time that she comes down my way when I'm outside again. Plus, there's no way she'd come upon this entry since she doesn't even know who I am, but there are some thoughts that I feel compelled to write as if she might find it.)
I finally had a dream I'd been wanting for weeks, one where I was clear of mind and emotions and knew exactly what I was saying and feeling like it was right. Basically, the person I'd like to be, but only have the courage to be in my dreams so far.
I was in some kind of a classroom, though it wasn't the kind typical of education. Something was playing on a screen and there were people around, but it seemed like so much was going on at once. Kathryn Joosten, who played Mrs. Landingham on The West Wing was sitting next to me and I thanked her profusely for her invaluable contribution to a TV series that's still my favorite, even with it having been off the air for three years.
Then, a beautiful black girl walked in and took a seat in the vertical row of desks next to mine and there was a spark between us. She felt it, because she looked at me again after she'd passed by me. I was intrigued by her because she walked with such self-confidence. She was sure of herself and the world around her and I liked that. There didn't seem to be any mucking about with her, and that's what I like.
I'm not sure if she and I talked while near each other. We might have, though I believe that based on what came next, it was brief. It may have been an introduction, it may have been a comment on the day so far, it may have just been a simple hello. But I remember that the time had come to leave that classroom and she had come up to me hoping for a more expansive conversation. I think I brushed her off indifferently, but I don't know why. My face fell when I saw her rush out with disappointment on her face and she might have been near tears. I rushed out of the classroom, leaving behind my backpack, my wallet, my cellphone. I never do that, anywhere.
I caught up to her, stopped her and first told her that I left everything behind in that classroom to quickly catch up to her, and I never do that. Then I explained straight out why I had done what I did: I was 25 years old and hadn't had a girlfriend since I was 14. I wasn't sure how to act, I wasn't sure what to do. This surprised her, but also relieved her in showing that it wasn't her personally that made me act like I did. I liked her very much too. Unfortunately at that moment, I woke up. But in that dream, I felt like my heart was soaring when I saw her, like I could make this work. It felt like there was nothing inside my body dragging me down. I could have floated.
And, as if some force of nature had sensed my disappointment in that dream ending abruptly, you were outside, walking past my neighborhood. It was raining and I had just walked both of my dogs because they hadn't been outside since early this morning. I hadn't expected it to rain like it was, thinking that the weather would have held off until early tomorrow morning, as was predicted. But there was the rain, and after seeing the garbage and recycling bin lids open outside, I knew I had to dump the water out of my family's garbage bin (the recycling bin lid was closed), and I had to do it soon.
So I did, right after drying off Tigger (part miniature pinscher, part Italian greyhound). I went to the curb and you were coming up the street, holding a multi-colored umbrella (sections of separate colors in a circle), and walking what looked like an unhappy pitbull. I glanced at you and then put the garbage bin on the ground and pulled up the bottom so the water would fall out. I put the bin back on the ground, pulled it back up and quickly closed the lid. I took the recycling bin and began to roll it back to the house. But I stopped. You intrigued me. You looked to be about my height, 5'5" or 5'6", and perhaps my age, or maybe in your late 20s. I hoped you weren't 44 years old, just to pick a random older number. I still don't know, but you looked like you were about as old as me.
You either live in the development right above mine, taking the road up there, or the one at the top of that mountainside with four houses there. After I rolled the recycling bin back into the garage, I went back out for the garbage bin (always an order: recycling bin first and then the garbage bin because it sits next to the garage door), and I saw a piece of your umbrella from where I was standing. Then, I saw you walk back down with your dog, even though it was still raining. Did you sense me looking at you? Were you possibly interested too? Did I idiotically lose yet another chance with yet another girl? If you were coming back down to complain to me about my staring, I apologize. But to see the sight of you walking your dog, with that umbrella that was happier than my own (stripes of dark colors), in noticeable, though not heavily pouring rain, it was inspiring to me. I wonder if you were out with your dog at that time because he (or she) had to go out or you just liked that weather and wanted a reasonable excuse to go outside to experience it. If the rain starts up again later this morning, I don't think I'd go outside to stand in it, even with a proper coat and umbrella. Not that I think I'd look crazy, but there's much work I have to do and I don't think there'd be another sight as enchanting as you. I don't remember seeing your face, but I think with how you were walking, interested in the rain, that I'd easily give it a chance. I don't walk my dogs in the front that often. I use the patio because it's a simulation of the terrain in Las Vegas, so my dogs are used to it when my family and I eventually move there. I didn't want to reveal that, just in case there might be a chance to get to know you and possibly more, but we've been here six years and there may not even be a job for my dad next year as a business education teacher based on how they keep talking about cutting education in this state.
If we meet each other again and talk, and if there's a connection there, I'll be disappointed only because having lived here in Saugus for five years (our first year was in an apartment in Valencia), you might have lived here around the time I moved here, and maybe even earlier, and I could have had more time with you. It would have made the days in this valley far more interesting than they usually are. And if we don't meet again, you've done well as my temporary muse. I wrote this not only to go over the event in my mind again, but also to get mentally limber to continue my share of a book project. Now I want to write that essay on James Dean just for you. I know you'll probably never read it since you don't know me or my name, but what the heck, motivation to write for you is enough for me.
I love the rain, especially after the hot, dry winds this valley endured some weeks ago, so thank you for making a bright day even brighter.
P.S.: If you were actually attracted to a guy wearing a zipped-up, thin black jacket and red sleep pants with the Dr. Pepper logo stamped all over, then I made a huge mistake in not starting a conversation with you.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Ok, It's Probably Time
To balance the sometime-stress of this book project and to have a reason to keep going so I can hopefully finish the majority of the writing by the end of the year, I'm finally going to figure out how to post pictures on here that can be clicked on and maximized. Yes, this is for the titular reason for this blog, to post those library receipts and analyze why people might have checked out what they checked out.
I tried a little bit after I started the blog and thought I'd be content with just having the scanned receipts posted as they were (hoping that you readers would be ok with squinting), but I want them as big as I see pictures on other blogs. That way, you can see every wrinkle from when I either had that receipt in my pocket or in my Two and a Half Men canvas tote bag (received when publicity was high for season 1 on DVD).
I tried a little bit after I started the blog and thought I'd be content with just having the scanned receipts posted as they were (hoping that you readers would be ok with squinting), but I want them as big as I see pictures on other blogs. That way, you can see every wrinkle from when I either had that receipt in my pocket or in my Two and a Half Men canvas tote bag (received when publicity was high for season 1 on DVD).
The Fumes Are Fading
When does childhood end? Is it 18, according to the law of a state, or is it when being a child has ended and becoming a teenager has taken over? I wonder about this because of some major, jarring changes in my past. I obviously still have fond memories of my past, but certain changes in those details make me wonder if childhood reaches all the way to 18, even when you're getting used to being moody and constantly horny. In March 2000, the last time my family and I spent a full day at the Magic Kingdom at Walt Disney World, I was 16, and I sure didn't look 16 in one of the photos my sister keeps in her scrapbook, taken at the entrance to the Ticket and Transportation Center. I look like I'm 9, not 16. 10, maybe, but that would be pushing it. In that one picture, I don't look like I grew into anything.
That day at the Magic Kingdom was the last day I rode the Tomorrowland Transit Authority in Tomorrowland. During my Grad Nite in 2002, I looked forlornly at the TTA, which was closed because they didn't want rowdy teenagers damaging anything. The same went for the Carousel of Progress, which was being used to put up photo backdrops for graduates (or future graduates; I only know that my class hadn't graduated yet) to have pictures taken and purchase them.
I loved the TTA. I loved the deep, almost robotic voice announcing what the vehicle was approaching ("NOW APPROACHING, SPACE MOUNTAIN," "NOW APPROACHING WALT DISNEY'S CAROUSEL OF PROGRESS."). I loved going past Mickey's Star Traders and as we approached Autopia from on high, hearing, "Hi there, Tomorrowland travelers, this is Mr. Johnson in Skyview Hovercraft One, bringing you the latest Tomorrowland traffic report. As usual, everything is perfect on Tomorrowland's Super Highway. Back to you in TTA Central." Every time we went to Walt Disney World, before that one day, I was always content with spending the day in Tomorrowland. I had Space Mountain, I had the Tomorrowland Transit Authority, and I had the Carousel of Progress. I didn't need anything else. My only regret is not having tried out the Timekeeper, which was closed and replaced with Monsters, Inc. Laugh Floor, installed and opened long after my family and I moved to Southern California.
I followed the Tomorrowland Transit Authority on YouTube. Once in a while I'll get bored with whatever work I'm doing and look it up on YouTube, watching onboard videos from 2004, 2005, 2006, 2007, sometimes going all the way back to the video from 1991 to see what it was like then. Recently, the Tomorrowland Transit Authority reopened after sufficient time for Space Mountain to undergo refurbishment that would require use of the separate, walled-off track they have for maintenance before you enter Space Mountain. Now when the vehicles go into Space Mountain, there's a lot that's behind walls, such as views of the rollercoaster as well as of the line to board. The TTA underwent a few changes too. Multi-colored lights were installed with red shining on one part of the track, green shining on another, and blue elsewhere. I could live with that. Watching videos post-reopening, that's an improvement.
I know that theme parks will change. Attractions will be taken out, new attractions will be put in to try to attract a bigger crowd. The ExtraTERRORestrial Alien Encounter was eventually taken out because it was deemed too scary (and, to me, it was, but it contributed much to the ambience of what Tomorrowland should feel like), and replaced with Stitch's Great Escape. Based on business, I understand that.
