Do I Want That Copy of "Travels With My Aunt"?

Maybe it was last year, or the year before, when I wrote about my love for the book "Subways are for Sleeping" by Edmund G. Love, about the every day creativity of New York City's homeless population in surviving. I discovered the book most likely out of curiosity after I had put it on hold and picked it up at the Valencia library. It stayed with me through all the time I spent at College of the Canyons. I checked it out often. I decided one day, some time after I had graduated, that after all it had been through with me, all the times that I read it, that it belonged with me. So I told the library I had lost that copy (I knew which one it was because it was a greenish cover, while the only other copy from another branch was an aqua blue), paid $34, and it was mine. I still have it, in a stack of favorite books that includes "The Remains of the Day" by Kazuo Ishiguro, "Down and Out in the Magic Kingdom" by Cory Doctorow, "Travels with Charley" by John Steinbeck, "The Music of Your Life" by John Rowell, and now "Two Gentlemen of Lebowski" by Adam Bertocci. "A Week at the Airport" by Alain de Botton, which I haven't finished reading yet, and which I bought from abebooks.com today, will soon join that stack because I want my next book to feel just like how de Botton writes. I don't intend to copy his style exactly, but that's part of my research, to see how others handle book-length reportage, since I love it more than fiction, even though this book is going to be fiction.

Recently, I've become enraptured again by "Travels with My Aunt" by Graham Greene, which was published in 1969. In 1972, it became a movie starring Maggie Smith, which I checked out of the library yesterday in widescreen, on VHS tape. I must be one of the very few in the nation now who still owns a VCR. I was planning to finish reading the novel today, in order to watch the movie properly tomorrow morning, but it's late now and it's been a busy latter half of the day with a few errands.

Same situation as "Subways are for Sleeping": Do I want this copy, too? Do I want to pay however much it would be after I said it was lost? I think this is the same copy I checked out last time, but that was the first time. This is the second time. It's not the 13th, 14th, 15th or 16th time. I feel a kinship with this copy, but really not as closely as with the other book.

It's not a question to be answered by the time I return this hardcover copy, which is pink, with illustrations of a bird inside a curved glass encasement, next to a black urn with a dahlia sprouting out of the top, the dahlia being the main character's favorite flower, which he maintains in his garden. I answered the question a few days before. Yes, I love this copy. But I think it's because of the sense of discovery of this story, and that I love it for bringing this story to me. But it's not the same as the deep connection I have with my acquired copy of "Subways are for Sleeping." Not only did I feel that I had truly discovered a writer like Edmund G. Love to enjoy, but he kept providing me with more to explore each time I read the book. And how unassuming that green cover is, just with the title on the spine and "Love" below it, I know what's in the book every time, but I always get that thrill every time I pull it from the stack. This copy of "Travels with My Aunt" is slightly more obtrusive. I may get the same thrill, but it would only be from the words. I don't mind that this book apparently began its library life in 1988. I don't mind the aging smells coming from it. It's part of why I do and will forever love reading, for smells like that, which also reveal its history, maybe just a bit of each person who reads this particular copy. But it doesn't feel like it will fit as well in my collection as that copy of "Subways are for Sleeping" does.

So I went to abebooks.com the other day and ordered the Penguin Classics edition from 2004. I can begin my own history with that copy. And, save for hopefully a passionate female book lover, it will never pass through anyone else's hands. It will be mine.

Sam Mendes: 007's New Boss

I was watching Annette Bening in "Mother and Child," marveling not only at the seamlessness of storytelling esteemed writer/director Rodrigo Garcia embodies in his films (and why I was stupid to give up "Things You Can Tell Just By Looking at Her" when I was getting rid of an excess number of DVDs), but also at the gradations of Bening's career. I realized how actually over the top her Caroline Burnham was in "American Beauty", which I knew was the point when I first saw the film at then-Muvico Paradise 24 in Davie, Florida (It's Cinemark now, though I've learned that that company has not changed any of the Egyptian theming, and it's nice that one thing I remember from living in South Florida has not changed drastically in the years since I've become a former resident), but I didn't know the extent of it.

And then, by extension, I got to thinking about Sam Mendes, the director of "American Beauty" and one of my favorite filmmakers (Garcia is another, and Barbra Streisand is probably the third). I'm still amazed, and very happy, that he's directing the next Bond film. It's pure joy to me, and one of the personal benefits of having been a Bond fan all this time. Some say that the Bond director is just the worker bee, just the one to answer to the producers, but with Mendes, that seems to be just a quarter true. With Mendes, and with his prestigious filmography (including "The Road to Perdition" and "Revolutionary Road"), I imagine this film will be an equal partnership, and Mendes will no doubt make his mark on this next Bond film. It will be in his style.

The Day's Plans - Conclusion

I got the bananas, and the gala apples, and the Bartlett pears, and the carrot chips, and the Yoplait Greek strawberry yogurt, and the hummus (Sabra spinach and artichoke, until I get to Trader Joe's, because there's a hummus there I want to try, though I forgot which one it is. I'll know it when I see it), and the Cheerios, and the library books (among them, two Nigella Lawson cookbooks just to read, and a huge book on ghost sightings. Time to begin research for my second book), and I love my mp3 player even more now.

No pita bread, and I don't mind. I do not think of the Sara Lee brand at all when I think of pita bread, and that did not look like pita bread. That looked like a pita bread philistine's idea of pita bread.

