6.27.2005

What Malcolm Galdwell wants you to read

The Harvard Bookstore askedauthors to recommend summer reading.

Note: David Sedaris chose a book he edited. See earlier post.

6.22.2005

This is dedicated to the one I love

Some of you know of (or share) my long-standing adoration of Anthony Lane, film critic for the New Yorker. When my magazine arrives (usually Wednesday), I flip to the back, ignore the last page now that it's wasted on a cartoon caption contest (can't you just see the editorial meeting that led to that brilliant idea--"Hey guys, I know how to appeal to the really rich retired readers!"), and find the film reviews. David Denby is fine, but it's Mr. Lane who makes my heart go pitter pat. I've laughed out loud while reading his reviews (see his take on Yoda-speak from May), but mostly I smirk right along with his witty, often spot-on, observations. He makes me feel smart.

Anyway, Sally Potter has a new film, titled Yes. Is your pretension o'meter not buzzing yet? Let me add that the dialogue is written in rhyming couplets. Throughout.

How does Anthony Lane handle such a thing? He writes a review, my children, in rhyming couplets. Here's a teaser:

"The latest Sally Potter film, called “Yes,
Describes a love affair. I must confess
Her other work—“Orlando,” starring Tilda
Swinton, so uptight I could have killed her,"

Oh Anthony Lane, how I love thee.

David Sedaris isn't funny

Reason #1 why writers should never give interviews, and why I should never, ever read them.

6.21.2005

I heart Craig

Craigslist rocks.

We've bought a desk and a car, sold a (different) car, a computer, and a kitchen table. Every time the whole transaction took about 24 hours. The people we've bought from or sold to have been responsible and nice (and carry cash). The guy who bought our 1996 Honda Civic had met Craig at a conference, and reported that he is nerdy and normal, and has a passion for "citizen journalism." Traditional outlets for advertising (like newspapers) hate him. I think he's the best.

Oh, and a recent New Yorker article mentioned that it's easy to find someone to have sex with you on in the personals section of the List.

Here's a recent article about Craigslist and Ebay, thanks to B.:
Randall Stross in the New York Times

6.20.2005

Your perfect baby here


not a real baby
Originally uploaded by Whitrae.

For those of us who have remained childless, there looms an idea of the dream baby; you know, the child that fulfills our secret (shameful) narcissitic desires.

I have met my perfect baby. His name is Luca. He lives on...,eh, never mind.
He's the three year old son of a French man and his American wife, who have lived for the past few years in the hippy-heaven that is Montpelier Vermont. In August, they're moving to France.

Now, lots of us wish for a smart, charming, precocious bebe. Luca is bilingual. This earns high points on the pretension-'o-meter, but the best part is that he's totally fluid in his use of either English or French. A question posed in French might be answered in either language. It's his own damned choice, merci beaucoup.

Luca also owns a top hat and castanets, items that can be used separately or in conjunction as he sees fit. By the end of my evening with Luca, I not only wanted a child like him, I wanted to BE him. If only I had been raise by a French speaking family! If only I had had a top hat and castanets to be used separately or in conjunction!

I'm fully aware that my own child, should there ever be one, will wear Barbie night gowns and speak only English. Such limitations are apparent, even now, before said infant exists. Still, I think it's useful to imagine (or meet) your own ideal child, even if you know that, like your ideal life, it (or he) might be someone else's.

6.17.2005

Set your books free

Lately, several novels have come into my possession by the pass-it-on method. One person buys (or receives) a paperback, reads it, and then gives it to someone else. Since my friends often have better taste than I do, I've received some of my favorite novels of the past year that way. The Time Traveller's Wife and The Dogs of Babel are two examples.

I had earlier passed over both novels based my assumptions about their plots. Time travel doesn't do it for me (nothing that smacks of sci-fi does, really), and I stay away from anything that could possibly involved a dog's death (see post about my relationship with my own dog). I can never turn down a free book, however, so they came home with me. Both novels were surprising, and gripping, and, rare of all generalizations, well-written.

So, I've decided to start a movement. Buy a paperback (or dust one off from your bookshelves). Think of someone you know who might like it. Give it to that person. It's a great way to prove to your friends that you know them better than they know themselves.

6.16.2005

Mr. and Mrs. Smith


Love the boots
Originally uploaded by Whitrae.
We're suckers for summer blockbusters, I admit, and last week provided the season's first tingle of high budget/low moral value anticipation. It was hot in Boston (really hot), and Mr. and Mrs. Smith opened. Broadsided as the public has been with Brangelina, it follows that the film made over $50 million last weekend. Just think: two hours of searching the screen for evidence of marriage-wrecking sexual tension.

Aside from the gossip element, my expectations were low. David Denby of the New Yorker damned it with faint praise, and other reviews I've read have been of the "eh, it's summer, what'd'ya expect" variety.