I believe childhood does indeed end at 18, but runs on fumes until at least a few years later. While you're getting used to a bigger, more complex world, you need anchors to keep you in a state of mind conducive to understanding whatever's going on in your life. For me, one anchor was the Tomorrowland Transit Authority, but more specifically, that voice track from the overhead speakers that put you into Tomorrowland. Every video I watched, that narration was always there. And now, it's gone.
It remained after the TTA reopened, but as I've read it, the narration was changed after park closing on October 1. Now it's got one of those hyperactive voices designed to attract the attention of kids who probably already have enough trouble paying attention for a few seconds at a time. It takes you completely out of Tomorrowland by pointing out the many attractions available in Tomorrowland which is completely useless because generally, by the time you've entered Tomorrowland, you know what attractions are there, or if you don't know yet, you probably will because the TTA is not likely to be the first attraction you go on. By the time you go on TTA, you want a break from the crowds, you want to recover after waiting in line for Space Mountain, if that. The idea of the TTA is to ride above Tomorrowland, to take in a different view, to consider different perspectives, not to be told what there is to ride and see and shop at. The old track did also point out what was there, but did it just to point out where you are at that point in the ride, what you're passing over. It never pointed out Stitch's Great Escape. The area that houses Stitch's Great Escape was always called the Tomorrowland Convention Center, and it was convenient at the time of the ExtraTERRORestrial Alien Encounter too. It added more to the imagination, of the possibility of strange new lifeforms showing off whatever they wanted to show off, such as X-S Tech touting their teleportation technology. That was always the point.
I don't expect to cling to anchors all my life. I understand I'm getting older. But there are some things one might establish for themselves as standard-bearers that they hope would remain standard-bearers. For me, it was the audio track on the Tomorrowland Transit Authority that contributed greatly to the experience. It allowed me to use my imagination to fill in the rest of what Tomorrowland could be. I cherished that the most. But I guess since I am 25, 7 years removed from 18, my childhood has stopped running on fumes and has basically stopped completely.
A lesser shock, though still surprising is learning that the Muvico Paradise 24 movie theater in Davie, Florida is now Cinemark Paradise 24, after the financially-foundering chain sold it and a few other theaters to the Cinemark chain. From video I've seen, it looks like they kept the Egyptian theming, not that they had any choice, and I definitely won't have any inkling of whether there's been any change in the service there beyond the cosmetic sort. I spent a few years going to Muvico Paradise 24 every Saturday to see a few movies and write reviews of them for the South Florida Sun-Sentinel's Teentime pages (found in the back of their weekend Showtime section every Friday). I have many fond memories of it, but this change doesn't shake me as much as the TTA change.
I think maybe I wouldn't be so stunned at the audio track change if those in Imagineering had written a track in the same style as the one that lasted for years. They only had to stay within Tomorrowland, point out the attractions, but do it in a way that you're not taken out of the experience. Also, they should have employed a better voice actor. This Disney Channel-type voice is the worst for the attraction.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j6EnR8fxcs4&feature=related (this is the new TTA spiel)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EWx1oonz4Ik (this is TTA with the new lighting which I wish had been installed years ago. The white lighting was nice, but I could have easily gotten used to this.)
The above link also has the old spiel.
As I said to my sister today, "It's not my Tomorrowland anymore." I should have suspected that when they tore down the Galaxy Theater, where I saw many shows from my Disney World-provided stroller. Back then we lived close enough to WDW that we went every weekend and sometimes during the week just for dinner. Some of the changes being made to the Magic Kingdom, such as a far more interactive Fantasyland (including Gaston's Tavern, the Beast's Castle for dining, activity monitors while in line for Dumbo, and the Little Mermaid ride), are beneficial, but I hope that even with the economy the way it is, some loving attention can be given to Tomorrowland. It needs more. It should have more for a generation as yet unknown that I hope will embrace Tomorrowland as I did, and I hope there are a few kids who do now. And I also hope those kids can at least ignore that inane spiel and just enjoy the experience of riding above that section of the park and into Space Mountain.
That day at the Magic Kingdom was the last day I rode the Tomorrowland Transit Authority in Tomorrowland. During my Grad Nite in 2002, I looked forlornly at the TTA, which was closed because they didn't want rowdy teenagers damaging anything. The same went for the Carousel of Progress, which was being used to put up photo backdrops for graduates (or future graduates; I only know that my class hadn't graduated yet) to have pictures taken and purchase them.
I loved the TTA. I loved the deep, almost robotic voice announcing what the vehicle was approaching ("NOW APPROACHING, SPACE MOUNTAIN," "NOW APPROACHING WALT DISNEY'S CAROUSEL OF PROGRESS."). I loved going past Mickey's Star Traders and as we approached Autopia from on high, hearing, "Hi there, Tomorrowland travelers, this is Mr. Johnson in Skyview Hovercraft One, bringing you the latest Tomorrowland traffic report. As usual, everything is perfect on Tomorrowland's Super Highway. Back to you in TTA Central." Every time we went to Walt Disney World, before that one day, I was always content with spending the day in Tomorrowland. I had Space Mountain, I had the Tomorrowland Transit Authority, and I had the Carousel of Progress. I didn't need anything else. My only regret is not having tried out the Timekeeper, which was closed and replaced with Monsters, Inc. Laugh Floor, installed and opened long after my family and I moved to Southern California.
I followed the Tomorrowland Transit Authority on YouTube. Once in a while I'll get bored with whatever work I'm doing and look it up on YouTube, watching onboard videos from 2004, 2005, 2006, 2007, sometimes going all the way back to the video from 1991 to see what it was like then. Recently, the Tomorrowland Transit Authority reopened after sufficient time for Space Mountain to undergo refurbishment that would require use of the separate, walled-off track they have for maintenance before you enter Space Mountain. Now when the vehicles go into Space Mountain, there's a lot that's behind walls, such as views of the rollercoaster as well as of the line to board. The TTA underwent a few changes too. Multi-colored lights were installed with red shining on one part of the track, green shining on another, and blue elsewhere. I could live with that. Watching videos post-reopening, that's an improvement.
I know that theme parks will change. Attractions will be taken out, new attractions will be put in to try to attract a bigger crowd. The ExtraTERRORestrial Alien Encounter was eventually taken out because it was deemed too scary (and, to me, it was, but it contributed much to the ambience of what Tomorrowland should feel like), and replaced with Stitch's Great Escape. Based on business, I understand that.
I believe childhood does indeed end at 18, but runs on fumes until at least a few years later. While you're getting used to a bigger, more complex world, you need anchors to keep you in a state of mind conducive to understanding whatever's going on in your life. For me, one anchor was the Tomorrowland Transit Authority, but more specifically, that voice track from the overhead speakers that put you into Tomorrowland. Every video I watched, that narration was always there. And now, it's gone.
It remained after the TTA reopened, but as I've read it, the narration was changed after park closing on October 1. Now it's got one of those hyperactive voices designed to attract the attention of kids who probably already have enough trouble paying attention for a few seconds at a time. It takes you completely out of Tomorrowland by pointing out the many attractions available in Tomorrowland which is completely useless because generally, by the time you've entered Tomorrowland, you know what attractions are there, or if you don't know yet, you probably will because the TTA is not likely to be the first attraction you go on. By the time you go on TTA, you want a break from the crowds, you want to recover after waiting in line for Space Mountain, if that. The idea of the TTA is to ride above Tomorrowland, to take in a different view, to consider different perspectives, not to be told what there is to ride and see and shop at. The old track did also point out what was there, but did it just to point out where you are at that point in the ride, what you're passing over. It never pointed out Stitch's Great Escape. The area that houses Stitch's Great Escape was always called the Tomorrowland Convention Center, and it was convenient at the time of the ExtraTERRORestrial Alien Encounter too. It added more to the imagination, of the possibility of strange new lifeforms showing off whatever they wanted to show off, such as X-S Tech touting their teleportation technology. That was always the point.
I don't expect to cling to anchors all my life. I understand I'm getting older. But there are some things one might establish for themselves as standard-bearers that they hope would remain standard-bearers. For me, it was the audio track on the Tomorrowland Transit Authority that contributed greatly to the experience. It allowed me to use my imagination to fill in the rest of what Tomorrowland could be. I cherished that the most. But I guess since I am 25, 7 years removed from 18, my childhood has stopped running on fumes and has basically stopped completely.
A lesser shock, though still surprising is learning that the Muvico Paradise 24 movie theater in Davie, Florida is now Cinemark Paradise 24, after the financially-foundering chain sold it and a few other theaters to the Cinemark chain. From video I've seen, it looks like they kept the Egyptian theming, not that they had any choice, and I definitely won't have any inkling of whether there's been any change in the service there beyond the cosmetic sort. I spent a few years going to Muvico Paradise 24 every Saturday to see a few movies and write reviews of them for the South Florida Sun-Sentinel's Teentime pages (found in the back of their weekend Showtime section every Friday). I have many fond memories of it, but this change doesn't shake me as much as the TTA change.
I think maybe I wouldn't be so stunned at the audio track change if those in Imagineering had written a track in the same style as the one that lasted for years. They only had to stay within Tomorrowland, point out the attractions, but do it in a way that you're not taken out of the experience. Also, they should have employed a better voice actor. This Disney Channel-type voice is the worst for the attraction.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j6EnR8fxcs4&feature=related (this is the new TTA spiel)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EWx1oonz4Ik (this is TTA with the new lighting which I wish had been installed years ago. The white lighting was nice, but I could have easily gotten used to this.)
The above link also has the old spiel.
