Book 6: Dewey: The Small-Town Library Cat Who Touched the World, Vicki Myron with Bret Witter

I am unembarrassed to admit that I read, and cherish, the website “Cute Overload”. I breeze by “I Can Has Cheezburger”, “Cats in Sinks”, “My Cat Hates You” and various other sites full of adorable animals every few days. I cry at stories about heroic, lost or abused animals and barely made it through a recent visit to the Atlanta Humane Society. I am a sucker for cats, and therefore a sucker for books about cats.

I’m also a library employee. I went to what is generally known as “library school”, and although I am not a librarian (I’m an archivist, damn it!), I do work in a library and my field shares the philosophy and code of public service that is at the core of librarianship. For these reasons, it seemed that Vicki Myron’s current bestseller, Dewey, was made for a reader like me. Unfortunately, the sweetness of Dewey’s story is almost completely obliterated by Myron’s style and clumsy philosophizing.

Vicki Myron was head of the Spencer (Iowa) Public Library for 25 years. She is the kind of women who values family, public service and has a deep and abiding love for the town of Spencer and the state of Iowa. One cold December morning, the coldest of the year, Myron and another library employee found a tiny orange kitten shoved in the library book drop. The kitten was almost frozen, with frostbite on each paw, and Myron, with the help of her staff, nursed the kitten back to help. They named him Dewey Readmore Books and he became the country’s most famous library cats.

Myron’s book is primarily a chronicle of Dewey’s life, focusing on his mannerisms and habits and the ways in which they pleased library staff, patrons and visitors from all over the world. Dewey was clearly a special cat, in that he was extremely good with people, particularly children. I felt myself close to tears at the story of Dewey’s rescue, and only a monster wouldn’t be touched by the story of Crystal, a nonverbal girl without the ability to move her limbs or head, who would squeal with delight when Dewey would jump up on her wheelchair for a puppeted petting and then willingly sleep zipped inside her jacket.

Despite these stories, I was annoyed by Myron’s narration. The book is as much about the town of Spencer as it is a bout Dewey; Iowa was in economic crisis when Dewey was found, and his slowly growing fame not only brought the town together, but helped increase tourism to a severely depressed area. However, Myron is ill-equipped for any deep analysis and incapable of seeing beyond the borders of Iowa to the hard times that hit all over the country in the 1980s (my own father lost his contracting business when construction went bad in Texas). Her tone is frequently defensive; Myron seems to think that the rest of the country does nothing but mock Iowa and Middle American values as we swill out martinis and enjoy the unearned good life.

The third big story in the book is Myron’s own biography. We learn about her hardscrabble childhood, disastrous marriage, poor relationship with her daughter, and many, many illnesses, including her own breast cancer and cancer in members of her immediate family. At many times these episodes seem like filler; at others they are opportunities to tell other Dewey stories, but they are always also object lessons about the strength and upstanding morality of Iowans.

In addition, Myron has a severe case of “Precious Moments” disease when it comes to her own relationship with Dewey. As much time as Dewey would spend with patrons, other library staff, and even her own daughter, Myron is convinced that he really only loved and communicated with her. Last October I lost my own precious kitty to lung cancer. That’s her photo at the top of this post. Her name was Sparkle and I was devastated by the loss.

Like Myron, I felt like my relationship with my cats was special, and I wallowed in guilt that I had not noticed (or understood) the early signs of her illness. I completely understand how much an animal can mean to a human and I empathize with Myron, but Myron’s convictions are off-putting. When an elderly Dewey makes his last trip to the vet (it’s not a spoiler; you know from the introduction that this moment will come), she is hurt that Dewey would keep his sickness a secret from her. This is just the most egregious example of Myron attributing human-like qualities to Dewey. It makes her less of a professional relating a history and more of a stereotypical crazy cat-lady librarian. It hurts a story that is both touching and inspirational, set in a time and place that is ripe for more serious analysis.

New Favorite Blog

This past weekend I attended a white elephant party at my friend Julie's house (Yes! I finally have more than four friends in Atlanta!) and she introduced me to the blog Trash Heaven. Sweet Minty Jesus, take me home! There's nothing in the world I love more than to read someone hating/celebrating on the white trash of this world. Head on over and support the love/hate.

Book 5: Homecoming

Homecoming, from German writer Bernard Schlink, is a treasure. It’s hard to describe how it made me feel. The only way I can explain is that about halfway through book I realized that I did not know the narrator’s name (it’s only given once, but it’s on the back of the book), and I did not care.

The novel is the story of Peter Debauer; he is the narrator. It begins with his idyllic summers with his paternal grandparents in Switzerland. Peter has no father to speak of, as he died in the war and no one, not his mother or grandparents, are very forthcoming with details. Peter’s father is not an enormous presence in the first half of the book. He is mentioned, but not a key to the events of Peter’s life. Suddenly Peter’s father becomes an absent character and it becomes clear that the novel is a son’s search, both metaphorical and then physical, for his lost father.

Schlink’s prose is practically intoxicating. He describes the minutiae of life, an apple eaten, a book read, an affair begin and ended, in simple, touching terms. Even without remembering his name, I felt like I knew Peter, and I was frequently devastated by the bare emotion on the page. There is a great deal of honesty about the human condition in this novel. For example, when he is left by a lover, Peter describes how well he handles the break up, and how he parlayed it into other affairs, good humor, and sympathy from friends. An then, suddenly:

“No, that’s not what happened. I wish it had; I wish I had been so ironic, removed, in charge. Instead I was childish.”

What follows is a chapter listing Peter’s faults as he deals with heartbreak. He is cruel, dull, lazy and hateful. He treats women terribly and becomes a user of them. His friends finally pull him aside and intervene, which he ignores. Like all of us, he is childish and spiteful until ready to be human again. Schlink’s description of this state is striking. He knows us, he knows me, because he knows himself and bares it in his work.

The novel feels, for a long time, like it nothing but the story of a man’s like. He grows up, goes to school and finds a job, falls in and out of love and fights with his mother. But the book quietly becomes a mystery as well. As a child, in those summers with his grandparents, Peter was given reams and reams of paper from a series of novels edited by his grandparents, “Novels for Your Reading Pleasure and Entertainment.” His grandparents gave him the bound galleys because paper was scare in Germany after World War II. They warned him, and not in a mysterious way, to never read the novels printed on one side, that there were better things for him to be reading. Peter always obeyed until out of sheer boredom, he began the story of a soldier coming home from the war. He is enchanted by the story and disappointed when he realizes that he has already torn out the ending for a school paper.

Years later, Peter rediscovers the story when unwrapping items from storage. He becomes engrossed all over again, and now, with a college education, recognizes the soldier’s story as a retelling of The Odyssey, but still has no ending or even the author’s name. Over many years, Peter returns and abandons the mystery of the story, which becomes the mystery of his lost father and own birth.

Homecoming is also the story of modern Germany. Peter was born during World War II, and his story extends over decades. He flies to Berlin the week the wall is falling and the book ends soon after September 11th. The character of his country changes slowly as he ages and is so artfully rendered that the landscape of his home town, and the Switzerland of his youth, are as equally characters, if not more so, than people. It is a novel of “fathers and sons”, as the book jacket proclaims, but it is also a novel of modern Germany.

As mundane as many of the events seem, the ending of the novel is kind of a puzzle. Peter travels to New York as a visitor at Columbia. There he is drawn further into the story, specifically through The Odyssey and its murky morality. He is also subjected to a strange psychological experiment; it’s enough out of character with the rest of the book to have made me question Schlink’s decision to include it, but the tone of the story never changes. Schlink powers through this strangeness (and trust me, I’m dieing to give it away), but ultimately it is rewarding. Peter not only perseveres, but he breaks with the past, finishing his own ambivalent odyssey.

Book 4: The Reavers

The Reavers is the final novel of writer George MacDonald Fraser, who passed earlier this year. Never heard of him? Well, you should. In hi s lifetime he authored fifteen fantastic Flashman novels; all following the adventures of scoundrel Sir Henry Paget Flashman via false “memoirs”. Fraser’s style is always humorous and somewhat scholarly, with a fine and funny editorial voice. The Reavers is not a Flashman novel, but a comic adventure in the vein of Shakespeare, set in 1590s England.

