Last night was one of those nights in which I slept in sections. It doesn't happen often, thankfully, but I drift off, wake up, drift off, wake up. It doesn't happen five minutes later, but probably an hour or two, and always a dream involved. I was surprised that no dream involved the taping of the third- and second-to-last Oprah Winfrey shows last night, which I followed closely on The Hollywood Reporter website via a reporter who had a live chat blog going while the episodes were being taped at the United Center in Chicago. Both episodes are called "Surpise Oprah! A Farewell Spectacular" (They air on Monday, May 23 and Tuesday, May 24) and it seemed like nearly all of Hollywood was there. Tom Hanks, Tom Cruise, Katie Holmes, Beyonce, Queen Latifah, Jamie Foxx, Dakota Fanning, Usher, Kristin Chenoweth, Aretha Franklin, Will Smith, Jada Pinkett Smith (the latter two hosted the second episode, while Tom Hanks hosted the first, apparently), Stevie Wonder, Alicia Keys, and many other names I've forgotten. The two episodes were producers' choice. Oprah didn't know anything about what was going to happen. The NBA agreed to push back the next Finals game (Bulls vs. Heat) for this. That's power over many decades.
I know the different parts of the night. I figured that when I woke up the first time, it was 1 a.m. The next time was 3. The third time was probably getting closer to 6, since the heat clicked on and soon enough, Tigger came to my bed, licked me and got in. I never look at the clock and I'm never overly concerned about being awake during the night. I just shift and drift right back off.
It also rained during the night. Not a "Holy-crap-why didn't-I-build-an-ark" downpour, but just a steady rain that there's always too little of here in Southern California, but that's expected with the desert atmosphere, though rare in May. Usually the heat ratchets up around this time and doesn't stop until the end of summer. I'm all for rain as late as we can get it.
That's pretty much all I have.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
The Easiest Book in My Research
This morning, I finshed reading Dwight D. Eisenhower by Tom Wicker, part of the American Presidents series published by Henry Holt and Company through its Times Books arm.
On my small legal notepad, I only wrote the title, the author, the year of publication (2002), the publishing company and "New York." No notes. Just "Omar Bradley" in the margin, to look up on Google out of curiosity about what that general did in his career. No notes about books Eisenhower read, because the only mention was the Western novels he so loved, and I knew that from Going Home to Glory by David Eisenhower.
I liked the detail that Wicker brought to Eisenhower's presidency, but I don't want all the books I read to be like this, because then I won't have my three books to write. But it was nice to have a break from writing down page numbers and which paragraphs I wanted to transcribe. That's necessary when they're long paragraphs. I don't get writer's cramp, but I do get bored with long handwritten transcription.
Next is Franklin Delano Roosevelt by Roy Jenkins. I love hopscotching through history.
On my small legal notepad, I only wrote the title, the author, the year of publication (2002), the publishing company and "New York." No notes. Just "Omar Bradley" in the margin, to look up on Google out of curiosity about what that general did in his career. No notes about books Eisenhower read, because the only mention was the Western novels he so loved, and I knew that from Going Home to Glory by David Eisenhower.
I liked the detail that Wicker brought to Eisenhower's presidency, but I don't want all the books I read to be like this, because then I won't have my three books to write. But it was nice to have a break from writing down page numbers and which paragraphs I wanted to transcribe. That's necessary when they're long paragraphs. I don't get writer's cramp, but I do get bored with long handwritten transcription.
Next is Franklin Delano Roosevelt by Roy Jenkins. I love hopscotching through history.
Cold Today
Normally I don't talk about the weather, but this is an unusual exception being that it's chilly outside with gloomy drizzling. It was rain a little after 5 this morning, but not heavy. Not something expected in May, but a welcome change, being that it's always warm enough around this time and getting warmer. Much warmer.
Other than that, not a whole lot going on. Still doing research for my three presidential books. It's pretty quiet.
Other than that, not a whole lot going on. Still doing research for my three presidential books. It's pretty quiet.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Random Sunday
There are some things that just won't fit enough to make one entry apiece.
Under the near-flat screen computer monitor here in the living room, we've got a white weather clock with a digital display. 9:01 a.m., a symbol of the sun under "FORECAST", and this says that it's 67.7 degrees in here, with 50% humidity. You'd think that would lend itself to a cool day, and maybe it will, but yesterday, with the same weather, it was pretty warm.