As I said to my sister today, "It's not my Tomorrowland anymore." I should have suspected that when they tore down the Galaxy Theater, where I saw many shows from my Disney World-provided stroller. Back then we lived close enough to WDW that we went every weekend and sometimes during the week just for dinner. Some of the changes being made to the Magic Kingdom, such as a far more interactive Fantasyland (including Gaston's Tavern, the Beast's Castle for dining, activity monitors while in line for Dumbo, and the Little Mermaid ride), are beneficial, but I hope that even with the economy the way it is, some loving attention can be given to Tomorrowland. It needs more. It should have more for a generation as yet unknown that I hope will embrace Tomorrowland as I did, and I hope there are a few kids who do now. And I also hope those kids can at least ignore that inane spiel and just enjoy the experience of riding above that section of the park and into Space Mountain.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Resident Authors/Visiting Authors
Writers come to my house all the time. Granted, they're completely paralyzed up and down, glued between two covers and made up of hundreds of pages rather than flesh, bone, fingers, toes, arms, legs, and all else that makes up a human package. But they're here. Right now, Kazuo Ishiguro is in my room, perched atop a pile of issues of The New Yorker, touting "Nocturnes," five short stories he wrote, the second of which sounds a little similar to the first, but fortunately veers away from what the first was after. Craig Ferguson's on a shelf in the living room, with "American on Purpose." I know about his drug use and his first major role as Mr. Wick on "The Drew Carey Show," but I want to know more. I want him to be completely open and from what I've read elsewhere, he is. If that's the case, he'll make a fine and most welcome houseguest.
E.L. Doctorow is also here, with yet another story to tell in "Homer & Langley." He also has the distinction of being a resident author in my room, as I own a copy of "Ragtime." Most of the time, he's a guest here. I think the only writer who can truly be considered a resident is Charles Bukowski, in poetry, prose and fiction that could only be called fiction with names and some situations changed, but every word is mostly his life. He's set to drop by as a visitor for the first time in years with "Dangling in the Tournefortia," which I had read part of on Amazon.com, and thought about purchasing it, but was glad to find it available through the County of Los Angeles public library system. Bukowski is also residing inside one of my makeshift box bookshelves, many books behind others, and on the floor in front of my closet with "Portions of a Wine-Stained Notebook." I think I need to pull him into the light again. It's been too long since I've paged through his posthumous collection "The Night Torn Mad with Footsteps."
There's also Edmund G. Love, an appreciated resident, with "Subways Are for Sleeping," which I read while attending classes at College of the Canyons for about two years and it sustained me through both those years. I remember sitting in a booth next to a window at the back of the generally empty cafeteria, math homework open in front of me, having given up trying to make sense of any of it. I opened "Subways Are for Sleeping" and read stories of homeless people making their own kinds of homes in New York City through creative resourcefulness and resilience. A year or so ago, I kept the copy I knew I had checked out most often, from the Norwalk library branch (sent to me when I put it on hold), claimed I'd lost it while at a rest stop outside of Las Vegas, and paid $34, $29 as listed for the book, and a $5 processing fee. After the dozens of times I checked it out, I felt it truly belonged to me because during the times I had the copy from the Hawthorne branch checked out (it always depended on which branch picked up my request), the Norwalk copy always remained untouched. Nobody was interested in a basically obscure book from 1957. I felt it should have a home with me and it's here. I like to keep writers alive who may be considered unknown and therefore dead by everyone else. Alive to me at least.
I wonder about the book's origins. Where was it before it ended up at the Norwalk branch? Was the Norwalk branch open in 1957? I don't think that year matters so much because on the inside first page, there are date stamps, four of them, under "Return On or Before" and the first date is "JUL 7 1977." Maybe this copy, perhaps with a book jacket, entered the system in 1977 or maybe earlier. I wonder who it was with when I lived in Casselberry when I was little and then in South Florida when I was older. Back then, was someone as interested in this book as I am? Parallels like that always fascinate me.
I love the resident authors in my room and I enjoy the company of those visiting authors. They always have something to say, and they always give me something to think about, even if I don't like how they say what they say. There's never a shortage of varied voices here.
E.L. Doctorow is also here, with yet another story to tell in "Homer & Langley." He also has the distinction of being a resident author in my room, as I own a copy of "Ragtime." Most of the time, he's a guest here. I think the only writer who can truly be considered a resident is Charles Bukowski, in poetry, prose and fiction that could only be called fiction with names and some situations changed, but every word is mostly his life. He's set to drop by as a visitor for the first time in years with "Dangling in the Tournefortia," which I had read part of on Amazon.com, and thought about purchasing it, but was glad to find it available through the County of Los Angeles public library system. Bukowski is also residing inside one of my makeshift box bookshelves, many books behind others, and on the floor in front of my closet with "Portions of a Wine-Stained Notebook." I think I need to pull him into the light again. It's been too long since I've paged through his posthumous collection "The Night Torn Mad with Footsteps."
There's also Edmund G. Love, an appreciated resident, with "Subways Are for Sleeping," which I read while attending classes at College of the Canyons for about two years and it sustained me through both those years. I remember sitting in a booth next to a window at the back of the generally empty cafeteria, math homework open in front of me, having given up trying to make sense of any of it. I opened "Subways Are for Sleeping" and read stories of homeless people making their own kinds of homes in New York City through creative resourcefulness and resilience. A year or so ago, I kept the copy I knew I had checked out most often, from the Norwalk library branch (sent to me when I put it on hold), claimed I'd lost it while at a rest stop outside of Las Vegas, and paid $34, $29 as listed for the book, and a $5 processing fee. After the dozens of times I checked it out, I felt it truly belonged to me because during the times I had the copy from the Hawthorne branch checked out (it always depended on which branch picked up my request), the Norwalk copy always remained untouched. Nobody was interested in a basically obscure book from 1957. I felt it should have a home with me and it's here. I like to keep writers alive who may be considered unknown and therefore dead by everyone else. Alive to me at least.
I wonder about the book's origins. Where was it before it ended up at the Norwalk branch? Was the Norwalk branch open in 1957? I don't think that year matters so much because on the inside first page, there are date stamps, four of them, under "Return On or Before" and the first date is "JUL 7 1977." Maybe this copy, perhaps with a book jacket, entered the system in 1977 or maybe earlier. I wonder who it was with when I lived in Casselberry when I was little and then in South Florida when I was older. Back then, was someone as interested in this book as I am? Parallels like that always fascinate me.
I love the resident authors in my room and I enjoy the company of those visiting authors. They always have something to say, and they always give me something to think about, even if I don't like how they say what they say. There's never a shortage of varied voices here.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Where I Want to Be
Before I begin, I must say that I just pried off the plastic lid from a container of leftover gemelli pasta (a strand of pasta wrapped around itself) with mushroom alfredo sauce, sniffed it, and I now have a strong craving for my dad's tuna noodle casserole, with actual noodles, not crunchy Chinese ones.
Now, to the main subject: I am convinced absolutely of where I want to be in my life. I may have written about my desire for a career in aviation before, namely at an airport, but it hasn't felt like an overwhelming desire. I think it's because I've been so involved with this book project that I haven't been able to think fully about that forthcoming part of my life. For the past few weeks, I've pushed myself away from that book and have been able to relax. I continued work on my share of that book a few hours ago, by sending out a few e-mails pertinent to my research. Only this time, I didn't feel the same enormous pressure. I opened a Word file containing research on silent film comedian Mabel Normand and for the first time felt like I was going to get through this. It's partly because of the break I took from working day after day on this, but it's also because the manuscript deadline was extended to April, because Phil Hall, who came up with the idea for this book, has updated editions of his two previous books being published in January 2011, and he wants this book to come out at the same time.
During my desperately needed time off, the only aspect of aviation I returned to was a book-length profile of JFK airport by James Kaplan called "The Airport." I checked that book out a few months before I began this project, still uncertain of what kind of career I wanted in commercial aviation, but I figured that the book would be able to help me out, with the interviews it has with various employees in different positions. Nothing pops out yet, but I still have to read the second half of it. Last Friday night, however, I realized I was going into the right field.
Dad picked up my sister and I from Edwards Valencia 12, where we had seen the Toy Story 3D double feature. Before we went home, he had to stop at Barnes & Noble to pick up a calendar my mom wanted for the kitchen next year, and had clicked on the option on the Barnes & Noble website to pick it up at our local B&N. We went there and I wanted to see if the latest issue of The New Yorker was there, the one I'd received as the first in my subscription. Nothing there, but suddenly, I felt the urgent need to see if there were any aviation-related magazines on the shelves. The fifth set of shelves to the left revealed that there were, including one I think I hadn't seen since 1998, about a month after I attended a weeklong aviation summer camp at Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University in Daytona Beach, Florida, a 30-minute flight to Orlando from Fort Lauderdale International, and then an arranged drive to Daytona Beach with a service that would take me to the campus. I loved the camaraderie among all seven of us who were there, how we immediately formed a tight bond because of our mutual passion for aviation, private and commercial. One of the attendees was already working on becoming an airline pilot and while I wasn't certain what the rest were planning to do in aviation, I knew at the time that I had first wanted to be an airline pilot, then wanted to be a mechanic, and then a mechanic for Air Force One. But I now have no desire to join the Air Force, so that's out. I do remember that when I was 11, I spent an inordinate amount of time on the computer at home in Coral Springs, looking at pictures of crash sites, mangled wreckage, and reading up a lot on the Federal Aviation Administration and the National Transportation Safety Board, thinking about perhaps seeking a job with one of those organizations. I became even more interested after the crash of ValuJet flight 592 in the Everglades in 1996, and then the 1997 crash of a Fine Air DC-8 cargo plane in Miami on a field next to the Miami City Rail Yard, right after takeoff. The cause was insecure cargo sliding to the tail portion of the plane, after which the plane stalled and crashed. I remember the huge number of news reports and I watched all I could possibly find.