The comparison to Shakespeare is due to the many plot contrivances that constantly reunite heroes and heroines with each other and their enemies. Think “Much Ado About Nothing” and “Twelfth Night”. Does anyone really believe that Benedict and Beatrice would talk themselves into loving each other just from overhearing some false gossip? And no one notice that Viola isn’t really a boy? Of course not. It’s the craftsmanship, the poetry and above all else, the humor that keeps it interesting.

Each chapter is separated by a narrator’s voice, one that is strong throughout, but also an easy example for the tone of the novel.

“Well, it’s been quite a night…highway robbery, swordplay, various raids (including one you haven’t heard about yet); hens; cats, a fortune in jewelry carried off; Bangtail deceased, Beauty robbed and beglamoured, our leading man in deep schtuck (but at least he’s fed and redolent of after-shave). What else? Ah, yes, dastardly Spanish rogues a-plotting to o’erthrow our green and pleasant land. A tangled skein, gossips, but fret not, it’s all under control…we hope.”

That’s quite a bit of the plot in a nutshell. There are two heroes, Archie Noble and Bonny Gilderoy, an English and a Scottish spy, and two ladies, the haughty and beautiful Lady Godiva, and her cute and lusty friend, Kylie. They uncover and must stop a Spanish plot (perpetrated by, among others, a monk with a Deep South accent, his pygmy companion, and a saucy sorceress known as La Infamosa), all while seducing each other, leading rebellions, falling in love, and enlisting a gang of football hooligans to save the futures of England and the Scottish crown.

The events are all preposterous and tongue in cheek; mentions of Paul Newman, Arnold Schwarzeneger, Jell-O, LSD, and football jerseys worn by highwaymen serve as constant, and not unwelcome, reminders that they are meant to be. When a monk wishes for an “anachronistic Polaroid”, it’s hard not laugh. Despite the good humor, the story does come a bit unglued toward the end; it’s as if Fraser decided to wrap it up as ridiculously as possible. However, the ludicrous ending in no way takes away from the overall story. Like Shakespeare, humor is Fraser’s saving grace. Who can really care about the plot when we’re having so much fun?

The Wrestler

I have been really remiss in not posting the official trailer for The Wrestler; it has been out for a couple of weeks. And God damn, is it a stomach punch. Since Mickey Rourke was nominated for a Golden Globe for Best Actor this week, I thought I'd finally post it.

Twilight, My Ass

My truck broke down, so I am using it as an excuse to take the day off. That gives me a great opportunity to troll that series of tubes that makes life worth living. On it, I found a great Cracked article about what today's vampires can learn from The Lost Boys. It came with a clip of the world's most awesome saxophone solo:

Yeah! Where can I get a pair of those pants!

Book 3: The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, Douglas Adams

This book is delightful.

No really, that’s about it. What else can I say for a thirty-year-old cult classic? I had never read this novel but, like you, I had heard about it for years from myriad Adams groupies. I did go to see the recent film version, starring Mos Def, among others, on a date with one of those groupies and I loved the film. He complained that the jokes were stale because he knew them all. I found it funny and refreshing, and Alan Rickman is the Voice of God, so what was the problem again?

After finishing the novel I claimed that it was a comedy novel masquerading as sci-fi, then realized that I said that only to excuse myself for liking the book. You see, I’ve always had an aversion to all things science fiction. Anything with stars in it, whether it is wars or trek, leaves me in a cold shudder. I find the story lines, acting, dialogue, and direction, everything appalling. George Lucas has no place here.

Then I realized that I was full of shit. It started when I thought, “I hate sci-fi. Except for Futurama.” But I excused that because, you know, Futurama is a brilliant comedy, just with space and robots and aliens. Not really sci-fi. The I caught myself thinking, “I hate sci-fi, except for Futurama. Oh, and Firefly.” It didn’t take long for me to discover that my “I hate sci-fi, except…” list was a mile long. In addition to those wonderful shows, I love Flash Gordon, Blade Runner and Red Dwarf. I even have very fond memories of the Ken Barry/Sandy Duncan vehicle The Cat from Outer Space.

I’m even a fantasy nerd! I own all of Buffy and Angel on DVD, I collect the comics and Labyrinth is sitting on my DVD player right now! None of us are innocent. I may sneer at fans of Hans Solo, Captain Kirk, and Frodo, but I’d watch anything that Joss Whedon told me to.

It did not surprise me to learn that Adams wrote for Monty Python in the 1970s. I grew up watching Flying Circus and the related movies, which my parents supported. I think that Python, more than any other comedy show, is the glue that binds disparate groups of nerds together. Their kind of humor, topical and absurd, childish and mean-spirited, but always intelligent, is a proto-type for people like Whedon bringing humor to the genres of sci-fi and fantasy. I will never love Star Trek, because it isn’t thought provoking or funny to make up for the shoddy production and poor acting. But I will accept that, in some cases, I do like science fiction.

Book 2: Boys Will Be Boys: The Glory Days and Party Nights of the Dallas Cowboys Dynasty

Yee-haw y’all! Remember the drama of Aikman, Irvin, Smith and Prime Time? Well strap yourselves in because Jeff Pearlman has pulled together every heart-wrenching story of hard knocks, pathetic losses, glorious plays and unbelievably scandalous behavior to deliver the thrilling, and often hilarious, story of the Dallas Cowboys dynasty of the 1990s.

Pearlman knows his audience well enough to start off with a bang. Did you know that at training camp in 1995 Michael Irvin stabbed a teammate in the neck with a pair of scissor? Over his place in the line to get his haircut? There is no more perfect metaphor for the downhill slide of the once mighty Cowboys who, by 1995, were showing the effects of three Super Bowl wins in four years, as well as all of the hard partying that accompanied it.

In 1989 the Dallas Cowboys were a dismal, but well-respected franchise. Dismal because of the team’s mediocre talent, respected because of Coach Tom Landry, who, despite many losses, was well loved for both his record and his hard-working Christian ethics. The face of the franchise was changed forever when the team was bought by devilish Arkansas oilman Jerry Jones, who immediately fired Landry and replaced him with University of Miami coach Jimmy Johnson, who was known less for his hard work and more for his helmet hair and the unabashed thuggery of his players.

Johnson and Jones represented a completely new way of football, one that allowed for players to party as hard on the field as they played on. And no disrespect to Landry, but Johnson was a new kind of coach, one who did not care about the race of his players. In an era where college coaches recruited black men, just not too many of them, Johnson was only interested in talent, no matter the package. He was also a brilliant drafter/trader of players. In some of his first acts as head coach, he drafted Troy Aikman and traded the legendary Herschel Walker for a bushel of veteran journeymen and high draft picks. Despite a losing first season (1-15!), Johnson built a team on the shoulders of future Hall of Famer's quarterback Troy Aikman, running back Emmitt Smith and receiver Michael Irvin.

It’s clear that Johnson and Jones were well aware of the Cowboys off the field antics with drugs, alcohol, strippers and prostitutes. Jones’ own love of booze and whores frequently saw him partying as hard, and often with the same women, as his players. Johnson, despite a love for drinking, only cared about winning. As long as players were on time, alert, and practiced hard, he didn’t care what they did at night. Michael Irvin was widely praised for being able to drink and fuck all night, but still be the first and last person at practice and in the weight room. Johnson was a tyrant of a coach, but the kind of tyrant who could mold players into champions. Under his tutelage the Cowboys won two consecutive Super Bowls, in 1991 and 1992.

The bizarre antics of the Cowboys did not just stop at cocaine and hookers. Defensive back Charles Haley, already crazy when he played with the 49ers, went insane in Dallas. He was known for masturbating in the locker room and in team meetings, saying things to his teammates like, “You know you want to suck it.” Now stop. Go back and read that sentence again.

Haley was not the only Cowboy with a legendary member and sexual appetite. Team members frequented the finest strip clubs in Dallas, but one they became notorious around the city, they started their own house of ill repute, known as the White House, in a quiet Dallas suburb. Within the White House Cowboy players could bring strippers, prostitutes and groupies for an orgy of sex, drugs and booze. Michael Irvin was well known for orchestrating sexual scenarios, by instructing women, in ones, twos, and threes, on what to do to specific teammates. Irvin and another player, Erik Williams were both later arrested for sexual assault (Irvin’s second arrest; after his first, for drug possession, he came to court in a floor-length mink coat). They were not convicted.

Do not think that the sum of the Cowboys was scandal. Much of Pearlman’s book in dedicated to their amazing play on the field. Non-football fans should not be afraid; Pearlman writes about games with great passion and in language that laymen can follow. If you do not watch football, you will still understand what happened in the game for the Cowboys to win, or lose.