I've been reading Dreams & Schemes: My Decade of Fun in the Sun, a compilation of columns by Steve Lopez of the Los Angeles Times. The Soloist as a book got big play when it came out, and it's disappointing at first that these columns were relegated to a smaller publisher, but you know, it feels right. Camino Books, Inc. is no-nonsense, here's the book in floppy paperback, and read all you want. He's always been Los Angeles, but this brings him right back into the bits and streams of this particular world. I hope he makes something off of it. I'm no help, since I checked it out from the library yesterday.
Treme came from Netflix, and I watched the first episode yesterday morning and the second episode this morning. There's not only attention to the new, conflicted, heartbroken world that emerged from Katrina, but also the anger toward the federal government for their utter failure not only in doing anything right away to save the people of New Orleans, but for levees that were a failure in construction and maintenance. John Goodman as Creighton Bernette embodies this in a rant during an interview with a British reporter, and it's apt, since Goodman has lived in New Orleans for years. The viewpoint of Treme is so wide-ranging, taking in the musicians that live to make New Orleans alive again, those who struggle to pick up what's still left, and those who have no clue about New Orleans beyond what they see on TV, such as the three members of a Christian group who have flown out from Wisconsin to rebuild one of the wards. They don't quite understand the world that has emerged. And then there are those, faceless, who say that the city shouldn't be rebuilt. These citizens, even fictional, still represent those who believe that not only should it be rebuilt, but it needs to live again, lively and important to all those who made New Orleans home. It would be like asking after an earthquake if parts of California should be rebuilt, holding that very same doubt. New Orleans is just as much a part of the United States as anywhere else in the nation.
Today, Dad, Meridith and I are planning to walk through a food truck festival going on where all the cars of this valley are sold. Food trucks of all kinds will be there, including one that sells quesadillas and nachos (my area) and one that sells cheeseballs (I think Meridith's going to try to buy up everything from that one). There's also a Jewish food festival in the huge parking lot at College of the Canyons, and Dad wants to stop by that one, though I'm sure it's pretty much the same as it was last year in the parking lot of what used to be Bristol Farms, when Bristol Farms was still there. There's also a food truck that sells "potato tornados", fried twists of a potato on a stick, with the option of sausage within it. There's a lot of possibilities and this will be our first time amidst food trucks. They're omnipresent in Los Angeles, but never like this in this valley.
I doubt I'll be able to burn off all the calories consumed from this festival while walking past everything that's offered, but hey, exercising right after eating and while eating sounds like a good deal to me. Just a quesadilla, nachos, and whatever else I don't know about yet and I'm good.
Under the near-flat screen computer monitor here in the living room, we've got a white weather clock with a digital display. 9:01 a.m., a symbol of the sun under "FORECAST", and this says that it's 67.7 degrees in here, with 50% humidity. You'd think that would lend itself to a cool day, and maybe it will, but yesterday, with the same weather, it was pretty warm.
I've been reading Dreams & Schemes: My Decade of Fun in the Sun, a compilation of columns by Steve Lopez of the Los Angeles Times. The Soloist as a book got big play when it came out, and it's disappointing at first that these columns were relegated to a smaller publisher, but you know, it feels right. Camino Books, Inc. is no-nonsense, here's the book in floppy paperback, and read all you want. He's always been Los Angeles, but this brings him right back into the bits and streams of this particular world. I hope he makes something off of it. I'm no help, since I checked it out from the library yesterday.
Treme came from Netflix, and I watched the first episode yesterday morning and the second episode this morning. There's not only attention to the new, conflicted, heartbroken world that emerged from Katrina, but also the anger toward the federal government for their utter failure not only in doing anything right away to save the people of New Orleans, but for levees that were a failure in construction and maintenance. John Goodman as Creighton Bernette embodies this in a rant during an interview with a British reporter, and it's apt, since Goodman has lived in New Orleans for years. The viewpoint of Treme is so wide-ranging, taking in the musicians that live to make New Orleans alive again, those who struggle to pick up what's still left, and those who have no clue about New Orleans beyond what they see on TV, such as the three members of a Christian group who have flown out from Wisconsin to rebuild one of the wards. They don't quite understand the world that has emerged. And then there are those, faceless, who say that the city shouldn't be rebuilt. These citizens, even fictional, still represent those who believe that not only should it be rebuilt, but it needs to live again, lively and important to all those who made New Orleans home. It would be like asking after an earthquake if parts of California should be rebuilt, holding that very same doubt. New Orleans is just as much a part of the United States as anywhere else in the nation.