The magazine I hadn't seen since 1998 was Airways, and I immediately flashed back to the particular issue that I spent hours looking at. It was from September, and it had an article on the perfect airline meal, which I read over and over, but I also looked at the many photos of airliners and other airplanes, and drooled over the advertisements for model airplanes and inflight cockpit videos. I daydreamed about what I'd buy and considered if I could convince my parents to buy me that 5-hour double VHS tape set about the Concorde, with two flights featured on it. That set is now on DVD from ITVV (Intelligent Television and Video) and I'm just waiting for them to put it into the NTSC format, which is currently out of stock on their website.
I'll put it this way: Do you perhaps remember spending hours looking at Playboy when you were sure your parents weren't around? I was the same way with that issue of Airways, with exactly the same focused interest. The issue of Airways I picked up at Barnes & Noble has a Northwest Airlines Boeing 757 taking off from a runway at McCarran International Airport, seemingly in front of the Encore. The '50s style font on the front says "Las Vegas Airport." I can't take it as a sign yet, even with my family and I still planning to move there, because I haven't yet begun the online courses from Embry-Riddle. It's going to take some time to get my bachelor's degree in professional aeronautics. But it's a sign of hope for me. I've chosen a career path where people always have to go somewhere, just like my sister wants to be a chef, and people always have to eat.
Anyway, it happened again, just like back in 1998. I flipped through the magazine, after staring at the cover for a full 5 minutes. You read it right. I was disappointed to find that in their "News from the Airways" section, amidst pictures of various aircraft, there were no Boeing 747s, which is my favorite aircraft. But the rest, what heaven! An article on the success of an African airline, one on Copa Airlines in South America, the history of Braniff's 'El Dorado Super Jet' 707s, and the article on McCarran, the reason I eventually paid over $6 for the issue.
When I write movie reviews, there's always a nagging feeling of insecurity: Am I saying exactly what I want to say or am I overly concerned with sounding somewhat witty? Have I described exactly what I want to about the film, or do I--god forbid--have to rewrite that paragraph? (I'm begrudgingly getting used to rewriting paragraphs and pages.) I do enjoy writing movie reviews, but maybe not as much now. When I originally thought that this might be a viable career (long before newspapers began crashing, and after I initially decided against a career in aviation because of the complicated math that I thought might be involved (it might still be, but I've never liked math beyond the four basic functions)), I didn't want to be Ebert. I wanted to be me fully; I wanted to attend screenings and spend my mornings going to movies. However, it's become less fun. I don't care about the Oscars and I hate being sucked into that part of the year through my association with the Online Film Critics Society through those awards. Last year, I watched as many films as I could so I could be relatively informed when it came to putting forth my nominations and then voting for the winners of the OFCS awards. I spent all that time and then what? Nothing. I just spent a major chunk of hours watching movies (which isn't bad. I still love it, but on my own terms), sent in my ballot, and that was it. No tangible benefit to me. It's the same thing with watching the Oscars. Nearly four hours and then what? You've spent four hours watching glamorous people trying to be even more glamorous, accepting awards, laughing for a few minutes at the host's opening monologue, and you haven't gotten anything out of it afterward. All the stars are off to their after-parties and you're sitting at home blankly on your ratty couch.
When I looked through this issue of Airways, when I got home and went to the website, looking through the past issues available for purchase, I didn't feel any of that. I didn't feel any doubts, I didn't feel any insecurities; I felt totally pure; I felt like a full person. On the shopping section of Airways' website, I found an issue from February with the main article being about the 40th anniversary of the Boeing 747. I looked further back, remembering when the Concorde had crashed in France and the subsequent retirement of all the Concordes, and I found an issue from February 2004 with the headline, "Concorde: End of an Era." Perhaps a cliche when used in other circumstances, but definitely not here. It truly was. I bought both issues without wondering if I really needed to. There was the Boeing 747, one of my favorite aircraft, and the Concorde, my other favorite aircraft. $4.50 for those issues plus shipping? No problem. Shipping came out to be $3.26 by First Class Mail, but I went for it. Then I went looking for that one issue from 1998 that gave me so many hours of pleasure and fantasy. I found it. September 1998, with the front of a Japan Airlines jet on the cover. $7.50 plus $3.26 shipping and it would come to over $10. Did I really want to do that? I did.
Then I got an e-mail from someone at the magazine in charge of shopping operations on the website who informed me that the shipping charge had been lowered to $2 because the United States Postal Service doesn't recognize custom rates, or something like that. In this case, they charge $2 shipping for archival issues instead of $3.26. What a nice way to be reintroduced to Airways beyond the issue I got from Barnes & Noble!
Movies and aviation have always been parallel passions. When I was 7, I copied word-for-word a review of the animated film Bebe's Kids (1992) from the Orlando Sentinel onto a sheet of posterboard. That must have tripped something. When I was a toddler, my parents always took me to Orlando International Airport to watch the planes take off and land and I was told that even back then, I could identify what kind of plane it was. I know now from that memory, from the great fun I had at that weeklong summer camp, from my reaction then and now to Airways Magazine that I'm home again. I want to be near commercial airliners. I want to stand in awe for hours (if possible) in front of a Boeing 747. I want to admire and examine closely all the parts that, to me, came together to create one of humanity's greatest achievements: The ability to fly.
I still have the binder from that summer camp with all the contact information of my fellow campmates. I'm going to see what they're up to. Surely they're on Facebook by now, one or two or three of them at least, and maybe they can offer me some career advice. I'm absolutely sure that Phillip has become an airline pilot by now. A few months after that camp ended, he went back to Embry-Riddle as a student.
I'm still going to write. I still want to try writing plays, I'm sure I've got material for essays after these movie-driven essays are done for the book, and maybe I'll attempt a novel. However, I'm not looking to write the Greatest American Novel since I don't have any ideas yet. And I'd be content with just writing a novel. Fortunately, with living in Las Vegas, I believe that if you can't find anything to write about there, you should not be a writer. There are so many stories to be found there every single day that you could spent months sifting through what you've seen in one day. I remember the friendly Honduran man who sat in our row when we went to see Mamma Mia! at Mandalay Bay. While we were waiting in line for the restroom during the intermission, he told me and my father all that he and the people with him were planning to see. It was clear that soon seeing Barry Manilow, Chicago, and a few other acts, he had saved for this trip for a long time. And the pride in his voice when he talked about staying at the Venetian, it truly sounded like he was loving every minute. I never asked what he did in Honduras, but I know it probably isn't as wonderful as Las Vegas is in those moments. I didn't ask him for an e-mail address with which to keep in touch and I'll likely never see him again, but I'll always remember him. And I'll always remember the guitarist whose chords I heard after we'd parked back at the Best Value Inn on the last night of our most recent trip to Las Vegas. I heard him and wanted so badly to go up to the second floor, sit with him a while and ask what he was thinking about while he looked out at Hooters across from us, the Luxor pyramid, a bit of the Tropicana, the MGM Grand and, if you leaned over far enough, a piece of the facade of New York, New York. I think he probably saw more because he was higher up. But I also wanted to know where he was from and where else he played that guitar. There will always be enough stories to inspire me, and, working at an airport, that doubles the chances.
This may be surprising, but the most valuable thing I have in my room is not any of my DVDs. Not Mary Poppins, not The Remains of the Day, not The Jungle Book, not The Swimmer, not 84 Charing Cross Road, not The Fabulous Baker Boys, not My Blueberry Nights (if you've never clicked on my profile, these are my seven favorite films, as ranked). I treasure my paperback copy of "The Remains of the Day" by Kazuo Ishiguro; I love the books I have about the Boeing 747 and the Concorde, as well as a large-sized book documenting all of James Bond's gadgets and cars in the movies (up to The World is Not Enough. I've not yet bought the latest edition which includes Quantum of Solace). I love the copy I have of Roger Ebert's Movie Yearbook 2003 which has my question to him about a line I didn't understand in the David Mamet film Heist.
I don't remember if it was during summer camp or after, by mail (I'll ask him if I find him), but Phillip gave me an actual manual for a United Airlines Boeing 747-100. It's all together in an official United Airlines binder, and includes a fold-out map of the cockpit. I love this far more than anything else I have in my room. And maybe that's the ultimate sign that I'm finally going to where I should be in my life.
Now, to the main subject: I am convinced absolutely of where I want to be in my life. I may have written about my desire for a career in aviation before, namely at an airport, but it hasn't felt like an overwhelming desire. I think it's because I've been so involved with this book project that I haven't been able to think fully about that forthcoming part of my life. For the past few weeks, I've pushed myself away from that book and have been able to relax. I continued work on my share of that book a few hours ago, by sending out a few e-mails pertinent to my research. Only this time, I didn't feel the same enormous pressure. I opened a Word file containing research on silent film comedian Mabel Normand and for the first time felt like I was going to get through this. It's partly because of the break I took from working day after day on this, but it's also because the manuscript deadline was extended to April, because Phil Hall, who came up with the idea for this book, has updated editions of his two previous books being published in January 2011, and he wants this book to come out at the same time.
During my desperately needed time off, the only aspect of aviation I returned to was a book-length profile of JFK airport by James Kaplan called "The Airport." I checked that book out a few months before I began this project, still uncertain of what kind of career I wanted in commercial aviation, but I figured that the book would be able to help me out, with the interviews it has with various employees in different positions. Nothing pops out yet, but I still have to read the second half of it. Last Friday night, however, I realized I was going into the right field.
