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.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
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.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
It's Been a Long Time Since I've Done That on Facebook
I don't use Facebook as often as I used to. I love that there's new versions of The Oregon Trail, Carmen Sandiego, Jeopardy!, and Wheel of Fortune on there, but that's not how I like to spend my days. My stacks of books keep me pretty busy and happy.
Last night, I had intended to finish reading the rest of Rutherford B. Hayes by Hans L. Trefousse. 50 pages to go. But I had a yen to post the good news I had learned about Zooey Deschanel getting her own series on Fox for the fall TV season (The New Girl), and the Bones spinoff, The Finder, getting a series order. I'm especially excited about the latter because it'll be nice to see Michael Clarke Duncan on TV every week.
Then a chat window popped up. Greg Harbin, from Japan. An acquaintance-friend, I call him, though after last night's conversation, I'd erase the "acquaintance." I'd forgotten the benefit of a conversation with him for a solid hour. I knew him when I used to be a member of NP2K.com, run by Chad Peter, which started out as a Natalie Portman fan site, but then branched out into pop culture in general, and movies, and filmmaking.
I've always respected Greg because his opinions have always been sharp, and there's a wealth of knowledge behind them. As we talked last night (or maybe last night for me, since I'm never sure what time it is in other countries), he was watching Octopussy, one of the very few James Bond movies he hasn't seen. "Just wait 'till you get to Roger Moore in clown makeup," I told him. "It presages the terror of seeing Moore age rapidly during the pre-credits sequence of A View to a Kill."
The conversation really started with me mulling over a few of the multi-camera sitcoms on tap for the fall season, especially with the hidden news that Michael Chiklis's sitcom Vince Uncensored (about a guy who has a near-death experience and comes out of it deciding to be honest about everything. The pilot was directed by Kelsey Grammer) was picked up, based on Chiklis hosting the Boston Pops special on July 4 on CBS. CBS doesn't let that happen unless the host in question is doing something for them in the fall.
Greg told me that the last three-cam sitcom he saw was Back to You, starring Kesley Grammer. Then we went into Tim Allen's new show on ABC about a guy trying to keep floating in his world of only women (a household full of women), and then we talked about his excitement over Felicia Day retweeting something he had said. Actually, the chat window had popped up with that first.
He thought he should write a book about it and I jokingly suggested the title My Felicia Day Year: An Emotional Journey into the Dark Underside of Twitter for a Retweet. Greg figured that since Adam Bertocci, one of our other NP2K cohorts, but for a long time now a full-on Facebook friend, has had such success in the publishing world with his Shakespearean adaptation of The Big Lebowski (Two Gentlemen of Lebowski), that he would have a shot, too. Then he dug into past conversations and Twitters, seeing if he could use snippets of those conversations for the pull quotes on the book, you know, the ones praising the author. But instead of the usual praise, it would be something like:
"Damn, Harbin!" - Rory Aronsky
I treasure any conversation that winds down with talk of favorite Bond films. Greg told me, after finishing Octopussy, that that is probably his second-favorite Bond film. I asked what his favorite is and he said it's From Russia with Love. My favorite Bond film is On Her Majesty's Secret Service, and it's the best of the series because of how much time is given to developing Bond as a character. I'm not sure what my second-favorite Bond film is, but I told Greg it would probably be From Russia with Love. Or, thinking about it now, maybe GoldenEye. Or maybe Tomorrow Never Dies just for sentimentality's sake, since it was the first Bond film I had ever seen, back in 9th grade. Nah, probably From Russia with Love because it stays tethered to the real world.
By this time, 11 p.m. hit and I had to go to bed. Since I'm up between 7 and 8 each morning, and occasionally later than 8, that's the right time.
Greg had another hour and 40 minutes before his wife's flight got in, so he wanted me to stick around a little more. I would have liked to since it had been a long time since I had had such a solid conversation like that. But I'll log back on tonight and hope that he's around. I could use another round of beneficial mental aerobics like I had there.
Last night, I had intended to finish reading the rest of Rutherford B. Hayes by Hans L. Trefousse. 50 pages to go. But I had a yen to post the good news I had learned about Zooey Deschanel getting her own series on Fox for the fall TV season (The New Girl), and the Bones spinoff, The Finder, getting a series order. I'm especially excited about the latter because it'll be nice to see Michael Clarke Duncan on TV every week.
Then a chat window popped up. Greg Harbin, from Japan. An acquaintance-friend, I call him, though after last night's conversation, I'd erase the "acquaintance." I'd forgotten the benefit of a conversation with him for a solid hour. I knew him when I used to be a member of NP2K.com, run by Chad Peter, which started out as a Natalie Portman fan site, but then branched out into pop culture in general, and movies, and filmmaking.