For each of the players highlighted, and there are far more than just the stars of the team, we learn about their childhood, high school and college career, and what brought the to football and the Cowboys. Each story is simple and short, but it turns each player into a full human being, and not just a coke-snorting millionaire caricature. Pearlman also shares a lot of feel-good stories of the players’ charity, and not to just the standard groups of sick kids, but to other Cowboys staff and players. A standout story is that of cornerback Larry Brown. Days after his son Kristopher was born premature, doctors discovered that the infants brain had dissolved. The Browns chose to pull the plug, and in desperation of what to do and how to act, Brown took a private jet to play with his team that Sunday. On arrival, he found his teammates on the filed with “KB” stickers on their helmets. Brown played that day and the Cowboys won, dedicating the rest of their season to his son.

Brown’s story is incredibly touching, as he, a workmanlike player but no star, went on to become a Cowboy hero and MVP of their final Super Bowl win in 1995. After Super Bowl XXVIII, Jerry Jones was fed up with Coach Jimmy Johnson taking what he felt should be shared credit for the Cowboys’ back to back wins, and fired him. He replaced Johnson with Barry Switzer, former coach of the University of Oklahoma Sooners, who had been forced to resign in disgrace.

Switzer was both a wonderful and terrible fit for the Cowboys. His relaxed “we’re all friends here” attitude was a relief to a team that had suffered under Johnson’s tyranny, but Switzer had a lot less coaching acumen. On top of that, he loved wine, women and song as much as his players and boss. It was in the Switzer era that the White House opened, that players started getting arrested (for assault, for DUIs, for drugs), and that egos went unchecked. Coach Switzer didn’t care if players were late to practice or slept through meetings. He supported Jones’ hiring of Deion “Prime Time” Sanders, a man so talented that he could afford to be lazy in practice, which set a bad example for the younger members of the team.

Most importantly, Switzer could not form a positive relationship with Aikman. Aikman felt that Switzer was a fool and a patsy for Jones, and that many team losses were his fault (all true). Switzer also made the grave mistake of punishing Aikman for accusations of racism by an assistant coach (whose pump had been primed by Sanders), which split the locker room in half. On one side were Aikman and his best friend and team brother, Michael Irvin, as well as all of the veteran players who followed them, on the other were Sanders and the younger players who admired his skill and flashy ways. It was a schism that the team did not recover from.

In Switzer’s first season the Cowboys made the playoffs, but did not advance past the first round. In his second year, the Cowboys made the Super Bowl. For this Super Bowl the Cowboys invented the “Port-A-Skank” concept, by hiring limos to bring favorite prostitutes from Dallas to Tempe, Arizona, so as not to fall prey to local, untrustworthy women. Super Bowl XXX is also noteworthy for the poor play of the Cowboys in the face of the Pittsburgh Steelers, as well as being the first big game the team had played in front of an audience that was not primarily Dallas backers, The tide had turned against “America’s Team” and they one mainly due to mistakes made by the Steelers, as well as several important interceptions by cornerback Larry Brown.

After Super Bowl XXX the team was in a downward spiral. Jones finally faced the truth, that his old friend and new drinking buddy Switzer was simply not equipped to run a team. It was widely discussed with the amount of talent on the Cowboys, anyone could have coached them to a Super Bowl win. Switzer resigned (he and Johnson are now both professional sports analysts), and was replaced by an even more incompetent coach, Chan Gailey. Stars Aikman and Irvin were forced to retire by injuries. Jones, convinced he was a drafting genius, continued to overpay for underperformers. The dynasty was done.

Pearlman’s book is largely compiled from interviews with over 100 former Cowboys players, including Michael Irvin, and coaches, including Johnson and Switzer, and even owner Jerry Jones. Unfortunately, he does not cite his interviews, but does include citations for hundreds of articles and other media. His writing style is relaxed enough to keep the book moving at a quick pace, but there is no analysis present. Pearlman does not deal in great metaphors, he tells a story.

Occasionally, Pearlman’s easygoing style is a little disconcerting. In our post-Sports Guy world of sports writing, Pearlman falls prey to the desire to have a conversation with his readers, rather than reporting to them. For example, on Michael Irvin, “Did he love sleeping with two, three, four, five (yes five) women at a time in precisely choreographed orgies? Yes.” Parenthetical asides like that one are sprinkled liberally throughout the book, and although they do create an atmosphere of camaraderie and amazement with the author, they also serve to force the reader out of the narrative in a very annoying way.

What really stands out about Pearlman’s writing is his humor. It is clear that he is a fan of his subjects (particularly Aikman), but that does not stop him from being critical about his subjects, on and off the field. When they are bad, he punishes them, but he does so with such overall good humor that the book does not feel like a grudge or polemic. With chapter titles like “Nut-Huggers”, “Anal Probe” and “Super Bowl XXX (aka: Attack of the Skanks)”, it is impossible not to laugh along with Pearlman. Luckily, as with those bad, bad Cowboys, there is a lot of heart here too. Enough heart to be a saving grace.

The End of the Affair

Oh my God! Is it real? Can this be happening?

Many of you may have heard stories about my newish upstairs neighbors and their epic fights. Fight topics include:

1. His laziness
2. His "ugly ass baby" with "that bitch"
3. His pot smoking
4. How the stuff they fight about is stupid. Really, they fight about their fights.

Today (I'm home sick and the fighting has interrupted my essential daytime sleeping every morning) there was a big blowout about how he lives with her, but loves another woman. Yeah, that seems like a pretty important problem right there. Anyway, she told him to call up Tyrone and not to come back, 'cause he ain't her boyfriend no more! Is it real? Will there really be no more fighting?

Hmm. It seems now that he's been kicked, she's on the phone with every one of her friends, yelling about the break up. I'm not safe yet...

In other, blog post related news, I recently watched both versions of "The End of the Affair", based on the Graham Greene novel of the same title. Despite the newer film having semi-nude Ralph Fiennes in some decently raunchy sex scenes, I vote for the older version. It's far more melodramatic, but it's more linear, which works well for those of us with short attention spans, and it stars the God of All that is Holy and Good, Van Johnson. Praise his name.

(Apparently VJ is still alive in a nursing home somewhere being crotchety and making all of the staff hate him. Can this be verified?)

In other non-blog post related news, I got a second job! A friend of my boss owns a pet-sitting company, so starting next week I'm going to get payed to play with other people's cats and dogs. Considering I love animals and need all of the money that I can get, I consider that a pretty sweet deal.

Book 1: Blonde Faith

100 Books in One Year: Blonde Faith, by Walter Mosley.

In the interest of full disclosure, I should say that I already adore Walter Mosley. I am predisposed to love any of his novels, especially the Easy Rawlins novels. It should be no surprise that I give high marks to the newest Rawlins mystery, Blonde Faith.

For those unfamiliar with Mosley, he has written 11 Easy Rawlins mysteries, beginning with Devil in a Blue Dress in 1990. Describing one of these books in and of itself would be an injustice; they are truly a series and the character of Easy, as well as the city of Los Angeles, and the United States itself, grow throughout the books.

For instance, in Devil, Easy is an unemployed machine worker in 1950s small town of Los Angeles; he and his friends are “Negro” or “colored” and Easy is on his best behavior around the white men who draw him into a mystery beyond his control. By the time of Blonde Faith, the post-Watts 1960s, Easy is a licensed PI, who calls himself “black” and demands “Mr.” And “sir” from the white folks who continue to disrespect his skin color. Los Angeles has finally become a city, with distinctive sections dividing black and Hispanic, and fewer and fewer avocado trees holding back the concrete.

Like the other Rawlins books, Easy is set on the case of a colorfully named friend, Christmas Black, who has disappeared, leaving his daughter, Easter Dawn Black, in Easy’s care. Christmas is a Vietnam veteran, a war that Mosley carefully contrasts with Easy’s service in World War II, and a killer. He disappearance is entwined with the disappearance of a thief named Pericles Tarr and both of them are, of course, linked to Easy’s missing best friend, Raymond “Mouse” Alexander, easily the finest character in Mosley’s universe.