Dad picked up my sister and I from Edwards Valencia 12, where we had seen the Toy Story 3D double feature. Before we went home, he had to stop at Barnes & Noble to pick up a calendar my mom wanted for the kitchen next year, and had clicked on the option on the Barnes & Noble website to pick it up at our local B&N. We went there and I wanted to see if the latest issue of The New Yorker was there, the one I'd received as the first in my subscription. Nothing there, but suddenly, I felt the urgent need to see if there were any aviation-related magazines on the shelves. The fifth set of shelves to the left revealed that there were, including one I think I hadn't seen since 1998, about a month after I attended a weeklong aviation summer camp at Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University in Daytona Beach, Florida, a 30-minute flight to Orlando from Fort Lauderdale International, and then an arranged drive to Daytona Beach with a service that would take me to the campus. I loved the camaraderie among all seven of us who were there, how we immediately formed a tight bond because of our mutual passion for aviation, private and commercial. One of the attendees was already working on becoming an airline pilot and while I wasn't certain what the rest were planning to do in aviation, I knew at the time that I had first wanted to be an airline pilot, then wanted to be a mechanic, and then a mechanic for Air Force One. But I now have no desire to join the Air Force, so that's out. I do remember that when I was 11, I spent an inordinate amount of time on the computer at home in Coral Springs, looking at pictures of crash sites, mangled wreckage, and reading up a lot on the Federal Aviation Administration and the National Transportation Safety Board, thinking about perhaps seeking a job with one of those organizations. I became even more interested after the crash of ValuJet flight 592 in the Everglades in 1996, and then the 1997 crash of a Fine Air DC-8 cargo plane in Miami on a field next to the Miami City Rail Yard, right after takeoff. The cause was insecure cargo sliding to the tail portion of the plane, after which the plane stalled and crashed. I remember the huge number of news reports and I watched all I could possibly find.
The magazine I hadn't seen since 1998 was Airways, and I immediately flashed back to the particular issue that I spent hours looking at. It was from September, and it had an article on the perfect airline meal, which I read over and over, but I also looked at the many photos of airliners and other airplanes, and drooled over the advertisements for model airplanes and inflight cockpit videos. I daydreamed about what I'd buy and considered if I could convince my parents to buy me that 5-hour double VHS tape set about the Concorde, with two flights featured on it. That set is now on DVD from ITVV (Intelligent Television and Video) and I'm just waiting for them to put it into the NTSC format, which is currently out of stock on their website.
I'll put it this way: Do you perhaps remember spending hours looking at Playboy when you were sure your parents weren't around? I was the same way with that issue of Airways, with exactly the same focused interest. The issue of Airways I picked up at Barnes & Noble has a Northwest Airlines Boeing 757 taking off from a runway at McCarran International Airport, seemingly in front of the Encore. The '50s style font on the front says "Las Vegas Airport." I can't take it as a sign yet, even with my family and I still planning to move there, because I haven't yet begun the online courses from Embry-Riddle. It's going to take some time to get my bachelor's degree in professional aeronautics. But it's a sign of hope for me. I've chosen a career path where people always have to go somewhere, just like my sister wants to be a chef, and people always have to eat.
Anyway, it happened again, just like back in 1998. I flipped through the magazine, after staring at the cover for a full 5 minutes. You read it right. I was disappointed to find that in their "News from the Airways" section, amidst pictures of various aircraft, there were no Boeing 747s, which is my favorite aircraft. But the rest, what heaven! An article on the success of an African airline, one on Copa Airlines in South America, the history of Braniff's 'El Dorado Super Jet' 707s, and the article on McCarran, the reason I eventually paid over $6 for the issue.
When I write movie reviews, there's always a nagging feeling of insecurity: Am I saying exactly what I want to say or am I overly concerned with sounding somewhat witty? Have I described exactly what I want to about the film, or do I--god forbid--have to rewrite that paragraph? (I'm begrudgingly getting used to rewriting paragraphs and pages.) I do enjoy writing movie reviews, but maybe not as much now. When I originally thought that this might be a viable career (long before newspapers began crashing, and after I initially decided against a career in aviation because of the complicated math that I thought might be involved (it might still be, but I've never liked math beyond the four basic functions)), I didn't want to be Ebert. I wanted to be me fully; I wanted to attend screenings and spend my mornings going to movies. However, it's become less fun. I don't care about the Oscars and I hate being sucked into that part of the year through my association with the Online Film Critics Society through those awards. Last year, I watched as many films as I could so I could be relatively informed when it came to putting forth my nominations and then voting for the winners of the OFCS awards. I spent all that time and then what? Nothing. I just spent a major chunk of hours watching movies (which isn't bad. I still love it, but on my own terms), sent in my ballot, and that was it. No tangible benefit to me. It's the same thing with watching the Oscars. Nearly four hours and then what? You've spent four hours watching glamorous people trying to be even more glamorous, accepting awards, laughing for a few minutes at the host's opening monologue, and you haven't gotten anything out of it afterward. All the stars are off to their after-parties and you're sitting at home blankly on your ratty couch.
When I looked through this issue of Airways, when I got home and went to the website, looking through the past issues available for purchase, I didn't feel any of that. I didn't feel any doubts, I didn't feel any insecurities; I felt totally pure; I felt like a full person. On the shopping section of Airways' website, I found an issue from February with the main article being about the 40th anniversary of the Boeing 747. I looked further back, remembering when the Concorde had crashed in France and the subsequent retirement of all the Concordes, and I found an issue from February 2004 with the headline, "Concorde: End of an Era." Perhaps a cliche when used in other circumstances, but definitely not here. It truly was. I bought both issues without wondering if I really needed to. There was the Boeing 747, one of my favorite aircraft, and the Concorde, my other favorite aircraft. $4.50 for those issues plus shipping? No problem. Shipping came out to be $3.26 by First Class Mail, but I went for it. Then I went looking for that one issue from 1998 that gave me so many hours of pleasure and fantasy. I found it. September 1998, with the front of a Japan Airlines jet on the cover. $7.50 plus $3.26 shipping and it would come to over $10. Did I really want to do that? I did.
Then I got an e-mail from someone at the magazine in charge of shopping operations on the website who informed me that the shipping charge had been lowered to $2 because the United States Postal Service doesn't recognize custom rates, or something like that. In this case, they charge $2 shipping for archival issues instead of $3.26. What a nice way to be reintroduced to Airways beyond the issue I got from Barnes & Noble!
Movies and aviation have always been parallel passions. When I was 7, I copied word-for-word a review of the animated film Bebe's Kids (1992) from the Orlando Sentinel onto a sheet of posterboard. That must have tripped something. When I was a toddler, my parents always took me to Orlando International Airport to watch the planes take off and land and I was told that even back then, I could identify what kind of plane it was. I know now from that memory, from the great fun I had at that weeklong summer camp, from my reaction then and now to Airways Magazine that I'm home again. I want to be near commercial airliners. I want to stand in awe for hours (if possible) in front of a Boeing 747. I want to admire and examine closely all the parts that, to me, came together to create one of humanity's greatest achievements: The ability to fly.
I still have the binder from that summer camp with all the contact information of my fellow campmates. I'm going to see what they're up to. Surely they're on Facebook by now, one or two or three of them at least, and maybe they can offer me some career advice. I'm absolutely sure that Phillip has become an airline pilot by now. A few months after that camp ended, he went back to Embry-Riddle as a student.
I'm still going to write. I still want to try writing plays, I'm sure I've got material for essays after these movie-driven essays are done for the book, and maybe I'll attempt a novel. However, I'm not looking to write the Greatest American Novel since I don't have any ideas yet. And I'd be content with just writing a novel. Fortunately, with living in Las Vegas, I believe that if you can't find anything to write about there, you should not be a writer. There are so many stories to be found there every single day that you could spent months sifting through what you've seen in one day. I remember the friendly Honduran man who sat in our row when we went to see Mamma Mia! at Mandalay Bay. While we were waiting in line for the restroom during the intermission, he told me and my father all that he and the people with him were planning to see. It was clear that soon seeing Barry Manilow, Chicago, and a few other acts, he had saved for this trip for a long time. And the pride in his voice when he talked about staying at the Venetian, it truly sounded like he was loving every minute. I never asked what he did in Honduras, but I know it probably isn't as wonderful as Las Vegas is in those moments. I didn't ask him for an e-mail address with which to keep in touch and I'll likely never see him again, but I'll always remember him. And I'll always remember the guitarist whose chords I heard after we'd parked back at the Best Value Inn on the last night of our most recent trip to Las Vegas. I heard him and wanted so badly to go up to the second floor, sit with him a while and ask what he was thinking about while he looked out at Hooters across from us, the Luxor pyramid, a bit of the Tropicana, the MGM Grand and, if you leaned over far enough, a piece of the facade of New York, New York. I think he probably saw more because he was higher up. But I also wanted to know where he was from and where else he played that guitar. There will always be enough stories to inspire me, and, working at an airport, that doubles the chances.
This may be surprising, but the most valuable thing I have in my room is not any of my DVDs. Not Mary Poppins, not The Remains of the Day, not The Jungle Book, not The Swimmer, not 84 Charing Cross Road, not The Fabulous Baker Boys, not My Blueberry Nights (if you've never clicked on my profile, these are my seven favorite films, as ranked). I treasure my paperback copy of "The Remains of the Day" by Kazuo Ishiguro; I love the books I have about the Boeing 747 and the Concorde, as well as a large-sized book documenting all of James Bond's gadgets and cars in the movies (up to The World is Not Enough. I've not yet bought the latest edition which includes Quantum of Solace). I love the copy I have of Roger Ebert's Movie Yearbook 2003 which has my question to him about a line I didn't understand in the David Mamet film Heist.
I don't remember if it was during summer camp or after, by mail (I'll ask him if I find him), but Phillip gave me an actual manual for a United Airlines Boeing 747-100. It's all together in an official United Airlines binder, and includes a fold-out map of the cockpit. I love this far more than anything else I have in my room. And maybe that's the ultimate sign that I'm finally going to where I should be in my life.