I've always respected Greg because his opinions have always been sharp, and there's a wealth of knowledge behind them. As we talked last night (or maybe last night for me, since I'm never sure what time it is in other countries), he was watching Octopussy, one of the very few James Bond movies he hasn't seen. "Just wait 'till you get to Roger Moore in clown makeup," I told him. "It presages the terror of seeing Moore age rapidly during the pre-credits sequence of A View to a Kill."
The conversation really started with me mulling over a few of the multi-camera sitcoms on tap for the fall season, especially with the hidden news that Michael Chiklis's sitcom Vince Uncensored (about a guy who has a near-death experience and comes out of it deciding to be honest about everything. The pilot was directed by Kelsey Grammer) was picked up, based on Chiklis hosting the Boston Pops special on July 4 on CBS. CBS doesn't let that happen unless the host in question is doing something for them in the fall.
Greg told me that the last three-cam sitcom he saw was Back to You, starring Kesley Grammer. Then we went into Tim Allen's new show on ABC about a guy trying to keep floating in his world of only women (a household full of women), and then we talked about his excitement over Felicia Day retweeting something he had said. Actually, the chat window had popped up with that first.
He thought he should write a book about it and I jokingly suggested the title My Felicia Day Year: An Emotional Journey into the Dark Underside of Twitter for a Retweet. Greg figured that since Adam Bertocci, one of our other NP2K cohorts, but for a long time now a full-on Facebook friend, has had such success in the publishing world with his Shakespearean adaptation of The Big Lebowski (Two Gentlemen of Lebowski), that he would have a shot, too. Then he dug into past conversations and Twitters, seeing if he could use snippets of those conversations for the pull quotes on the book, you know, the ones praising the author. But instead of the usual praise, it would be something like:
"Damn, Harbin!" - Rory Aronsky
I treasure any conversation that winds down with talk of favorite Bond films. Greg told me, after finishing Octopussy, that that is probably his second-favorite Bond film. I asked what his favorite is and he said it's From Russia with Love. My favorite Bond film is On Her Majesty's Secret Service, and it's the best of the series because of how much time is given to developing Bond as a character. I'm not sure what my second-favorite Bond film is, but I told Greg it would probably be From Russia with Love. Or, thinking about it now, maybe GoldenEye. Or maybe Tomorrow Never Dies just for sentimentality's sake, since it was the first Bond film I had ever seen, back in 9th grade. Nah, probably From Russia with Love because it stays tethered to the real world.
By this time, 11 p.m. hit and I had to go to bed. Since I'm up between 7 and 8 each morning, and occasionally later than 8, that's the right time.
Greg had another hour and 40 minutes before his wife's flight got in, so he wanted me to stick around a little more. I would have liked to since it had been a long time since I had had such a solid conversation like that. But I'll log back on tonight and hope that he's around. I could use another round of beneficial mental aerobics like I had there.
Monday, May 9, 2011
What an Honor!
Reading the latest issue of Saveur, I found a review of an anthology called Man with a Pan, subtitled "Culinary Adventures of Fathers Who Cook for Their Families." I wanted to read this book so badly, so I did what I always do: abebooks.com and the cheapest price I could find among the booksellers there.
I must not have been paying attention at the time. I only wanted the book, and I clicked on the cheapest price, $12.45, including shipping, never noticing the seller.
UPS dropped off a package just now, and on the box, in a red oval is "NEW YORK CITY", and below that in bigger letters, "STRAND", and below that, "18 MILES OF BOOKS".
Oh my god! THE Strand! I've heard about this magical place! I've dreamed of going there one day, maybe making a stop in New York City after visiting the Franklin D. Roosevelt Presidential Library and Museum in Hyde Park, as part of my life's goal to visit every presidential library in the nation.
18 miles of books. Well, if there was ever a combination of words to turn me on, those are it. And this is a fresh copy of Man with a Pan, too. No corners bent, no pages smudged, no spine separation. I imagined that the Strand cares greatly for books, and it's evident here.
I know that the Strand will keep on living, and it had better so I can see it for myself. There's no way it could die anyway, not with all it has to offer, not with appearing to love books as much as I love them.
And I just opened the book and found between the cover and the title page something I will treasure and make sure it never gets bent: A Strand bookmark. I will never lose it.
I must not have been paying attention at the time. I only wanted the book, and I clicked on the cheapest price, $12.45, including shipping, never noticing the seller.