As it is in the best of Mosley’s books, the action is tied up with a beautiful woman, Faith Laneer, an ex-nun and missionary who had the bad luck to marry a drug dealer and go to Christmas Black for help. While on the case, Easy is also trying to deal with the dissolution of his adopted family. His son Jesus (the little boy he saved in Devil) has moved out and had a baby, his daughter Feather is almost a woman, and Easy is still pining for Bonnie, the lover he sent away to save Feather’s life. All these plot developments have come from previous novels, and Blonde Faith is nothing if not the portrait of a man on the edge, a man who has lost everything and doesn’t really care that happens to him. The novel’s final scene is maddening; it is a completely ambiguous as to Easy’s fate. It is the kind of moment that made me want to drive straight to LA and shake the shit out of Mosley.

Again, for the uninitiated, Mosley’s books are a love letter to the city of Los Angeles. Mosley’s work is valuable in and of itself, but it has special value for bringing attention to a side of LA not seen in other noir or LA books that focus on the wealthy and glamorous. Mosley’s LA is all about tarpaper speakeasies and shotgun houses and backwoods witches and folk that still know each other from the Fifth Ward back in Houston. Black Los Angeles is still a small town, even in the 1960s, and Easy and Mouse are stars of the community, one for doing good and one for being very, very bad.

In addition to the city of Los Angeles, blackness is also a major theme. Easy constantly thinks about and notices the negotiations he makes with other black and white people. There is a steady commentary on race in America throughout all of Mosley’s work, and it only strengthens the drama and expands on Easy’s character. By Blonde Faith, Easy has a few white men that he calls friends, but that does not stop him from considering their race at all times, and noting the ways in which they have to help him get through ordinary situations, like dealing with a security guard that doesn’t think a black man belongs in his building.

Sexuality is as important as blackness in Mosley’s novels. Women never seem to be just pretty, but beautiful, and even those that are plain are so full of sexual energy that they practically sizzle on the page. The titular Faith Laneer is as gorgeous as a movie star, and Easy begins a relationship with a young girl, Tourmaline, who turns heads and almost makes him forget his lost love. Even men in Mosley’s novels are either handsome or sexy, and he ahs a gift for physical description that I find missing in many other novelists. His sex scenes are tense and realistic without being graphic. For a gay man, Mosley seems to truly understand women, and incorporates personality and important character notes into physical description. To wit,

“Most beauty fades upon closer examination. Coarse features, unnoticed awkwardness, false teeth, scars, alcoholism, or just plain dumb; there is an abundance of possible flaws that we might miss on first sight. These blemishes are what we come to love in time. We are drawn to the illusion and stay for the reality that makes up the woman. But Faith did not suffer under the light of earnest scrutiny. Her skin and eyes, the way she moved even under the weight of her fears, were just so…flawless.”

Bam. Read them all friends, read them all.

Prep

So it turns out that I'm an uppity little joiner. I decided to take part (if the big guys will let me) in the Cannonball Read. It's a quest to read 100 books in a year, and I'm a little late, as it started in September.

I've been journaling the books that I read for years, and I do contribute reviews to both GoodReads and LibraryThing, so I'm not sure why I didn't get involved in this earlier. I do love a challenge.

Another reason that I'm getting involved is my own hubris. I love to show off, and I keep getting annoyed reading other people's reviews on Pajiba. I keep thinking "I could do that" and "I read two books this week"! I'm so damn uppity...

I leave for Austin in the morning and trivia starts in an hour, so my first review won't come up until I get back. It'll be of Walter Mosley's Blonde Faith, which I knocked out while on vacation this week, as I was deciding to join the challenge. I solonly swear that I will not cheat.

Let the Dead Bury the Dead

It's no secret that I am in love with Keith Olbermann. He's handsome, he knows a lot about sports, and he feeds my fetish for men in their 40s who wear a suit and tie everyday. It's also no secret that I generally watch him with the sound off; he's just too smug, even for me. And for those of you who have heard me preach on one of a million subjects, then you know how self-righteous I can get.

Occasionally his is amazing. His defense of Arrested Development a few years ago was masterful, and his recent and passionate woodsheading of Proposition 8 is worth it as well. Listen:



I'm not a big defender of straight marriage, despite coming from parents who are still together after more than 30 years, so I have no problem with extending those legal rights to gay folks as well. I could care less who wants to get married and I feel like it doesn't affect me in any way at all. But it does, doesn't it? I may wake up someday and want to get married, for love or for legal protection, and feel more passionately about the institution than I do now.

Do I care about the rights of gay and lesbian friends of mine (or people I don't know) who want to get married? Of course. We should all be able to make the same mistakes in the eyes of the law. Marriage is not sacred in this country; it's a legal institution. I saw this video posted on both Quizlaw and the FourFour (links to the side), so there are some legal minded people, and some gay minded people, respectively, who were touched by Olbermann's latest rant. It's a very fine piece.

In other Olbermann news, I've been happy to see that he's appearing on Sunday Night Football this season and that he was a part of MSNBC's election night coverage. I watched the live feed on their site for the big night because it was a lot better than some of the other cable news feeds, and I was happy to see that Keith's smugnedd was kept in check by the rest of the team. Chris Matthews, however, could not keep the shit-eating grin off of his face. It didn't bother me, of course, because I'm a flag-burning Commie who was happy to see Obama win. Now if he would just lean a little more to the left...

Animal Factory

The current issue of Entertainment Weekly has a profile of Mickey Rourke and his performance in the upcoming film The Wrestler. I've really got to get it together to see this film as soon as it hits Atlanta. I even know where I am going to go: Midtown Art Cinema, where I can drink Red Stripe and put garlic cheese powder on my popcorn. I know it sounds gross, but salty flavored powders have always been a downfall of mine. Garlic salt is very popular at Casa de Courtney.

To the point! This article is a little bit fluffy (Rourke's arrest for spousal abuse doesn't report the whole "he shot his wife in the shoulder" thing), but the bones are good. And unlike some of the more recent work on Rourke that I have read, it mentions his return to doing good work in the early years of this century. My favorite that the article lists is Steve Buscemi's Animal Factory, in which Rourke plays an over the top prison diva sharing a cell with leading man Edward Furlong. He's only in a few scenes, but, like always, he steals them. This was Buscemi's directorial debut and it is sold. It also stars Willem Dafoe, who is actually not the creepiest part of this movie. That award goes to prison rapist Tom Arnold. Yep, that Tom Arnold.

Mickey really has been putting out some good work in the last 15 years, it has just been in incredibly small roles in small films. (Buffalo 66 anyone?) Sure, he has still been guilty of some direct to DVD movies, but enough younger filmmakers who remember him from the 1980s have been casting him in small, juicy roles to keep him honest. Thank God he's gotten a second chance. Maybe America will finally understand my obsession.

Thanks to Ted for the article!

The Merry Wives of Windsor

I'm trying to deal with my overwhelming laziness when it comes to blogging. I've faced up to it and deleted my two other blogs, the lackluster "Ubiquitous Archivist" and the awesome "Never Get Involved in a Land War in Asia". Because they are gone now I may start posting on those subjects (archives in popular culture and great advice from movies and television) in this space. Feel free to skip any of my archives related diatribes of Scatman Corruthers inspired hating on hippies if you feel so inclined.

Actually, fuck that. Everyone should have to take advice from the Scatman:

Everyday Drinking

Oh, sweet November, can you not come quicker?

The last month I've been nothing but a ball of nerves. With our first big deadline approaching at work, helping out with Traci's wedding, and trying to deal with my own (and the nation's) sudden and painful financial problems, I've been under a great deal of strain, both mental and physical.

Work, thankfully, has evened out, and it looks like smooth sailing for us for at least the near future. The stress of work actually manifested itself physically: painful, itchy hives in weird patches on my arms, legs and back. I''m not positive, but they coincided with both my work stress level skyrocketing AND my wearing some terribly itchy, dry-clean only pants AND a trip to the Atlanta Humane Society. A combination, perhaps?

I know that something like a wedding shouldn't stress me out, but it did. Because I had the fabulous Javier as a house guest on Thursday night, I got to take a day off of work. I had hoped to show him some of Atlanta on Friday, but I slept very late, due to both Benadryl and an early morning fight between my upstairs neighbors that interrupted my normal pattern. They love to fight! In fact, on Sunday evening, they had a big fight about how stupid their fights are. How meta!

Yes, I can actually HEAR the words that they scream at each other. It's terrible. They started this morning at about 6:50, when I was trying to squeeze in a few more winks before I absolutely had to get up. I only know their names from them yelling them out. Awful. Just awful.