Monday, October 5, 2009
I Want to Curl Up into a Memory
Every time my parents fight, I think back to all the times they've previously done so, and at times, it's a blur. There are specific jagged-glass moments I remember, explosive verbal sparring and loud voices that I was sure would not end well. But in these latest fights, at the end of last week and last Sunday morning, I've thought more about a moment in 2005, when my mom, my sister Meridith and I went to the Paseo Colorado shopping center in Pasadena while my dad went to some meeting related to his work, though how it related has long faded from my memory. We went to Gelson's, which there at least was a relatively tiny, yet significantly-priced supermarket, to get some things for lunch (The Gelson's in Encino is an equal shock in price-checking, but with more to offer, though I suspect with the area it's in, those who shop there don't worry about the prices). On the way there by foot, Mom told Meridith and I that she and Dad were done fighting. Days before, there had been yet another verbal battle that made our collective futures unknown. There are words and considerations related to those fights that I don't want to think about right now because of the near-silence of the house in this night, but they always cause great stress, even when doing one's damndest to ignore them.
I don't really remember the severity of that fight, but I do remember a cooling flood of relief when she told us that, so it must have been one of their worst. I think I had more faith in that statement than most other times they had stopped fighting, because I thought it would last. I hoped it would last. Naturally, it didn't last. There have been what must by now be hundreds of fights ever since we moved to Southern California in near-to-late August 2003. Some last only a few minutes; some, as you've learned, last for a few days. When Mom spoke those golden words, I wondered what had caused it to cease. I've always thought there might be some invisible, frayed string still holding them together, but then there are some details not suitable for this entry that make me wonder just how in the hell they've managed to stay together all these years. I've sometimes thought divine intervention caused them to stop, but God would have needed to pay attention all the time to make that happen. I always go back to the invisible string.
I know the fight will continue later today. Whether early in the morning, preventing me from falling asleep until Dad leaves for work, or later in the afternoon when he gets home, I'm not sure yet. Dad never seems to want to make an effort anymore to improve relations, not that he really tried before. Over the years, he's been downright vindictive, nasty, uncaring, you name it. But as before, I don't want to get into those parts right now. Rather, to push out of my mind whatever the possibilities might be today, I want to curl up into a memory. I want to go back to March 21st, my birthday, and one place in particular: The Buena Park Mall, formally called Buena Park Downtown.
We'd come from Downtown Disney, where we spent the day, and Mom asked me if I wanted to stop at the mall. Buena Park, adjacent to Anaheim and near Disneyland, is nice to visit, but if you lived there, you'd notice how depressed it looks. That depression actually gives it an advantage. It directly offers you whatever you might want without ostentation or fanfare, which was the case in this mall. Walking downstairs, you'll find one large store devoted to work uniforms for nurses, for chefs, you name it, they have it. Or at least they had it when I was there. There was a major clothing chain there called Steve & Barry's, which went out of business after it was revealed that they hadn't been paying their vendors, but they had incredible t-shirts. I lost count on how many "M*A*S*H" shirts I bought from there.
I quickly knew the reason I wanted to go to the mall, which was part curiosity about what was there now, but also because we passed by a storefront currently occupied by a liquidation company selling off books from a failed small chain. Huge discounts. I needed to go in. And when I went in, I froze. This was a long-sized store, with tables and tables of books piled on top, the price stickers firmly on the covers. As I discovered after scouring the entire store, not all the books seemed worthwhile. But when I walked in, I was ready to put a bed inside, my 46-inch widescreen TV, and continual transportation service to Disneyland. I felt such joy at seeing all those books that I didn't bother walking the rest of the mall, as my parents and sister did, preferring to look at each stack and see what I might want. Books for $3 and under. There had to be something there and there was, including a book of Spalding Gray's last monologue along with reminiscences by friends and fellow great writers, such as Eric Bogosian. I felt a small pang of sadness, knowing that these books would not be read more widely, but hey, I was there, and my brain was all that mattered. I would read them and that was good enough for me.
I loved being left alone in this makeshift bookstore. The only other person there was the girl at the register, reading something. Some other people walked in, two weren't impressed and walked out. I loved not being asked if I needed help, or not being able to immediately find what I wanted. I didn't know what I wanted. I would only know if I saw it. I considered a few literary anthologies, but there were many years of books for one particular title and chances are I'd just read them and possibly not get anything out of them. They were inexpensive, but my room was already filled with a lot of books, 80% not read. I wanted to give those unread ones a chance.
At one point, I saw "Here at the New Yorker" by Brendan Gill and my hands shot out reflexively and grabbed it. I love "The New Yorker" and had then wanted to read everything about the history of The New Yorker. I believed that one might have been up to the task of poring over part of the magazine's history through the experience of that writer working there. Still haven't read it, but I'll get there.
I spent what must have been at least an hour and a half there, to where we almost didn't get to Po Folks, a Southern style restaurant I grew up on in Florida. I wanted to go there for the country fried steak, red beans and rice, macaroni and cheese, the biscuits, and peach cobbler. Especially the peach cobbler, because we once got there near closing time and by the time we finished, they really wanted to be closed and we had to take home the peach cobbler, which is not advisable. It belongs with vanilla ice cream. Their vanilla ice cream. Not Breyer's. Not Ben & Jerry's. I'm sure it's not their own vanilla ice cream, but it blends well with the peaches.
To me, Buena Park is one of the most honest locales in Southern California. What you see there is exactly what you get. The people you meet there don't take on any airs. They are who they are. It's not exactly a matter of pride, considering the state of many of the neighborhoods in the area. I'm sure some live that way because it's all they have, only themselves, only their personalities, only their honesty. You work what you have. Buena Park Downtown feels exactly the same way, despite being owned by the same company that owns the Paseo Colorado. I prefer honesty over any other trait because you know where you stand right away. There's too little time to be had on earth to be any other way. The only time Disneyland ever achieves this state (not that it should be realistic, because it's Disneyland after all) is at night, when the trams take guests to the parking garage and parking lots. They're tired, their feet hurt, it's time to go home. It's been a swell time, but there isn't anything more. If you're ever on one of those trams, take in the gasoline smell emanating a little bit from the tram when it gets going and look around. Suddenly, this part of the Disneyland property feels exactly like Buena Park. It's the only time they firmly connect.
It's 48 degrees outside, and I'm still thinking about that temporary bookstore. All those wordy possibilities, all that excitement I relish every time I open a book. I doubt it's still there, but at least it gave me that immense pleasure when I was there. That's what I love.
I don't really remember the severity of that fight, but I do remember a cooling flood of relief when she told us that, so it must have been one of their worst. I think I had more faith in that statement than most other times they had stopped fighting, because I thought it would last. I hoped it would last. Naturally, it didn't last. There have been what must by now be hundreds of fights ever since we moved to Southern California in near-to-late August 2003. Some last only a few minutes; some, as you've learned, last for a few days. When Mom spoke those golden words, I wondered what had caused it to cease. I've always thought there might be some invisible, frayed string still holding them together, but then there are some details not suitable for this entry that make me wonder just how in the hell they've managed to stay together all these years. I've sometimes thought divine intervention caused them to stop, but God would have needed to pay attention all the time to make that happen. I always go back to the invisible string.
I know the fight will continue later today. Whether early in the morning, preventing me from falling asleep until Dad leaves for work, or later in the afternoon when he gets home, I'm not sure yet. Dad never seems to want to make an effort anymore to improve relations, not that he really tried before. Over the years, he's been downright vindictive, nasty, uncaring, you name it. But as before, I don't want to get into those parts right now. Rather, to push out of my mind whatever the possibilities might be today, I want to curl up into a memory. I want to go back to March 21st, my birthday, and one place in particular: The Buena Park Mall, formally called Buena Park Downtown.
We'd come from Downtown Disney, where we spent the day, and Mom asked me if I wanted to stop at the mall. Buena Park, adjacent to Anaheim and near Disneyland, is nice to visit, but if you lived there, you'd notice how depressed it looks. That depression actually gives it an advantage. It directly offers you whatever you might want without ostentation or fanfare, which was the case in this mall. Walking downstairs, you'll find one large store devoted to work uniforms for nurses, for chefs, you name it, they have it. Or at least they had it when I was there. There was a major clothing chain there called Steve & Barry's, which went out of business after it was revealed that they hadn't been paying their vendors, but they had incredible t-shirts. I lost count on how many "M*A*S*H" shirts I bought from there.
I quickly knew the reason I wanted to go to the mall, which was part curiosity about what was there now, but also because we passed by a storefront currently occupied by a liquidation company selling off books from a failed small chain. Huge discounts. I needed to go in. And when I went in, I froze. This was a long-sized store, with tables and tables of books piled on top, the price stickers firmly on the covers. As I discovered after scouring the entire store, not all the books seemed worthwhile. But when I walked in, I was ready to put a bed inside, my 46-inch widescreen TV, and continual transportation service to Disneyland. I felt such joy at seeing all those books that I didn't bother walking the rest of the mall, as my parents and sister did, preferring to look at each stack and see what I might want. Books for $3 and under. There had to be something there and there was, including a book of Spalding Gray's last monologue along with reminiscences by friends and fellow great writers, such as Eric Bogosian. I felt a small pang of sadness, knowing that these books would not be read more widely, but hey, I was there, and my brain was all that mattered. I would read them and that was good enough for me.
I loved being left alone in this makeshift bookstore. The only other person there was the girl at the register, reading something. Some other people walked in, two weren't impressed and walked out. I loved not being asked if I needed help, or not being able to immediately find what I wanted. I didn't know what I wanted. I would only know if I saw it. I considered a few literary anthologies, but there were many years of books for one particular title and chances are I'd just read them and possibly not get anything out of them. They were inexpensive, but my room was already filled with a lot of books, 80% not read. I wanted to give those unread ones a chance.