Today, Dad, Meridith and I are planning to walk through a food truck festival going on where all the cars of this valley are sold. Food trucks of all kinds will be there, including one that sells quesadillas and nachos (my area) and one that sells cheeseballs (I think Meridith's going to try to buy up everything from that one). There's also a Jewish food festival in the huge parking lot at College of the Canyons, and Dad wants to stop by that one, though I'm sure it's pretty much the same as it was last year in the parking lot of what used to be Bristol Farms, when Bristol Farms was still there. There's also a food truck that sells "potato tornados", fried twists of a potato on a stick, with the option of sausage within it. There's a lot of possibilities and this will be our first time amidst food trucks. They're omnipresent in Los Angeles, but never like this in this valley.
I doubt I'll be able to burn off all the calories consumed from this festival while walking past everything that's offered, but hey, exercising right after eating and while eating sounds like a good deal to me. Just a quesadilla, nachos, and whatever else I don't know about yet and I'm good.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Shepard Explored Slowly, Maybe
Today, I returned to the library all the Sam Shepard plays I had checked out, probably the last time I'll ever see those particular copies, ahead of the Santa Clarita branches of the County of Los Angeles library system transferring to city control and being managed by LSSI, to this valley a faceless corporation that runs other libraries throughout the nation.
I wish I had time for those, but I don't. My research for my three presidential books takes priority, as I need to get to the major books, such as Washington: A Life by Ron Chernow. Dad said in the car after the library that while the Valencia library is closed, he wouldn't mind taking me to the one in Castaic.
I don't know. To get to anywhere in Castaic, you take a small section of the freeway to get there and would it really be worth going that often, depending on Saturday traffic? Dad can drive the freeway as effortlessly as a tightrope walker makes it look. But even so, would it be worth that every Saturday? It's only a month, until the Santa Clarita branches are supposed to reopen in July under LSSI control, so maybe. I'll figure it out.
I figured that Sam Shepard's plays, for me, are best explored slowly, not in a rush like that stack had presented. I want to learn how Shepard operates within his plays, for my own benefit and inspiration as well. But I want to explore it like I did his prose, by re-reading lines, by learning about how he develops his characters. And I can't do that right now. Besides, I'm sure these plays are cheap enough online, and there's a chance a few of them could become part of my collection, just like Neil Simon's and Herb Gardner's plays are, just like The Glass Menagerie is. That would be a bonus. But for now, I'll crave them.
I wish I had time for those, but I don't. My research for my three presidential books takes priority, as I need to get to the major books, such as Washington: A Life by Ron Chernow. Dad said in the car after the library that while the Valencia library is closed, he wouldn't mind taking me to the one in Castaic.
I don't know. To get to anywhere in Castaic, you take a small section of the freeway to get there and would it really be worth going that often, depending on Saturday traffic? Dad can drive the freeway as effortlessly as a tightrope walker makes it look. But even so, would it be worth that every Saturday? It's only a month, until the Santa Clarita branches are supposed to reopen in July under LSSI control, so maybe. I'll figure it out.
I figured that Sam Shepard's plays, for me, are best explored slowly, not in a rush like that stack had presented. I want to learn how Shepard operates within his plays, for my own benefit and inspiration as well. But I want to explore it like I did his prose, by re-reading lines, by learning about how he develops his characters. And I can't do that right now. Besides, I'm sure these plays are cheap enough online, and there's a chance a few of them could become part of my collection, just like Neil Simon's and Herb Gardner's plays are, just like The Glass Menagerie is. That would be a bonus. But for now, I'll crave them.
Truth from the newest episode of "The Big Bang Theory"
"The Enagement Reaction," in which Howard tells his perpetually offscreen mother that he and Bernadette are getting married. This is at the hospital after the doctor says that Howard's mother wants to see Bernadette first:
"Me? Why me?" - Bernadette
"Jews have been asking that for centuries; there's no real good answer." - Howard
"Me? Why me?" - Bernadette
"Jews have been asking that for centuries; there's no real good answer." - Howard
Friday, May 13, 2011
A Small Space for Paradise
Last September, on a Saturday, we went to Legoland in San Diego and then to Hash House a Go Go which serves huge portions that make you wonder if they've reinforced the table underneath to hold it all.
To get to that Hash House, the original Hash House, as we learned, we had to park in a lot in which you stuff dollar bills into the slot amidst a bank of slots that corresponds to the numbered space you parked in. That was a few blocks from Hash House a Go Go, so we walked past bungalows, a rare instance for me to marvel at people living in the midst of what looked like a kind of downtown San Diego. Maybe it was actually part of downtown San Diego. Obviously that thought shows that I know nothing about San Diego beyond Sea World and where we were, and even then I couldn't tell where we are.