So I slept late and Javier and I were reduced to bagels and errands before we hit the road to Statham. It's an easy trip and I love being around Traci's family. Especially her parents and her Aunt LaRue. We had rehearsal and dinner and I learned that by accepting the position of "wedding coordinator" I was in charge of the processional, the schedule for the reception and just generally helping out. It sounds easy and it looked easy, but I still felt harried during the wedding and reception.

Before the ceremony we hung out at Traci's parents house, just helping with cooking, a playlist for the reception, putting out programs, etc. The wedding was at the Community Center, two blocks "uptown" from Traci's folks. Traci and her bridesmaids used a room at the Police Department next door for their preparations. In my opinion, everything went really well. I had a good time, despite the fact that I kept saying "This is my last responsibility" and then realizing I had another duty. Maybe I'm not as organized as I thought.

We all stayed in Athens Saturday night. It's a fun town and there's one bar that serves $2 Lone Star. Bless them. Unfortunately the Roadhouse, not to be confused with Logan's Roadhouse, is like other Athens bars in that at a certain point, a lot of frat boys are going to wander in and a lot of shitty music will get played.

After a few hours of drinking we all headed over to the 40 Watt Club, an establishment that I was happy to visit based solely on the number of live albums that I own that were recorded there. There was some horrible DJ, horrible in the sense that he did not understand transitions or mixing, was using a PRERECORDED mix, and was really full of himself. I've never seen a DJ spend 15% of his time running to the front of the stage to interact with the crowd. Tres douchey.

After a few hours of dancing and more drinking, everyone left but me and Javier. And we were rewarded for our fidelity! Yeah, that's right, the DJ who I will always malign did throw us a bone and play the "Tootsee Roll". Since Javier and I both graduated in the 1990s (1998 and 1997, respectively), it was a fond reminder of our high school years. It was also fun to watch the young folk dance to a song with instructions and not be able to follow them. How hard is "To the left, to the right..."? And when the man says "There's a dip coming on", there's a goddamn dip coming on!

That night did render a good "I knew I was drunk when.." story, which is, I knew I was drunk when Javier and I walked home and spontaneously started telling each other how much we love one another, miss one another, were so happy to have spent time together, etc. And then sudden hugging, while still walking. That and when I got in the shower and realized I had no motor skills. Suddenly soaping up my own ass was a mystery to me.

What will never be a mystery to me is the appeal of The Grit. We went for lunch on Sunday and Sweet Zombie Jesus, the food is fantastic! My cheese grits looked like a creme brulee, so browned and crusty was the cheese on top. And the use of cheese! To call it "liberal" would be an insult! Instead I will call it a flag-burning, abortion-loving, gay-friend-having, Communist use of cheese! Bless those hippies.

I came home from dropping Jav off at the airport and crawled into bed exhausted and still full of cheese. It was nice to come home and find my Sunday Times stolen and my neighbors fighting. It felt very welcoming.

And then back to work, where I could finally relax. This week has been busy, but good, as the bulk of the pain is already past. And then last night Tom and I managed third place at trivia (we've placed four weeks in a row now) and another team bought is a shot and now I am hungover and in pain in the office. It doesn't mean I can't work, it just means I have to cocoon myself a little more than usual. Headphones help, and that the person I talked to most is stuck in a four hour line to vote.

Another thing that has got me all riled up: the election. Whenever I think about McCain/Palin winning, I find myself on the verge of tears. My country can't betray me again, can it?

If it does, and I think it might, please help me with my drinking. It's already wildly out of hand, and after nearly six months of not smoking, I'm back at it again. Be a good friend and help me curb my addictions, okay? It's just that I love to drink; it takes me to a happy place that I can't find otherwise. Sigh. This post went from fun to depressing pretty quickly. To cheer you up, imagine me and Javier obeying the "Now slide!" command to this:

Ham on Rye

I want to thank everyone for sending me various links to stories about MR's recent triumph at the Venice Film Festival. I am very proud of y'all for paying attention; you know what I like!

I'm also proud of Mickey these days. Not only is he the lead of the Golden Lion winning The Wrestler, but he also has a supporting role in the upcoming film The Informers, which is based on the novel of the same title by one of my favorite authors, Brett Easton Ellis. The male lead in that one is Billy Bob Thorton AND it also stars Chris Isaak. How could you possibly go wrong?

There is no trailer out yet for, but here is a clip of an interview with Mickey and director Darren Aronofsky (Pi, Requiem for a Dream, just so you can see how scary he is looking these days. That's a triple bagger if I ever saw one.



And because it is out, here's the trailer for The Informers. I think I might approve of any use of "Blue Monday". Also, Winona Ryder's in it.



Is that Brad Renfro's last film?

Tales of the City

Week before last I headed out to San Francisco for the Society of American Archivists Annual meeting. Contain yourselves.

It was a good trip, but it would have been a great trip had I not gotten sick on the place on the way out there. I fell asleep about halfway through the five hour flight and when I woke up, I had a sore throat. By the time we landed I had a full on cold that lasted significantly longer than the trip. This doesn't mean that I didn't have a good time and learn a few things.

1. The Hilton Hotel chain is practically useless.

Our hotel was enormous, but with tiny rooms and unbelievably expensive amenities ($5 for the pool? Really?), and it just wasn't that nice. For half the price I could have stayed at the Holiday Inn and gotten free Internet and some eggs in the morning. I really shouldn't speak ill of all Hilton Hotels, as the was the first one I've actually stayed in, and I know from experience that the Austin Hilton has a rather lovely, decently priced restaurant (The Fin and Porter) in it. My friend Jones took his lady there on her 30th and they printed special menus up for the occasion. Nice!

So maybe not all Hiltons are created equal. Maybe some are nice and pretty and useful and some are dull, drab, overpriced and have way too many people coming in and out of them.

2. Everything you hear about AT&T Park is true.

Good God, is that a beautiful ballpark. The first night that I was in town I walked over for the Giants vs. Rockies game and it is a lovely place. I had a seat out in the bleachers and was not prepared for how cold it was. The park is right on the Bay (for non baseball fans that's a literal "on the Bay"; across the wall is water), and it was freezing. As per the recommendation of The New York Times, I got the hot crab sandwich (available only at one stand behind the scoreboard), which is two pieces of sourdough buttered and grill on the flat grill, then slathered with hot crab meat, a tiny bit of mayo, some tomato slices and served with a lemon wedge. Worth $15? Why, fuck yes.

At AT&T they have cultural nights and the night I went it was "India Independence" night. My section was full of folks in formal, traditional Indian dress. One of the men had a drum and at random times during the game, would start up a beat and inspire an impromptu Indian Dance Party in the stands. There was also a whole crew of soccer hooligans in the section who got really into the dancing, so pretty soon it was a British Soccer League/Indian Dance Party. I never got involved, mainly because the eating of that crab sandwich really dulled me to other sensations, but I was jealous of the hats given to the Indian folks: a regular black baseball cap with "San Francisco Giants" in orange Hindi script on the front. I came really close to tripping a little girl in her own sari and jacking her hat. Lucky for her, the crab really slowed me down. It's like a drug.

3. San Francisco has some amazing history and is really fun.

The last time that I went to SF was for a day trip with my friend Brooke (see below), when she was living in Davis, CA. It was a fun trip, but one day isn't really enough to experience a city like San Francisco. Honestly, in what city is one day enough?

Sue, one of our colleagues from Stanford University, took us on a tour of SF labor and civil rights sites, as well as defunct speakeasies. She works with the local "living history" group and has lived in SF for 30 years, so she is well informed. Also, her partner runs Bolerium Books, a used book store in the Mission District that specializes, among other things, in labor history.We didn't ride a streetcar, but we did ride the bus! To round out the night, Sue took us to a new speakeasy, where you have to have a password to get it. Yes, it's a gimmick, but the atmosphere was great and the drinks were delicious. A cucumber gimlet? But of course!

4. Indian pizza is awesome.

Friday afternoon my friend Brooke (graduate school at Ole Miss) picked me up at the hotel for a too quick visit. It's nice to have friends that you can fall into the same routine with, even after not seeing them for four years, which was the last time that I made it out to California. We went to the W Hotel, where her husband Will works, for drinks until he was off. Then to a micro-brewery (okay, but not enough watery-ass lager to please my white-trash ass), and off to their house by the ocean. Literally, by the ocean; it's like two blocks to the beach. It was really nice to go out there, as I've been to the Bay in CA but not the coast.