Surprise #1: it's funny.
Surprise #2: it's smart(er) than you'd expect. A shootout takes place in a Home Depotish environment (He says, "I love this store" before opening fire.)

In the end, it's a silly film, with a lot riding on Jolie's pout and Pitt's trademarked look of endearing (to some) imbecility. The audience loved him, at least at the screening we attended, even when all he did was stare stupidly right out of the screen.

Most important, of course, is the sex. Jolie has enough sexual chemistry on her own to carry a love scene (or five), but the two do seem, well, involved throughout. I kind of wish they hadn't cut the film to fit a PG-13 rating. I guess all we can do is hope for a sex tape.

6.10.2005

The New York Times hates Coldplay

Isn't despising Chris Martin like killing duckings? The music is innocuous, the musicians forgettable; I mean, who cares? Wouldn't this vitriol be better directed elsewhere? How did they even muster the energy to write like that, when listening to Coldplay usually makes me nothing more than pleasantly numb?

Experience the condescension.

UPDATE: Gawker excerpts a string of articles influenced by Parale's NYT rant.

I finally listened to X and Y. It does suck.

Candy Freak: an update


Peanut, my favorite
Originally uploaded by Whitrae.

Last month I blogged about Candy Freak, and I can report that a whiff of sugar has lingered since I finished the book. We hunted down the Five Star Bar, lauded by the author as the epitome of candy bars. I agree, especially when it comes to the peanut variety.

It's awesome and can be found at Whole Foods markets. Or visit the store in Burlington, VT.

Chick on dog action


Molly
Originally uploaded by Whitrae.
So, I'm in love with my dog.

This, I've come to realize, is less unusual as you might think. In fact, lots of people have relationships with pets that border on, well, weird. Really. Curious about your own status as pet-lover? Here's a short quiz:

1) When you say "I love you," who is the statement most often directed to?
a) significant other
b) pet

2) Who do you greet first upon returing home from work?
a) significant other
b) pet


I could continute, but you probably get the point. When we first adopted Molly, I had a conversation with a friend who said that she knew (actually had dated) several people whose "most emotionally intimate relationship was with a dog." At the time I thought this bunk, but now, after a few glasses of wine, I'll blather for hours about the dog, her personality, and the squirrel carcass she rolled in yesterday.

Yes, yes, I know this all has something to do with a fear of adult (human on human) relationships. Fine. Still, I wonder what it is about dogs that opens us up so completely.

6.05.2005

Want One

One of the disappointing things about being an adult is the shifting scale of desire. Satisfaction is fleeting, and pursuing the next big thing will only lead to the next next big thing. I have a nice apartment. It's small, but big enough for two people and their pets. I have a car. It's oldish but still runs well, and being a Honda, would run until the end of the world if we asked that of it. Problem? I want a house. We had dinner with friends at their single family with a yard in the suburbs last night, and, my god, the space. There were empty rooms! A basement! Two bathrooms! A driveway! All of which led to a little wistfulness on our part.

At 30, real estate seems as remote as it did when I was 20, especially since we live in Boston. Our real estate lust has redirected itself into new car lust, because, damn it, we can afford a Subaru. To be honest, we could care less about a new car, but a new something would show the world that We Can Buy.

I imagine, sometime in the future, that we will have a house and a new car (or two). and kids. and a second dog. What, I wonder, will I want then? What unreachable goal will present itself as the road to contentment? Is this pursuit of happiness via high ticket items particularly American? Or is it human to want what we don't have, whatever the scale? I honestly don't know, but I'd love to have a BMW X5 before I'm 40.

6.02.2005

Book Report #2

I have a sin to confess: I couldn't bring myself to finish Atonement, Ian McEwan's last novel. I found it mean-spirited, which is not to say that everything I read fluffs and sparkles.

I picked up Saturday ready to make it all up to myself, McEwan, and all the friends I'd lied to. Saturday follows one man through one day, which is an old tune, I know. We like to think that the quotidian can be art, and writers have done their best to bring grace to the every day. Here, McEwan's hero, a neurosurgeon, lives through hours that swing from meaningful to trivial. Each moment lays on top of the next, revealing the character to the reader. He does revisit the past (especially in the figure of his ill mother), but, mostly, Henry Perowne looks to his children's lives and their futures.

Now, parts of this novel irritated me. Perowne's life functions too well, at least in the beginning of the novel. He's very wealthy, loves his wife, has two attractive and artistically gifted children. He doesn't strain against anything, as much as shift against the growing weight of age. When the crises comes, you will be as shocked as the characters are.

Everything rubs up against a large anti-war demonstration in London. Some of the most interesting moments of the book find Perowne, wealthy and satisfied, struggling with the situation in Iraq both philosophically and materially (being stuck in a traffic jam). His wavering is sincere, helpless, and all the more poignant given the reader's vantage point.

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