At one point, I saw "Here at the New Yorker" by Brendan Gill and my hands shot out reflexively and grabbed it. I love "The New Yorker" and had then wanted to read everything about the history of The New Yorker. I believed that one might have been up to the task of poring over part of the magazine's history through the experience of that writer working there. Still haven't read it, but I'll get there.
I spent what must have been at least an hour and a half there, to where we almost didn't get to Po Folks, a Southern style restaurant I grew up on in Florida. I wanted to go there for the country fried steak, red beans and rice, macaroni and cheese, the biscuits, and peach cobbler. Especially the peach cobbler, because we once got there near closing time and by the time we finished, they really wanted to be closed and we had to take home the peach cobbler, which is not advisable. It belongs with vanilla ice cream. Their vanilla ice cream. Not Breyer's. Not Ben & Jerry's. I'm sure it's not their own vanilla ice cream, but it blends well with the peaches.
To me, Buena Park is one of the most honest locales in Southern California. What you see there is exactly what you get. The people you meet there don't take on any airs. They are who they are. It's not exactly a matter of pride, considering the state of many of the neighborhoods in the area. I'm sure some live that way because it's all they have, only themselves, only their personalities, only their honesty. You work what you have. Buena Park Downtown feels exactly the same way, despite being owned by the same company that owns the Paseo Colorado. I prefer honesty over any other trait because you know where you stand right away. There's too little time to be had on earth to be any other way. The only time Disneyland ever achieves this state (not that it should be realistic, because it's Disneyland after all) is at night, when the trams take guests to the parking garage and parking lots. They're tired, their feet hurt, it's time to go home. It's been a swell time, but there isn't anything more. If you're ever on one of those trams, take in the gasoline smell emanating a little bit from the tram when it gets going and look around. Suddenly, this part of the Disneyland property feels exactly like Buena Park. It's the only time they firmly connect.
It's 48 degrees outside, and I'm still thinking about that temporary bookstore. All those wordy possibilities, all that excitement I relish every time I open a book. I doubt it's still there, but at least it gave me that immense pleasure when I was there. That's what I love.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
My Method for Reading "The New Yorker"
(This entry is in honor of my first issue of "The New Yorker" arriving in the mail yesterday)
It begins with a blue Pentel RSVP ballpoint click pen, ordered from officedepot.com because the stores in my area, and stores near my area, don't carry it. I always order a good-sized supply to last me six months. The pen is for circling book advertisements in the magazine that I want to look up on Amazon and possibly put on hold at my local library. It's also good for synopses of plays in the "Goings On About Town" section, to see if they're in print through Samuel French or another publisher of plays. If those also can be had through my local library, lucky me.
Depending on the week, the cover of the New Yorker may or may not demand more of my time than usual. This week, the Sept. 28 issue bears a cover of obsolete vehicles, as well as a chariot and a covered wagon creeping toward a parking garage that says "Museum Parking." For Bruce McCall's meticulous artwork, I look closer. I see the registration numbers on the tail of a flying car, the darkness inside the covered wagon, the stagecoach just entering the parking facility. The cover doesn't make any promises about the content of the issue, but if that's the only thing besides the cartoons (which I'll get to in a bit, of course) that's worth it in a given week, I'm actually fine with that.
I flip to the Table of Contents next, first looking for names I might recognize, such as Nancy Franklin, my favorite TV critic, this week musing over "Bored to Death" on HBO. Anthony Lane, my favorite film critic, is also in here this week, with reviews of "Coco Before Chanel," and "Walt & El Grupo." To me, Lane's writing is more sprightly. Whenever it's a David Denby week, I read with a drawn mouth, not likely to be amused or to chuckle. I hope for the best with the other articles, such as Susan Orlean writing about her experiences raising chickens, and George Packer with a profile of Richard Holbrooke, the special U.S. envoy for Afghanistan and Pakistan. I always hope for absorbing writing, the opportunity to learn something new about someone or some way of life, and also something to uncynically pull at my emotions. And look at that: To the left of the Table of Contents this week is an advertisement for the paperback edition of Dennis Lehane's novel, "The Given Day." I've already clicked the pen open and circled it. I checked it out of the library months ago in its massive hardcover form, but in my head, other books raucously demanded my attention. With the County of Los Angeles library system already in possession of 82 hardcover copies across various branches, and 91 more received but not yet assimilated into the system, it's doubtful more money will be invested in paperback editions, though it would be a mite more convenient for the sake of less wear and tear on canvas bags, namely my own, and the New Yorker tote bag I'm supposed to receive for having subscribed. I plan to press a customer service representative about this matter soon, because I thought it would come before my subscription officially began. Anyway...
The "Contributors" section on page 4, explaining who each writer is and what they have written lately, is always good for more circling with my pen. For example, I noticed just now that Bruce McCall has written a children's book called "Marveltown" that I've just looked up on Amazon that's truly as beautifully drawn as his New Yorker cover. My sister reads these kinds of books to our two dogs all the time, so later, I'll see if any of the county libraries have it available.
I always read "The Mail" page, better known in newspapers as "Letters to the Editor." But these letters are never angry or vitriolic. They may be indignant, but they're always smartly-written, and I now look forward to the issue that contains letters possibly related to articles from this issue to which I could immediately relate. There are three letters in this issue about Steven Brill's article from August 31st called "The Rubber Room," which I think I have somewhere in my internet bookmarks, but haven't read yet. But to totally relate, I'll have to wait.
In my previous entry, I mentioned purchasing old issues of The New Yorker from the Valencia library. In thoe issues, I always read the entire "Goings On About Town" section, no matter if the listings were about music I'm not fond of, or art galleries, or ballets and orchestras. When I read part of this issue online, I found myself bored by these listings and wondered if it meant that I felt it was a waste of time to read what didn't interest me. Turns out it may have been because those pages weren't in print, which to me is far more inviting. It feels a lot more personal than the techno-drone of the CPU below me. I've only recently been getting back into jazz, hoping that that might keep me sane while I write my share of "What If They Lived?", so I read the "Jazz and Standards" sub-section with particular relish now. (Sidenote: This valley must indeed be bowl-shaped. I'm sitting right here, 1:37 a.m., the Tivo paused, and I heard a freight train whistle outside without the windows being open. The tracks are miles from here.) I love, love, LOVE the "Tables for Two" restaurant review. I love reading about culinary possibilities and atmosphere and what a strategically-placed chair might do for ambience, just as a silly example. The movie listings are a given. How could I not want to read the brief review of 35 Shots of Rum?
I read all the columns in "The Talk of the Town." Dan Brown's obvious new explosive hit, Rod Blagojevich still hopelessly deluded, and Carrie Fisher touring the former Studio 54 where she had hung out, which is now the Broadway theatre at which she's performing "Wishful Drinking," her one-woman show, which was also an outstanding book. There's also a column about Ralph Nader's 700-page novel that strives for the most effective creativity, such as creating a character called Pawn Vanity to play off of Sean Hannity. That's not actually in the column, but what I heard on NPR when Scott Simon interviewed Ralph Nader on "Weekend Edition." To me, the name sounds weak, but if he captured and slightly twisted Hannity's characteristics, then he's done well. I'm not sure if I'm going to read his novel. Some aspects of it sound interesting, but there are thousands of books that caught my interest long before his. It'll take some time.
To cap off "The Talk of the Town," there's a column about bad financial regulation. And now I realize I've been doing this wrong from the start. This is more a point-by-point look at what's in The New Yorker this week rather than how I read it. Let me do it better right now.
I don't randomly flip through the magazine. I don't search for the cartoons because chances are I've already seen them on the New Yorker website. Outside of the cartoons, I've now made a personal rule not to peruse the upcoming issue on the site, so I can be surprised by it in the mail if there's anything really, really good. I need that more often because there's usually nothing interesting in the mail anyway. However, it should not be construed that I subscribed to The New Yorker only to get something interesting in the mail. The New Yorker has been interesting to me long before I subscribed. Ok, now to continue.
I'll only read an article in full if I'm continually interested. Last week, before my subscription begin, there was an article in that issue by business writer James B. Stewart called "Eight Days," about the beginning of the financial crisis. I only got through three pages because while this kind of finance might be important to someone, I was bored by the technical details. Getting older, I've begun to learn that I shouldn't try to force myself to finish what doesn't interest me. That was true of this article and so I left it.
Otherwise, I basically go cover to cover. In this week's issue, there are two poems. One is atop four columns of text through the middle of pages 46-47, in the midst of the Richard Holbrooke profile. I'm good at going from one book to another, returning to where I left off and knowing exactly what happened. But if the article in question has my full attention, I might leave the poem for after I'm done with it. Or I might see if there's a good stopping point in the article to read the poem, and then go back to the article.
With the "Fiction" section, I just hope for the best with each short story, and hope to be as dazzled as I was with Junot Diaz's "Wildwood." If the characters are prominently in my mind and I'm devoted to them, the writer has done well by me. "The Critics" section is dicey for me. I can't stand book reviews that delve into so much historical context that they seem to lose sight of the book that was actually the subject of the review. For example, Adam Gopnik presents an entire lecture series in words about Alfred Dreyfus, "a young Jewish artillery officer and family man, convicted of treason days earlier in a rushed court-martial...", beginning on page 72, and only when he reaches page 77 does he begin to examine the books about Dreyfus. I don't know a thing about Dreyfus, so I admit that the context may be useful, but can't he weave information about the books throughout these pages so it's not top-heavy with historical fact? The sub-section is called "Books." So write about the books!
I think that's why the "Briefly Noted" section is placed on the opposite page after the end of that treatise, besides it obviously being about books as well. But here, I suppose, is where I appreciate book reviews more because they're actual book reviews. There's even a review here of "The Fallen Sky" that gives a little historical information about explorer Robert Peary and then immediately gets into the review of the book. That's how I like it!