We ordered dinner from there favorite Indian pizza place, which involves regular pizza crust (not naan, as I thought it would), and meat or vegetables, curry and cheese. Delightful! After eating and chatting until 11:30, we realized that the cab I called for at 10:30 was not coming, so Brooke checked the bus schedule and sent me down to the corner to wait for the bus; the line that they live on goes directly from the beach and into downtown, stopping only one block from the Hilton. So I waited, in the dark, in the thick fog (the first I'd seen in San Francisco), with my back to the strip of woods between the street and the beach, a foghorn blaring in the distance, and a homeless man fighting with himself in two different voices to my left. I missed one bus and the second was out of service, but the midnight bus showed up on time, warm, clean and pleasant. I blessed Brooke for loaning my a book (it kept me sane during through the foghorn and the schizophrenia), and had a great ride back to town, enjoying a microcosm of SF along the way. My co-riders included a gang of teenage Asian skate-punks, people on their way to work, a bunch of Mexican men in their 20's snapping on each other's mommas, the homeless, a few white couples clearly headed to the club and two aging leather daddies sporting gray crew cuts and matching vests and jewelry. Nutshell.

It was a good trip and the conference was great. I have to thank the fine people at RWWL for paying for it and for hopefully paying next year when SAA is in Austin. So far for work I have gone to California twice, Boston once, New York once and Columbus, GA, once; I could get used to this jet set lifestyle.

Hoopleheaded Cocksuckers Unite!

Can we just all agree that Ian McShane should narrate everything from now on?

That is all.

The Revolution Begins!

Mickey Rourke's new film took top honors at the Venice Film Festival! It just goes to show that the old Hollywood adage is true: aging wrestler (Mickey Rourke) + aging stripper + director of Requiem for a Dream=awards catnip.

A Musical Interlude

Did we all know that the Cure was still together and recording? Is it just me? Am I the last to know? Anyway, I think the new single, "Sleep When I'm Dead" is pretty fuckin' bitchin'. To wit:



Also, how fucking awesome is Nas? The first single off of, uh, Untitled (I'll just assume all y'all know that story), is titled "Hero" and it's pretty damn good. I had to drop in the taped-off-BET version 'cause the record company is preventing embedding for some reason. Doesn't it behoove them to have more and more people listen to the single?



And finally, who signed off on this fuckery? I've never liked Pretty Ricky to begin with, and this is pushing me over the edge this morning. One, we do not need a remake of "Knockin' Da Boots". Ever. Two, how much do they want to do each other in this video?



I vote "No".

The Metamprphosis

This is fucking awesome and you must watch it. I love this man! And turn the music off. This is set to something called a "Hilary Duff" and it ain't pretty.



F your various eyes, but I started ANOTHER blog today, called Never Get Involved In A Land War in Asia. It's a blog for good advice from film and television. Please visit, or I'll get beaten and locked in a closet again.

The Once and Future King

By request...

Girl, Interrupted

I don't know how much more of this I can take. With paparazzi and the Internet I just can't get away from it. Why Mickey? Why do you want to break my heart?

Sadly, that pasty dude looks better in a leather thong than I would. Maybe that's why he gets to stand one down from the Mickster.

The Goddamn Fucking Bell Jar

No, no, no, no, fucking NO!

Celebration Chronicles

Do you like Dungeons and Dragons? If so, and if not, then you should love this wonderful video from Brad Neeley, entitled "The Role Play Tournament".



Why would I post this? Because it's an 8 hour drive from Atlanta to Orlando, and Traci, Russell and I drove it singing this ALL. THE. WAY.

This was back in March. We decided to drive down to the land of Disney and visit our friend Medloc, aka April Fresh, who attended the Savannah College of Art and design, aka SCAD, with Traci.

A warning to all travelers: Orlando is BLAND. Its nothing but highway and chain restaurants and family hotels; you know, Disney stuff. Medloc's house is a bastion of cool in an otherwise intolerable land. Med has the distinct privilege of working at the Parliament House, a resort that caters exclusively to gentlemen, and the place where we spent most of our time. It's fantastic. Something like 5 different bars (patio, disco, piano, Western, etc.), a restaurant where we ended up eating two nights in a row, and a small theater with weekend drag shows. Parliament House is also the home of the two pageants that Medloc owns and produces.

On the way down I was hoping that Orlando would have great ethnic food like other Florida communities, but I was wrong. All food in Orlando is as bland as Disney itself. The first night there we ate at Carraba's, where we were served by the highest waitress in the world, which did NOT make her better at her job, and the last day we had lunch at Red Lobster, mainly because Russell had never been exposed to the magic that is Cheddar Bay Biscuits. We did eat in a decent, but not authentic by and stretch, Mexican restaurant. It's on the train tracks and if a train goes by, you can get 25 cent shots.The best food that we had was made in Medloc's home; Orlando is nothing but an argument to save money by cooking at home.

But oh, the drinking. Traci isn't much of a drinker, but she behaved like a champ. Let's see, we drove down on Friday, so Saturday was truly our day of marathon drunkenness. medloc and I started with some clandestine screwdrivers, then we all piled in the car and headed out to Winter Park, a suburb of Orlando that I affectionately refer to as "Suck City". It sucks so fucking much. As bad as Orlando is, it can not prepare you for the pretentious Starbucksian sucking of Winter Park. Avoid.

But, Winter Park does have a museum of Tiffany glass and jewelry called the Morse Museum. it's an impressive collection, but do not EVER, under any circumstances, go to a museum with two archivists. Traci and I can ruin anything for anyone by explaining exactly what said museum has done wrong. Seriously, this place had watercolors on paper hanging over real potted plants. It doesn't take a master's degree to figure that one out.

We followed Winter Park with lunch at the Mexican spot, then went straight to the bar. Unfortunately the bar Med took us to didn't open until 5 (sinners!), so we shopped for engagement rings for Traci in nearby antique and junk shops, where we met lots of crazy people. Why are all "vintage" stores actually run by crazy-ass pack rats? No ring was found, but Traci did find some atomic Fiestaware. No really, one of the colors is radioactive if you get it warm.

Finally, the bar opens. I can't remember the name, but it was dark and cold like a cave, save the white-lighted lucite boxes that the go-go boys danced on. All bartenders and waitstaff wore bow-ties and underwear and believe me, if you are wearing nothing but briefs to work, you need to think long and hard about your shoes. A lithe young twink in $60 underwear with ratty-ass Vans? No, no, no. Also, young twink, stop bending over whenever I look up. Your sac, encased only in the thinnest, white cotton, is not something I want to see.

Than, as all of my stories go, we got even drunker. A quick trip back to Med's for some much needed rest (you know from all the drinking and complaining) then to Parliament House for the Saturday night drag show and dancing. Yes, I danced, but only because Jeff, Medloc's friend and his replacement behind the disco bar for that night, was pouring them strong and underpriced just for us.

And that's about it. Honestly, the weekend went drive-Carraba's-drinking-drinking-drinking-Red Lobster-drinking-drinking-drinking-drive back. The last night that we were there, Medloc had to work, and we went to the bar all saying "we'll just have one round and then go home and got to bed". Five hours later the bar was closed and I couldn't find the bathroom to throw up, which I loudly announced in the restaurant, causing Traci to shush me and some young queens to thank her for it. I was still drunk when we got up to drive back, making me completely useless in the car.

On the way home we did discover that there is a Whataburger in Gainsville, Florida. As we drove along, Traci suddenly ripped the wheel and careened toward the exit ramp; we'd eaten only an hour or so before, but couldn't pass up the chance for delicious, authentic Texas fast food. Ah, Whataburger, how I love thee.

Other great things came out of that trip, including Russell saying "F your various eyes", which has become a go-to catch phrase (and that's "eff", not "fuck"), me learning that I can totally travel with Traci and Russell, and us seeing and hearing the tale of one of the worst transsexuals I have even seen. So dramatic that there is a (fake) MySpace tribute to her. Just check the pics. Then curse yourself for not being that fabulous.

Junkie

Over the weekend I was shamed by someone purporting to be my friend for not updating this blog in a long, long time. Shame is a powerful drug, so one quick update (I'm at work, not supposed to be blogging. Or reading gossip blogs. Or ESPN.), with some lengthy diatribes to follow. Deal?

I actually have a lot going on! Work is rough, but slowly getting better as we reach our deadlines and as I suddenly become really, really interested in programming and search engine design. Who knew?

I am also looking at PhD programs (I have to go somewhere after my contract is up), and I'm trying to decide if I'm ready to adopt a new kitty. I get sad when I think about it, but I miss having fur around.