The Day's Plans

I don't have bananas. I need bananas. I don't have gala apples. I need gala apples. I don't have Bartlett pears. I need Bartlett pears. I don't have carrot chips. I need carrot chips (or baby carrots. I've become fond of them lately). I don't have pita bread. I need pita bread. I don't have Yoplait Greek strawberry yogurt. I need Yoplait Greek strawberry yogurt. I have roasted garlic hummus. I like it. But I need other hummus. I'm almost out of Cheerios. I need more Cheerios.

I have library books. I also have library books to return. And I need to pick up library books that will begin research on my second book. I haven't yet cycled my way through the rest of my mp3 player. I need to do that, to take pleasure in having deleted everything that was on there, and starting again and finally making it the way I want it to be.

(The first paragraph is dedicated to my first grade teacher, Mrs. Turner, at Stirling Park Elementary in Casselberry, Florida who had set forth a writing prompt about what we would buy if we had all the money in the world. I answered with the first thing I would buy (I don't remember what it was), and then followed up with each subsequent purchase, beginning with "After I buy...." whatever it was. I received my writing journal back with "Too many 'After I buys'" as her comment. Well, Mrs. Turner, I can do it any way I want now. And I have my first book to prove it.)

Lost My Dream Girl. I Hope There's Another One.

Last Wednesday, after spending most of the afternoon at IKEA in Burbank, and then wiping out two gift cards and paying some of my own cash at Barnes & Noble for 7 books and a magazine ("The Normal School," the most unique literary magazine I've seen in years), we stopped at a $1-only used bookstore near Fuddrucker's, where we were going to eat.

I ended up paying $9.88 there, for such as books as "The Brethren" (about the Supreme Court from the 1969-1975 terms), volume 2 of Richard Nixon's memoirs (The White House years), and "On the Road with Charles Kuralt." But those, even though they are always important because they are books, weren't even remotely important compared to what happened.

Meridith came up to me as I was on the right side of the store, looking at those shelves, and told me there had been a woman, about my age, at the counter, though she had only seen the back of her. The woman had brought books up to the counter and the guy ringing it all up said, "Only five?" The woman replied, "Well, I bought 12 last week."

Damn it damn it damn it damn it damn it damn it damn it!!!

If Meridith had seen more of her and could recognize her, I would have asked her to follow her, bring her back, and I would have seriously proposed marriage right then and there.

That's why, on all my profiles on a few dating websites I signed up for (the most convenient being OkCupid, because it's free), I added this: "You must love books, or be willing to love books."

God's Dandruff

It snowed yesterday in Santa Clarita, especially in our Saugus neighborhood. For a while, through the afternoon, the snow didn't really stick to anything, then it did. And I achieved many of the goals of my imagined childhood, save for building a snowman. I made a snowball and threw it at my sister, who did the same to me later. It's only fair. I threw a snowball against a tree. I stuck my tongue out to catch the snowflakes and was immediately, happily, reminded of a boy's declaration in "A Charlie Brown Christmas" (I forgot which boy) of "needs sugar."

I did not, however, accomplish my greatest wish. I forgot to not pee for the entire day, and therefore I could not write my name in the snow.

Who Are You?

Yesterday, during a spate of boring errands with my family (though the company is never boring, and neither was my salad lunch at Panera), I stood at a bird cage inside PetSmart, admiring a cute blue parakeet that kept staring at me, and vice versa. After our finch Jules died a few days ago, no. And especially not with two dogs in the house. They're more understanding of birds now, but still, with parakeets needing to also be outside the cage to be played with, it's not worth the risk this time. Our dog Beaumont, back in Florida, didn't mind the birds we had. He was loving, but mostly into himself anyway.

Anyway, I went to look at this tall cage that basically introduced the bird section, and there was a $599.99 orange-and-greenish bird inside that cage. One of the employees, a girl who looked like my age, came around and asked if I needed any help. I said no, and she said, "Ok." But it wasn't your typical ok, like a dismissive ok. It was more like one of gentle mocking disappointment, like "Okaaaay." Not sure how much gentle mocking was involved, but she captured my interest right away, especially when she went to the side of that expensive bird's cage and began talking to it. Now clearly she loves this job, and this bird. But how much of that was perhaps a show for me? Was she trying to impress me? Was she interested right off? I don't really know, since I'm not good yet at accurately reading the intentions of women. I'll bet that when I read this entry a few months later or even a year later, I might laugh at that statement, maybe being better at it. But I wonder if she was interested in me in that one moment. If I was anyone else, an older gent with disturbingly wild hair, she might have given a simple "Ok" and moved on. But to go from me to the bird just like that? I don't know. I know with her being an employee of PetSmart, things have to be sold, but it's unlikely she would have received any commission from finding this bird a home. Do they have commission for things like that?

She did help me with two things. First, she showed me that I want a woman who is interested in birds, animals, whatever. In 7th grade, I dated Irene, whose house was a menagerie of animals, almost a farm. I loved it. That's part of who I am.

Secondly, I don't want to go another year without someone. I'm going to be 27 in March. I want my Nora Charles. I want my Amy Adams. I want my Erin O'Brien (Hi, Erin!). I know it may not be easy at the start, I know it will take time, but I want to seriously start the search. It's time.

I hope that girl said "Ok" like that and was interacting with the bird like that because she was interested. I wasn't really sure how to react in that moment, but I thank her for reminding me of one of the major priorities in my life this year. My first book will be out in February, I'm gradually reaching less than 200 lbs., I know the full-time career I want, and I'm thinking hard about what I want to write next (Another book of essays? A play?). Yes, it's time.