UPS dropped off a package just now, and on the box, in a red oval is "NEW YORK CITY", and below that in bigger letters, "STRAND", and below that, "18 MILES OF BOOKS".
Oh my god! THE Strand! I've heard about this magical place! I've dreamed of going there one day, maybe making a stop in New York City after visiting the Franklin D. Roosevelt Presidential Library and Museum in Hyde Park, as part of my life's goal to visit every presidential library in the nation.
18 miles of books. Well, if there was ever a combination of words to turn me on, those are it. And this is a fresh copy of Man with a Pan, too. No corners bent, no pages smudged, no spine separation. I imagined that the Strand cares greatly for books, and it's evident here.
I know that the Strand will keep on living, and it had better so I can see it for myself. There's no way it could die anyway, not with all it has to offer, not with appearing to love books as much as I love them.
And I just opened the book and found between the cover and the title page something I will treasure and make sure it never gets bent: A Strand bookmark. I will never lose it.
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Look for One Book and Find Dozens More to Crave
Upon reading the descriptions of food in Oliver Twist in Literary Feasts: Inspired Eating from Classic Fiction by Sean Brand, I impatiently tore through the rest of the book and then rushed to my room to look for Oliver Twist. I thought I had a copy. I swear I did.
I plunged a hand through teetering stacks of books, to the boxes which contain more stable stacks and serve as makeshift bookshelves. I found Hard Times, Great Expectations, Bleak House. No Oliver Twist. I wanted to read Oliver Twist right away, still do, and moved on to nearby stacks, knocking down many books in the process and giving me cause to reorganize some of them. (I just went to the back door in the kitchen to open it for Tigger to come in from the patio, and on the way back to the computer, I sneezed from some of the dust in my room. It's not overwhelming, just a minor irritant.)
Books about Richard Nixon fell, and so did every single novel by Joseph Finder that I bought in the hope of reading all his works, having been so impressed with Paranoia. An accessible thriller writer is the best kind of writer for that genre and especially crucial when so little seems to be surprising anymore.
Amidst restacking the stacks, I still didn't find Oliver Twist. And there's no chance that it'll appear, because I just remembered that when I was at Barnes & Noble in Burbank late last year, looking to suck all the money out of the two gift cards I received, I went for Bleak House because of the miniseries that starred Gillian Anderson, and Hard Times and Great Expectations because I was curious about them. I looked over Oliver Twist, but decided on the others.
The Valencia library has three copies, at least of one edition, so I hope Meridith will let me check it out on her card, because mine's full and will remain full when I check out more books after returning what I need to return in order to get Dick Van Dyke's and Betty White's new books along with others, and I really want to read it today.
In the midst of the search, I found paperbacks of Playing for Pizza by John Grisham and I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou. I had wanted to read more of Angelou's works a few months ago, and especially wanted to reread I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. Sometimes I buy these books and then forget that I had bought them. What a happy instance of it!
I plunged a hand through teetering stacks of books, to the boxes which contain more stable stacks and serve as makeshift bookshelves. I found Hard Times, Great Expectations, Bleak House. No Oliver Twist. I wanted to read Oliver Twist right away, still do, and moved on to nearby stacks, knocking down many books in the process and giving me cause to reorganize some of them. (I just went to the back door in the kitchen to open it for Tigger to come in from the patio, and on the way back to the computer, I sneezed from some of the dust in my room. It's not overwhelming, just a minor irritant.)
Books about Richard Nixon fell, and so did every single novel by Joseph Finder that I bought in the hope of reading all his works, having been so impressed with Paranoia. An accessible thriller writer is the best kind of writer for that genre and especially crucial when so little seems to be surprising anymore.
Amidst restacking the stacks, I still didn't find Oliver Twist. And there's no chance that it'll appear, because I just remembered that when I was at Barnes & Noble in Burbank late last year, looking to suck all the money out of the two gift cards I received, I went for Bleak House because of the miniseries that starred Gillian Anderson, and Hard Times and Great Expectations because I was curious about them. I looked over Oliver Twist, but decided on the others.
The Valencia library has three copies, at least of one edition, so I hope Meridith will let me check it out on her card, because mine's full and will remain full when I check out more books after returning what I need to return in order to get Dick Van Dyke's and Betty White's new books along with others, and I really want to read it today.
In the midst of the search, I found paperbacks of Playing for Pizza by John Grisham and I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou. I had wanted to read more of Angelou's works a few months ago, and especially wanted to reread I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. Sometimes I buy these books and then forget that I had bought them. What a happy instance of it!
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