Also, I've been to Orlando, Athens, Boston and New York since I last blogged, with a trip to Chicago on the books for this coming weekend. Tres jetset.

On the sadder side of things, Mooky and I are no longer together. My decision. It's sad and it hurts, but hopefully will be for the best.

Sifting Through the Madness for the Word, the Line, the Way

I'm seriously about to die.

Where Do We Go from Here?

Like a lot of young folks without families and money, when I travel to a new city, it tends to be because I know someone that lives there. This morning I've been thinking a lot about travel. I haven't done much traveling outside of the US (living in Texas and going over the border into Mexico is so common and frequent that it may as well not count), and my in-country traveling only covers 14 states and the district. Considering that there are 50 states, I feel like I'm no taking advantage.

I'm not counting layovers. If I do that, then I've been to Florida and Nevada. Also, should I count travel stops? As in, I once landed in Rhode Island and took the train to Connecticut. Do I count Rhode Island? My cab driver from the airport in Providence (beautiful and efficient, by the way) to the train station was totally awesome, and not only bummed me a smoke, but also gave me a mini-tour of the Brown campus and downtown. So maybe I have been to Providence. That driver, by the way, completely convinced me that Rhode Island is a fucking awesome state. Please do not dissuade me if this is not true, 'cause I plan to go to my grave convinced by that guy.

The point of all this musing is that I'm headed down to Orlando in a couple of weeks with friends Traci and Russell. We're driving and staying with bartender friends, which means we can be tourist while they sleep during the day and enjoy their knowledge of nighttime attractions in the evenings. We plan to hit the Dali museum (2 hours out of town), some museum that has a reconstructed Tiffany ceiling, and, possibly, Epcot. Traci seems to love it; I don't really have an opinion, but I'm not much of a theme park girl, and y'all know how I feel about family activities and families with children in general. My visit to the city of Disney will be much more gay-bar oriented than theme park. Unless, of course, you make the obvious joke about gay bars being like a theme park...

Sports note: Why the fuck do I get the Oregon/UCLA game over the Texas/Oklahoma game today? Who in Georgia gives a fuck about UCLA?

The Jungle

So, y'all know how I'm dumb right? Like how I went to Boston in December? Well, that was work enforced, so it's not like I could decide, right? That (weather related) stupidity was not my fault, right?

Well damnit Courtney, it is your fault when you fucking decide to go to Chicago. In January. For vacation.

A few months ago Delta was running a special on Atlanta to Chicago tickets. $89! How could I resist, knowing that my own dear Brent had moved back to the city and was only working part-time, so as to have more time to show me around town? I called him, got approval for the time off and booked the damn tickets. For some reason, I kept thinking, "Hey, how bad could it be?"

Chicago Travel Tip #1: Don't go there in January. Ever. Even after another 100 years of global warming. I said "Never", motherfucker!

The trip started off well enough, as I got good parking, the plane left on time, and I had one of those delightful seatmates that didn't talk until he had to turn off his laptop for the descent. I came down those escalators at O'Hare and there was Brent, blazing orange in (nearly) head to toe UT gear, for all of those damn Midwesterners to see. Yeah, fuck those damn, um, uh...the University of Chicago? Do they have sports?

Chicago Travel Tip #2: Always eat with a Polish man.

Oh Lord, the food. We did Little India, Greektown, a Greek diner (as Brent says, "All the diners are run by Greeks. Unless they're Armenians pretending to be Greeks."), the world's greatest metal bar/burger place, Chicago-style pizza, and, of course, Chicago-style hot dogs. All amazing. Oh, and those last two? They were breakfast and lunch on my last day in town. With a visit to a Chinatown bakery in between. Yeah, yeah, I gained some weight.

We also did actually touristy stuff like going to the Art Institute to see all the Ferris Bueller paintings, drive through the Batman tunnels, get really drunk in Brent's favorite bar, see some avant garde theater, visit Brent's suburb of origin, visit Wrigley and the Cell, and, my favorite, take a driving tour at night. The view of downtown at night from Lakeshore Drive is absolutely stunning.

I could seriously write paragraphs about our "orgy of meat and cheese", but I don't want to bore anyone with my reliving of every meal that I had (I think I covered that in my Boston post), but I do want to share the oddest story from the trip.

So Saturday night Brent takes me to meet his new girlfriend, Amanda (awesome, beautiful, funny, total fucking bitch, but in the best possible way-he calls it "sassy"), and then head to some desolate pit of a bar for a punk show. I'm not the biggest fan of that newfangled music the kids call "punk", but whatever, I'm on vacation and want to check out the Chicago scene.

Chicago Travel Tip #3: As of January 1, there is no smoking inside in Chicago. This means that when you go in a bar that used to be filled with smoke, it now smells like the bar.

Vomit. The smell of vomit EVERYWHERE. If you ever want to go to a show at The Mutiny in Chicago (and that name alone should tell you something), come armed with air freshener.

After a long bout of bitching, Brent sent me and Amanda up the street to a less offensive smelling bar while he played with his punk friends. We were happy to leave him for sweeter climes, and I was happy to get some one-on-one time with Amanda. I already knew that I liked her, but I had to make sure that she was really good enough for my little Brenty. He may have a dick like a Coke can (his description-apparently Polish men carry their girth everywhere), but he's quite tender at heart. She passed; she's awesome. And she bought me breakfast the next day. Big points there.

We grab some beers and take the only available seats, which happen to be at a table with two guys who clearly worked at the Summer's Eve factory. (I do love that everyone in Chicago says "douchebag". It's non-stop and it's awesome!) Finally we scored a table in the bar proper, deliciously near the old-fashioned popcorn machine where patrons can get free snacks while they drink.

Brent arrives and I manage to make friends with the only guy in the bar from Mississippi, who had also been at The Mutiny, but was driven out by the smell, the crowd, and the lack of music starting on time. He and his friends were sweet, and we had a big, drunken talk about the surface differences between racism in the South and the North. And when I say he was sweet, I mean that I probably could have gone home with him if I tried even a little bit. I wouldn't have, and had I been that drunk Brent would have stopped me, but I mention it only because it was kind of nice to get some male attention.

I'm yammering away to this Mississippian, and suddenly I feel something pinching and biting me on my arm. On my arm down the sleeve of my long-sleeved shirt. On my arm that is facing toward the bar. And away from the old-fashioned popcorn machine from which a hot kernel cover in burning oil has flown out of the machine and down my sleeve, where it is burning me to the point that I had a blister with a minute.  The mark is still there; it's going to scar. I told Brent that I was going to tell everyone he burned me with a cigarette 'cause I was bad.

Chicago Travel Tip #4: Go with me. Apparently I am incredibly good luck for finding cabs and strategically placed parking spots. Seriously, when we left that bar, Brent stepped to the corner and raised his hand. Mississippi, who was smoking on the same corner, said "You'll never get a cab here." One rolled up within seconds. That happened ALL weekend. It made the town that much more awesome.

(Side note about my good luck: Brent got the call from CPL while I was there for a full-time position. I'm just that good.)

All was great until I tried to leave on the 5pm flight back to Atlanta. It got cancelled, I was shifted to a later flight,  which then got delayed repeatedly. Brent had scheduled work around my original flight, so he couldn't hang out with me. I didn't make it back until late, and didn't get to bed until midnight. I know that's not that late, but after all of the traveling, sleeping on a couch for three days, and being sick (yeah, I was sick the entire trip), I really needed an early night.

Chicago Travel Trip #5: Eat at the Parthenon in Greektown (get the brandy-soaked feta that gets flambeued at your table), Pequod's for pizza (whole wheat deep dish), Kuma's Corner for burgers (try the Metallica, it's spicy as fuck), and The Wiener's Circle for char dogs with everything (a pun that I didn't get until it was too late to not be embarrassed). Orgy. Meat. Cheese.

Fallen Angel

Seriously, is he trying to kill me?

Now I Can Die in Peace

In December I had the good fortune to be "forced" to go to Boston for work. To be honest, my partner and  were too happy about making the trip, as we were both feeling pretty slammed at work, and three days out of town really cramped our already overcrowded schedule. But like a lot of things in life, the trip we were dreading turned out to be pretty awesome.

First off, I have to give props to the library for allowing us to do so much traveling, especially in such a good style. Not being a syncophant here, it really is a pleasure to have someone schedule your flight, book your room, and cover the expenses. It's the only time that I get to use the good parking at the airport AND order in a slightly higher style then I am accustomed too.