Passing the bungalows, there were blinds open in one window, revealing a very small study/library with a lamp in a corner, a small plush red leather couch and a matching red leather easy chair. Right away I wanted to live there. Forget the other rooms in that bungalow, I just wanted that one room. I loved how small it was, how private, and that the bookshelves were tall enough to promise whatever adventures you seek in words.
On our walk back from Hash House a Go Go to the car, we passed that same window, but the blinds had been drawn. But I've never forgotten about that room, especially today, reading The Tortilla Curtain by T.C. Boyle, about an illegal Mexican couple's battle to survive in Southern California, living in a ravine and looking for work, and a gated-community couple who want to keep the world out, though the husband is more conflicted than his realtor wife because he writes a nature observation column for a conservation magazine, though it's debatable how much nature is left and especially how much beauty when the Arroyo Blanco Estates homeowners association wants to erect a high wall against the rest of the world, trying to keep out the coyotes (which snatched up the couple's two dogs) and everything else they see as a threat, including illegal immigrants.
I know this world. I live in this world. I see it differently. You do what you can here, whoever you are. You live however you can make it work. The most we have in my Saugus neighborhood (located at the ass end of the Santa Clarita Valley) are people who don't pick up after their dogs, though that means nothing to me because I've never witnessed it and therefore it isn't my problem. It's just the problem of those for whom it's a genuine concern and those nosy types who walk around looking to stir up trouble just to make themselves feel good.
Oh, but I know all about homeowners associations, how the board is populated by little Caesars who know that this is the only kind of power they will ever have, and they're gleeful to use it and abuse it.
Anyway, as I read The Tortilla Curtain, I remembered how I need to make more time for books like these, to inspire me, to reignite my love for understated fiction, of which Boyle is an expert, and stocks it with so many observations that are ironic, absurdly funny, somber and sad. I know for sure that I want to read all of his other books.
And I remembered that study/library, and how this is a perfect book for that kind of setting because you rise up from that room and out into the world, into this particular world, and when you return, you can sit comfortably, pondering everything you've read. And then the shelves beckon again. I want a room like that one day.
To get to that Hash House, the original Hash House, as we learned, we had to park in a lot in which you stuff dollar bills into the slot amidst a bank of slots that corresponds to the numbered space you parked in. That was a few blocks from Hash House a Go Go, so we walked past bungalows, a rare instance for me to marvel at people living in the midst of what looked like a kind of downtown San Diego. Maybe it was actually part of downtown San Diego. Obviously that thought shows that I know nothing about San Diego beyond Sea World and where we were, and even then I couldn't tell where we are.
Passing the bungalows, there were blinds open in one window, revealing a very small study/library with a lamp in a corner, a small plush red leather couch and a matching red leather easy chair. Right away I wanted to live there. Forget the other rooms in that bungalow, I just wanted that one room. I loved how small it was, how private, and that the bookshelves were tall enough to promise whatever adventures you seek in words.
On our walk back from Hash House a Go Go to the car, we passed that same window, but the blinds had been drawn. But I've never forgotten about that room, especially today, reading The Tortilla Curtain by T.C. Boyle, about an illegal Mexican couple's battle to survive in Southern California, living in a ravine and looking for work, and a gated-community couple who want to keep the world out, though the husband is more conflicted than his realtor wife because he writes a nature observation column for a conservation magazine, though it's debatable how much nature is left and especially how much beauty when the Arroyo Blanco Estates homeowners association wants to erect a high wall against the rest of the world, trying to keep out the coyotes (which snatched up the couple's two dogs) and everything else they see as a threat, including illegal immigrants.
I know this world. I live in this world. I see it differently. You do what you can here, whoever you are. You live however you can make it work. The most we have in my Saugus neighborhood (located at the ass end of the Santa Clarita Valley) are people who don't pick up after their dogs, though that means nothing to me because I've never witnessed it and therefore it isn't my problem. It's just the problem of those for whom it's a genuine concern and those nosy types who walk around looking to stir up trouble just to make themselves feel good.
Oh, but I know all about homeowners associations, how the board is populated by little Caesars who know that this is the only kind of power they will ever have, and they're gleeful to use it and abuse it.
Anyway, as I read The Tortilla Curtain, I remembered how I need to make more time for books like these, to inspire me, to reignite my love for understated fiction, of which Boyle is an expert, and stocks it with so many observations that are ironic, absurdly funny, somber and sad. I know for sure that I want to read all of his other books.
And I remembered that study/library, and how this is a perfect book for that kind of setting because you rise up from that room and out into the world, into this particular world, and when you return, you can sit comfortably, pondering everything you've read. And then the shelves beckon again. I want a room like that one day.
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