Palish

It's been two years since I've been to a concert. Now that I'm 30, I feel free to admit this fact: I rarely leave the house after 9pm, unless my dog has the runs. Last month, however, our Chicago friends visited, bringing with them indie-rock and a whiff of what we might be missing. Inspired, we bought tickets to the Decemberists, a clever concept band from Portland, OR.

Once we got to the show, however, I had some misgivings. Art school students make me especially squeamish, and the concert was swarming with them. I was feeling a little sensitive and sad (and not a little irritated) when up the stairs bounded a young performance art type wearing an Elliott Smith t-shirt (the one with the cover of Figure 8). Now, there are few things in this world that belong to me. Smith is one, and to see this Thing wearing that shirt (probably purchased post suicide) made me boil. I hated her for the shirt and felt even sadder at the thought that I won't get to see Smith play live again, as I did twice in the late '90s (once in New York, which is the coolest thing I've ever done).

Feeling sour, I never really let myself be seduced by the band, though they are cute and clever (but a little smug, so it seemed to me). It occured to me that I am too old to be a fan, and I understand why, for my dad, once the Beatles and the Beach Boys (late Beach Boys, that is) disappeared, everything went down hill for him.

The Chronicle of Higher Education ran an article last week about Foetry. In short, Alan Cordle, a research librarian, grew tired of the frequency with which major poetry prizes are won by the former students/lovers/houseboys of the judges. For those of us with any passing connection to the writing world this comes as no surprise, but, funnily enough, this guy really pisses off a lot of people, including Jorie Graham (who compares his accusations to a lynching. Nice.).

I love this guy (despite the awful pun. I also forgive him for the fact that he refers to writers on his most wanted list as "foets"). First, he's a librarian. Second, he's got a whole generation of poets and the graduate students who love them running scared. Maybe I should by him a ticket to MLA next year??

I finished book #1, The Mermaid Chair by Sue Monk Kidd yesterday and I have a few suggestions for authors, filmakers, and cultural gods out there.

1. Midlife crises don't always include adultery. Or do they? Someone?
2. Not everyone has a crazy and/or dead parent.
3. Vacations needn't be metaphors.
4. Oprah is important. She gets people to read, to lose weight, and to explore their feelings. That said, she is not the epicenter of all things. Please don't write with an eye to the book club audience. No matter what your agent says.

(spoilers here)

Despite my complaints I read the book quickly. I have a weakness for island and coastal settings (especially the non-tropical kind). Love stories still get to me. But this book wraps up in a way that irritated me to no end. No bang, no whimper, no nothing. Just what struck me as resignation packaged as a new beginning. If you're going to give a first person narrator a crazy religious parent, a dark family secret, and an affair with a CLERYGYMAN, then, please, don't end things realistically. Stick with the high drama.*

*See The Thorn Birds

Have you ever had a moment when you knew, without a doubt, that you were unoriginal? For me, the inkling of my utter sameness came when people my age started producing children. I expected a series of Jennifers and Matthews and Sarahs. Instead, I got every damn name I've ever felt might belong to my future progeny: Ella. Isabelle. Grace. Jack. Oliver. What the hell? I mean, who wants to be Chloe M.?

The climax of my baby name angst came in the form of Luke, my favorite boy name. In the past few months, we've known or heard tell of multiple Lukes (and one Luca, but he's French and doesn't count). Now, these are the offspring of friends and friends removed and I wish them no harm, but I fear a lifetime of last initials awaits these children.

I'm overreacting? Here's Massachusetts' top five girls names in 2004:

Emily-577 babies
Emma-552 babies
Olivia-544 babies
Isabella-432 babies
Abigail-427 babies

Since childhood, I have had either a doll, a character in a story, or an imaginary horse/dog/cat with each of these names, with the exception of Abigail. The world is populated with Victorian monikered infants, all ringlets and posture. And I will be forced to name my child Susie or Nancy or Jean in an attempt to pre-empt the next name craze.

Note: As I was writing this post, I got a phone call. A librarian for whom I interned at MIT had a baby girl last week. Name? Olivia.

To celebrate the end of the semester (two classes! two jobs! One parent's health crisis!), yesterday I went on a book spree. Luckily, Simmons College buys lots of new novels (unfortunately called the "Diversions collection," which sounds like cheap perfume). Since the undergraduates have gone away, I pretty much cleared the joint of anything interesting. Here's what I'll be reading:

Saturday, Ian McEwan
recommended by the inestimable Jenny M.,who introduced me to McEwan years ago.
Kite Runner, Khaled Hosseini
Geographically remote (i.e. outside of Britain), politically relevant novels generally turn me off, but I'll give it a try.
Lighthousekeeping, Jeanette Winterson
I used to love Winterson (especially The Passion), but I also used to love Tori Amos. I'm willing to try this one, however, because it's gotten strong reviews.
The Mermaid Chair, Sue Monk Kidd
Chosen mostly by title, cover, and the vague notion that I've heard that it's good. I'd be a publisher's dream if I actually bought books anymore.
Blink, Malcolm Gladwell
I teach parts of The Tipping Point and really like the logic behind Gladwell's analysis. Plus he has excellent hair.





I plan to report on each of these books as I plow my way through them. I start summer classes in a month, so I have about that long.

Slate published a great article about Proust's madeleines. It combines literary hero-worship with culinary detective work. Delicious!

Being in library school, I run into a lot of people with a sincere interest in children's books. Since my childhood was fueled by a voracious interest in bad supermarket novels ( The Thornbirds and Flowers in the Attic chief among them), mostly because they were long and had sex scenes, I've always thought books written for adolescents wasted my time, but I did go through a short Sweet Valley High phase. Sweet Valley High featured blond Californian twins who had a red convertible and boyfriends. Each book in the series began with a description of their honey colored hair and size six bodies (or something like that). Needless to say, this was not life as I knew it.

I picked up The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants expecting a cloud of Ya-Ya noxiciousness. Instead, I found four characters that were actually developed (though this-close to stereotypes, I admit). One is the daughter of hippies turned professionals, one has a dead mother (suicide, not cancer), one is latina, and one is Greek. Their problems are realistic enough and they think alot about sex. Best of all, only one is described as being beautiful, though the pants of the title accentuate each girl's best parts (providing confidence).

I say, hurrah for progress. Imagine what my daughter (or son) will have to read by the time I get around to having one.

Sunday's Arts section features a long piece about big-scale high school musicals. One school they profiled has spent upwards of $160,000 on a show, the price of which is covered by tickets, advertisements, and fees paid by participating students. It's good to see that nepotism isn't lost in that display of cash: notice that the lead in Into the Woods is played by the daughter of the Drama teacher.

Call me sentimental, but as a former drama geek myself I felt a pang of loss for our low-budget, old fashioned shows. Though to be clear, the opening notes of "Oklahoma!" still break me out into a cold sweat.

Anyway, it's an interesting article.

I just finished Candy Freak by Steven Almond. I like these lightweight history of/as books, and this one combines David-Sedaris-like family anecdotes (note the Amy Sedaris blurb on the cover), anti-corporate screeds and paeans to lost candy bars. My mom loved Abba-Zabbas, which I had forgotten, but as soon as they are mentioned in the book I remembered exactly what the wrapper looked like and how singular the texture of the peanutty the filling is. How Amero-Proustian.