Secondly, uberprops to our hosts in Boston, who really roll out the good food and open bar for guests. Y'all know what an open bar is to me: like a first-class ticket to my cold, dead heart.

Third, don't ever go to Boston in December. Ever.

After an easy flight and a colorful car ride into town, we checked into the fabulous Hotel Commonwealth, located on Commo

nwealth Avenue very near to Boston University, with a back view of Fenway Park. Seriously, this was the view from one of our rooms:

 

I'm not used to a lot of luxury in my hotel room, but this place really brought it. My favorite feature was that turn-down service included a full ice bucket. This really came in handy when I would wake up every morning at about 2:30-3 am with a pounding head and parched mouth. Melted ice water can do wonders for those first shooting hangover pains.

First day, we had lunch in the hotel's fine restaurant. Lobster crepes for me, which is an awesome way to start off a three-day trip that involves having lobster EVERY DAY. Sometimes twice. Lobster.

Boston travel trip #2 (if we consider #1 to be "never go in December"), do not attempt the death march from one's hotel to Boston University in cowboy boots. They lack traction and do not perform well on the following surfaces: ice, snow, icy sidewalks, snowy sidewalks, icy roads or snowy roads. Imagine my surprise to learn that Tony Llama was not designing with these conditions in mind.

BU's archives, the Howard Gottlieb Archival Research Center, our hosts and collaborative partners is a very nice place. The Center itself is in the BU library and keeps a lot of pieces from its' collections on display. I was very pleased to learn that not only did the lovely and talented Van Johnson donate his papers to BU, but he had the world's gaudiest stationary:

We got a nice little tour from the staff, including my partner in ridiculously hot curry eating, Sean, and then headed back to the hotel before our first social event, a book-signing/reading/excuse to drink for Ethel Merman biographer Brian Kellow. The presentation was very good, but all I really remember was trays of sushi, fried goat cheese, some sort of bacon on a stick, and, of course, the open bar. And Allah Bless BU, not just an open beer and wine bar, but an open full bar. Free martinis and bacon? What, no oral?

Dinner was an orgy of food and alcohol that lasted late into the night. It was at a private club, the Algonquin, and involved three courses, one of them being steak and lobster, an endless supply of wine, and, you guessed it, an open bar before dinner. I was drunk, drunk, drunk all night and enjoyed every minute of it AND managed not to embarrass myself or my coworkers. Within reason.

We were actually up there for training and not just to party, so our days were full 8-5 training sessions, broken up only with long 2-hour lunches. Some sweet person on the staff even had Texas-style BBQ brought in one day, and I was ordered to go first and report back on the state of the brisket. Um, yeah, I didn't say it, but outside of Texas, there really isn't any brisket. I mean it was good, but come on; they ain't smokin' meat on mesquite in urban Boston.

After the first day of training, I got personally escorted over to the Fenway shops by Sean, which was both sweet (he didn't complain that his boss was making him drive me around) and terrifying (dude, your Honda is not a race car and you are not in a video game). It also gave me time to get busted on, yet again, by a member of HGARC's staff for my dubious representation in local press (a post of its own). Alas, all the souvenir stores close at 5 (!), so my quest to buy Dad some authentic Red Sox gear was postponed until the next day, when another staff member took the time to take me during our lunch break.

Ah, then the night. Another dinner that involved large hunks of meat and cheese and glorious butter (French restaurant, natch), and an unending flow of liquor. Again, no oral? What kind of heathen Yankees are these people? 

After dinner, which ended at a reasonable hour, one of the trainers and I decided we had to push it further and visit the bar in the hotel, which was far more happening that I would have imagined on a Thursday night. One of the HGARC staff joined us as well, and we threw down a couple of rounds before calling it a night. I unfortunately, did not realize that "a couple of rounds" was enough to push me from being pleasantly drunk to being uselessly drunk, so I had another nice hangover to deal with in the morning.

Last day and it finally snowed. It started after dark (5ish) and was very, very beautiful, but it coincided with out driver showing up late to take us to the airport and made the traffic crazy. We booked it through Logan to make up for the delay, only to find that our flight was postponed. So I got drunk in the airport and passed out on the plane, impressing all of my coworkers, including our Deputy Director. Bravo, Courtney. Bravo.

At one point while we were trapped in traffic, I looked out of the window and realized that we were parked directly in front of the Robert Shaw monument. It was dark and snowing and peacefully beautiful. It made me feel better about not getting to any of the tourist spots in town and hopeful that I'll get to go back and actually see some of the city. It was a perfect moment (even if I was in a car), and one of my favorite memories of the trip.

Oh, Dad loved it: 

Member of the Wedding

Okay, so not an original blog post title, considering I'm talking about, um, a wedding. That I was a member of. My superfriend Kristy got married back in November and I served as a bridesmaid, my first time to ever perform that duty.It was a pretty good trip: all of the wedding stuff was fun, and not too stressful, lots of drinking and professional beauty treatments, but some personal-life stuff got in the way of me truly enjoying the trip.

First off, I'm an idiot. I've flown out of Hartsfield-Jackson many times at this point, so I know the airport pretty well, but I still managed to start off my trip by missing my flight. In my defense, there was a fire in the terminal.

Like always, I got to the airport approximately ten and a half hours before my flight (one of my many crazy tendencies is to be waaay to early for travel), found my gate and was standing in line for coffee when the lights went out. We all stood around like jerks for about five minutes until the cashiers told us to get lost; no power no registers means no sale. So I roll on down to the gate and realize that I only checked the gate number against what was on my boarding pass, printed the day before, so I approach the desk and ask the THREE Delta employees if that was the correct gate for Flight # XYZ to Austin. They said YES. It turns out that that was not the correct gate for Flight # XYZ, but for Flight # ABC. So I missed my flight.

By the time I figured out what had happened and stopped crying (when you're the kind of girl that gets to the airport at 6 am for a 10 am flight, you cry when you miss it),I went to the Delta service desk where the very nice, but very frazzled employees explained that they could not get me on another flight, because no power means no computers means no flight changes. I used the courtesy phone and got another, later flight. It had to be from another terminal though because, although there were other, earlier flights leaving for Austin from the terminal I was in, no power means no computers means no boarding pass.

It was a good thing though, as the other Delta terminal was the big, clean, nice one, with a coffee place next to the gate and happy employees who had computers. I did learn two interesting things about an airport fire, one, even though the lights are off and the back-up power comes on, the Muzak NEVER goes away, and, two, the manual check-in of passengers is a skill still taught to airline employees but it really freaks people out. Old-fashioned stewardessing is pretty impressive.

I made it to Austin at about noon, which was cutting it close for the 1 pm lunch my Mom had planned for Kristy, her sister, their Mom and Rob's Mom. It was very nice, as it meant that my drinking started no more than two hours after my plane touched the ground. Other than the airport fiasco and some minor drama with Mooky (I always end up crying at some point during my visits home), it was a good weekend and Kristy seemed really pleased with the ceremony and reception. You can (I think) check out the very lovely pictures online. Kristy and Erin, her sister and maid of honor, both looked beautiful, and I managed not to break any cameras. See:

On the Road

So back in October, before Sparkle died and I temporarily became completely opposed to the world of blogging, I had to travel to Palo Alto, CA for work. My partner (work partner, you dog) and I flew into and out of San Francisco in a whirlwind three-day trip that had me totally stressed because Sparkle was at the vet, then with a sitter, during that time, and because on both 5-hour flights I had the middle seat. And on the way back they showed . Pure. Torture.

But the King Institute at Stanford is pretty cool, as is the campus itself. The museum has a shitload of Rodan's, including the "Gates of Hell", as seen above.

We did stay at a really nice green hotel, the Stanford Terrace Inn, that has, along with all organic products and environmental filters in each room, also has tinted skylights in the bathrooms, so that you can wake up to a pleasant pink glow rather than pitch black. Also, awesome cedar decks completely landscape with flowering plants, so the air smells amazing.

All of Palo Alto smells amazing. It's lovely, but far too clean for me., which is why, In December, I was happy to travel to Boston for three days. Ah the filth of that city and it's inhabitants! I'll have to save that orgy of excess (and believe me, when someone else is paying, I am all over the excessive behavior) for its' own post, as that was one that needs a lot of description.

I'm headed over to Traci's (still my only "real" friend; although I have made some tentative friends) for chicken mole and beer. More later, sorry for not posting in forever.