Though I don't have a great, winding interest in art, I still read the review there because maybe there's something in the artist's work that I could connect to, or maybe even investigate further on my own. I always go for the theater reviews because I'm looking to learn something from those, as I want to write my own plays, hopefully after this book is done. I have a few ideas, but I don't believe I've learned enough necessary to writing one. I don't intend to learn too much so as to ruin the whole thing, but just enough that could push me along to the page without crippling fear.
And, of course, there's the back page, announcing the "Cartoon Caption Contest," revealing the winning caption of a previous cartoon and showing this week's cartoon that needs a caption, as well as the finalists of another cartoon.
With all of this to fully unearth, why would I want to work on that book? Oh yeah, because it'll be published, because there's the chance of having my full name on it (instead of the standard middle "L"), and it'll be my first book. Well, half-book, but still a book. However, this issue is sitting in front of me, open to Susan Orlean's chicken adventures. It's already 2:55 a.m. I can always pore over actors' histories later today. Maybe I'll do that, but push myself hard to get some necessary work done on this book.
It begins with a blue Pentel RSVP ballpoint click pen, ordered from officedepot.com because the stores in my area, and stores near my area, don't carry it. I always order a good-sized supply to last me six months. The pen is for circling book advertisements in the magazine that I want to look up on Amazon and possibly put on hold at my local library. It's also good for synopses of plays in the "Goings On About Town" section, to see if they're in print through Samuel French or another publisher of plays. If those also can be had through my local library, lucky me.
Depending on the week, the cover of the New Yorker may or may not demand more of my time than usual. This week, the Sept. 28 issue bears a cover of obsolete vehicles, as well as a chariot and a covered wagon creeping toward a parking garage that says "Museum Parking." For Bruce McCall's meticulous artwork, I look closer. I see the registration numbers on the tail of a flying car, the darkness inside the covered wagon, the stagecoach just entering the parking facility. The cover doesn't make any promises about the content of the issue, but if that's the only thing besides the cartoons (which I'll get to in a bit, of course) that's worth it in a given week, I'm actually fine with that.
I flip to the Table of Contents next, first looking for names I might recognize, such as Nancy Franklin, my favorite TV critic, this week musing over "Bored to Death" on HBO. Anthony Lane, my favorite film critic, is also in here this week, with reviews of "Coco Before Chanel," and "Walt & El Grupo." To me, Lane's writing is more sprightly. Whenever it's a David Denby week, I read with a drawn mouth, not likely to be amused or to chuckle. I hope for the best with the other articles, such as Susan Orlean writing about her experiences raising chickens, and George Packer with a profile of Richard Holbrooke, the special U.S. envoy for Afghanistan and Pakistan. I always hope for absorbing writing, the opportunity to learn something new about someone or some way of life, and also something to uncynically pull at my emotions. And look at that: To the left of the Table of Contents this week is an advertisement for the paperback edition of Dennis Lehane's novel, "The Given Day." I've already clicked the pen open and circled it. I checked it out of the library months ago in its massive hardcover form, but in my head, other books raucously demanded my attention. With the County of Los Angeles library system already in possession of 82 hardcover copies across various branches, and 91 more received but not yet assimilated into the system, it's doubtful more money will be invested in paperback editions, though it would be a mite more convenient for the sake of less wear and tear on canvas bags, namely my own, and the New Yorker tote bag I'm supposed to receive for having subscribed. I plan to press a customer service representative about this matter soon, because I thought it would come before my subscription officially began. Anyway...
The "Contributors" section on page 4, explaining who each writer is and what they have written lately, is always good for more circling with my pen. For example, I noticed just now that Bruce McCall has written a children's book called "Marveltown" that I've just looked up on Amazon that's truly as beautifully drawn as his New Yorker cover. My sister reads these kinds of books to our two dogs all the time, so later, I'll see if any of the county libraries have it available.
I always read "The Mail" page, better known in newspapers as "Letters to the Editor." But these letters are never angry or vitriolic. They may be indignant, but they're always smartly-written, and I now look forward to the issue that contains letters possibly related to articles from this issue to which I could immediately relate. There are three letters in this issue about Steven Brill's article from August 31st called "The Rubber Room," which I think I have somewhere in my internet bookmarks, but haven't read yet. But to totally relate, I'll have to wait.
In my previous entry, I mentioned purchasing old issues of The New Yorker from the Valencia library. In thoe issues, I always read the entire "Goings On About Town" section, no matter if the listings were about music I'm not fond of, or art galleries, or ballets and orchestras. When I read part of this issue online, I found myself bored by these listings and wondered if it meant that I felt it was a waste of time to read what didn't interest me. Turns out it may have been because those pages weren't in print, which to me is far more inviting. It feels a lot more personal than the techno-drone of the CPU below me. I've only recently been getting back into jazz, hoping that that might keep me sane while I write my share of "What If They Lived?", so I read the "Jazz and Standards" sub-section with particular relish now. (Sidenote: This valley must indeed be bowl-shaped. I'm sitting right here, 1:37 a.m., the Tivo paused, and I heard a freight train whistle outside without the windows being open. The tracks are miles from here.) I love, love, LOVE the "Tables for Two" restaurant review. I love reading about culinary possibilities and atmosphere and what a strategically-placed chair might do for ambience, just as a silly example. The movie listings are a given. How could I not want to read the brief review of 35 Shots of Rum?
I read all the columns in "The Talk of the Town." Dan Brown's obvious new explosive hit, Rod Blagojevich still hopelessly deluded, and Carrie Fisher touring the former Studio 54 where she had hung out, which is now the Broadway theatre at which she's performing "Wishful Drinking," her one-woman show, which was also an outstanding book. There's also a column about Ralph Nader's 700-page novel that strives for the most effective creativity, such as creating a character called Pawn Vanity to play off of Sean Hannity. That's not actually in the column, but what I heard on NPR when Scott Simon interviewed Ralph Nader on "Weekend Edition." To me, the name sounds weak, but if he captured and slightly twisted Hannity's characteristics, then he's done well. I'm not sure if I'm going to read his novel. Some aspects of it sound interesting, but there are thousands of books that caught my interest long before his. It'll take some time.
To cap off "The Talk of the Town," there's a column about bad financial regulation. And now I realize I've been doing this wrong from the start. This is more a point-by-point look at what's in The New Yorker this week rather than how I read it. Let me do it better right now.
I don't randomly flip through the magazine. I don't search for the cartoons because chances are I've already seen them on the New Yorker website. Outside of the cartoons, I've now made a personal rule not to peruse the upcoming issue on the site, so I can be surprised by it in the mail if there's anything really, really good. I need that more often because there's usually nothing interesting in the mail anyway. However, it should not be construed that I subscribed to The New Yorker only to get something interesting in the mail. The New Yorker has been interesting to me long before I subscribed. Ok, now to continue.
I'll only read an article in full if I'm continually interested. Last week, before my subscription begin, there was an article in that issue by business writer James B. Stewart called "Eight Days," about the beginning of the financial crisis. I only got through three pages because while this kind of finance might be important to someone, I was bored by the technical details. Getting older, I've begun to learn that I shouldn't try to force myself to finish what doesn't interest me. That was true of this article and so I left it.
Otherwise, I basically go cover to cover. In this week's issue, there are two poems. One is atop four columns of text through the middle of pages 46-47, in the midst of the Richard Holbrooke profile. I'm good at going from one book to another, returning to where I left off and knowing exactly what happened. But if the article in question has my full attention, I might leave the poem for after I'm done with it. Or I might see if there's a good stopping point in the article to read the poem, and then go back to the article.
With the "Fiction" section, I just hope for the best with each short story, and hope to be as dazzled as I was with Junot Diaz's "Wildwood." If the characters are prominently in my mind and I'm devoted to them, the writer has done well by me. "The Critics" section is dicey for me. I can't stand book reviews that delve into so much historical context that they seem to lose sight of the book that was actually the subject of the review. For example, Adam Gopnik presents an entire lecture series in words about Alfred Dreyfus, "a young Jewish artillery officer and family man, convicted of treason days earlier in a rushed court-martial...", beginning on page 72, and only when he reaches page 77 does he begin to examine the books about Dreyfus. I don't know a thing about Dreyfus, so I admit that the context may be useful, but can't he weave information about the books throughout these pages so it's not top-heavy with historical fact? The sub-section is called "Books." So write about the books!
I think that's why the "Briefly Noted" section is placed on the opposite page after the end of that treatise, besides it obviously being about books as well. But here, I suppose, is where I appreciate book reviews more because they're actual book reviews. There's even a review here of "The Fallen Sky" that gives a little historical information about explorer Robert Peary and then immediately gets into the review of the book. That's how I like it!
Though I don't have a great, winding interest in art, I still read the review there because maybe there's something in the artist's work that I could connect to, or maybe even investigate further on my own. I always go for the theater reviews because I'm looking to learn something from those, as I want to write my own plays, hopefully after this book is done. I have a few ideas, but I don't believe I've learned enough necessary to writing one. I don't intend to learn too much so as to ruin the whole thing, but just enough that could push me along to the page without crippling fear.
And, of course, there's the back page, announcing the "Cartoon Caption Contest," revealing the winning caption of a previous cartoon and showing this week's cartoon that needs a caption, as well as the finalists of another cartoon.
With all of this to fully unearth, why would I want to work on that book? Oh yeah, because it'll be published, because there's the chance of having my full name on it (instead of the standard middle "L"), and it'll be my first book. Well, half-book, but still a book. However, this issue is sitting in front of me, open to Susan Orlean's chicken adventures. It's already 2:55 a.m. I can always pore over actors' histories later today. Maybe I'll do that, but push myself hard to get some necessary work done on this book.
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