After waking up at an hour that would be deemed breakfast-worthy, I poured myself a bowl of cereal. This is when I realized that what I really wanted was a pancake or a waffle. Luckily, I found some videos to to satiate my craving.
Question: a fully weaponized waffle bike with a call to prayer public address system. There's some irony there, right?
I've always said that if I ever was in a position to have to create a gift registry for housewares, I'd only register for a nice set of knives. This is not true. I also want a waffle iron. I just don't need it attached to a bicycle.
On the pancake side of things, I think this guy is the cutest. Plus, he's a Hungry Jack connoisseur just like me.
Pull a chair up with a hyrup! I'm having pancakes for dinner tonight.
29 August 2008
28 August 2008
Kim Crow on Kim Crow
In honor of my fake 100th post, I wanted to take the opportunity to re-introduce myself. I'm actually shy of the benchmark 100 posts thanks to the 24 drafts in my blogger queue. This post is part interview part stream of conscience and a whole lotta K. Crow.
Hi, Kim Crow. You look nice today.
Hi, Kim Crow. Thanks, same back atcha!
Isn't it a bit odd to interview yourself?
As I see it, I live alone and I'm therefore prone to long bouts of talking to myself out loud. Writing it all down seemed like the next logical step. Besides, people often ask me if I write like I speak or if I speak like I write. Maybe this will shed some light on the subject?
So do you write like you speak or speak like you write?
I'm not sure. When I write, I am definitely hearing the words in my head before I get them written or typed. As I speak, I sometimes let the $3 word slip out here and there and folks will give me a hard time about it because they can't just Google it to figure out what I'm talking about.
Why don't they just ask you what it means?
I wonder the same thing every time it happens.
When you first started crowcrastination, you wrote short stories 250 words or less. But over time you've moved away from the format. Why?
I began this blog as an attempt to look productive at a job where I had nothing to do. Limiting myself to this format seemed like a way to create effective boundaries between myself and the Internet at large. Eventually I found it to be very limiting from a personal standpoint.
How so?
Well, as a form, short stories are difficult. A plot has to work within its format. It also was a challenge to make sure my narrative made sense in such a short word count. I usually embrace a challenge, but this one felt like a burden. I stopped writing here for awhile.
So you were too much of a critic? What made you start up again?
Being too critical of myself is almost always my problem. I re-upped and started writing again after someone I respect stumbled across my blog and gave me a hard time. I changed the content to be more megalomaniacal. This seemed to bode well with the platform of blogging.
How do you feel about talking about yourself all the time?
It's like a giant slice of awkward cake. It doesn't feel quite right, but in the end it is so delicious.
Mmmm. Cake.
Don't get me started. This sort of over indulgence is what's made me lose and gain the same 25 lbs three times.
Well, cookies are your medium anyway. Care to share a favorite recipe or some baking tips?
Hmmm. I'll keep the recipes to myself for now. As for tips, I have 3:
Speaking of funky, you often talk about how your computer is acting strange.
True. I think it has either asthma or a seizure disorder. It has fits that interrupt my life many, many times per day.
Can you gauge your level of frustration?
On each occurrence, I'd say it's somewhere between opening up the tinfoil/lotus leaves only to find that the sticky rice has been dyed blue and the realization that you've let your favorite bra go through the dryer.
This doesn't seem too bad..
The resentment builds and compounds when it happens 30 times per day. Plus, my laptop has to be plugged into the wall and now relies on a mouse and keyboard to be useful. It's a desktop in a laptop's body. I'd really like to put it in a home.
Once you threatened to drop kick it, did you ever really abuse it in this way?
No, I thought about it, and it seemed like a bad idea.
Like the time you and your friends were inebriated and decided to reenact the mixed martial arts in Ong-bak Thai Warrior?
Exactly.
What should your readers do when your computer finally goes kaputska?
They should read other blogs. My friend's blogs are mostly listed in my links. I'd also recommend White Whine (a daily complaint made by a white person), the Sixeyes mp3 blog, Flip Flop Flying for expatriate artist and travel writing, or fourfour. I've followed fourfour for years now. It's a perennial favorite.
Why do you like these blogs?
I think that good blogs cover just a handful of topics, but covers them well. All of these blogs have a focus that mine sometimes lacks.
Do you think about changing the content of your blog?
Constantly. For one thing, I'd love to add an audio element-- maybe weekly music mixes or the occasional radio drama. I also wonder about how much I should reveal here. The posts in which I've poured out my heart and soul aren't received in a way that I can really, accurately gauge the response.
You're speaking of course of your posts on depression.
Yes, to some extent. It's not really surprising. Most people react to depression this way, even if they've had experience with it themselves. But I can almost always tell who's been depressed by their response. It's like migraines sufferers. People with migraines know the difference between a migraine and a bad headache. Those with depression know the difference between depression and a string of bad days. It's frustrating when people that suffer bad headaches claim to have a migraine, but if it helps them understand the pain I guess it's a good thing. Same goes for depression.
Is there anything that's off limits on your blog?
I will not write openly about my friends without their permission. I will not discuss why I can no longer listen to Jimi Hendrix. My humor can be on the offensive side, and I try to limit that so I'm not misconstrued. Also, I am trying very hard to discuss my professional life on a more theoretical level.
Where are you at, professionally?
I'm at a point in my career (or lack thereof) where I need some lessons in how to market myself and my services as a dramaturg better. I could also use a terminal degree in theatre. In general, I'd really like to have some health insurance.
Where do you hope to be?
I am essentially a knowledge worker in a creative field. For me, success isn't about the volume of finished products or a dollar amount. I think I'll feel most satisfied professionally when I'm comfortable with the quality of my work, and I am in a position where I feel secure enough to branch out and help others operate at the top of their game. Something I'm very good at that I don't often have the opportunity to do is connecting creative people with one another. I think I have a knack for pairing people with mutually beneficial talents. Plus, it makes me feel good.
Maybe you should move to Los Angeles and become a producer...
As a Bay Area native I am naturally skeptical of all things Los Angeles.
You're from the Bay Area but people always think you're from somewhere else. What's their damage?
I dunno. When I lived on the east coast, people always thought I was from Vermont because I have a sort of hippy element that doesn't jive with the mid-Atlantic region. I found east coasters have a hard time thinking west of the Mississippi. Native Portlanders know that I'm not one of them, but they are few and far between these days. Portlanders in general tend to assume that I'm an anonymous Elsewhere. Folks from the Bay Area either know where I was born and raised or don't feel the need to talk to me.
The Bay Area's a big place. What part are you from?
The south end. North of Steinbeck Country. Technically, it's the tenth largest city in the US.
Do you know the way?
Yes I do, Dionne. Just follow the Interstates until you come to something that looks like suburbia's wet dream.
How do you like living in Portland?
I think the honeymoon phase is over. I love this town, but its atmosphere makes me prone to laziness. Something also makes me feel like I'm not firmly rooted here. Even though I've lived here for years now, I drive or walk around and I don't have that sense of the uber familiar. It's also not nearly coastal enough for my tastes.
It might not be coastal, but it's at the confluence of 2 rivers! Surely this could satisfy your want for water.
A wise woman once told me, "Never get a pet turtle when what you really want is a kitten." Likewise, don't live in a river city when you really want to have zero resale value to your car because all the salt water has made it a rusty barrel of bolts.
You should write a book about the young woman and the sea.
I'd rather go tidepooling and write a book about something else.
Like what?
From a personal standpoint, I'm not sure if I'm ready to write one. I always thought of myself as sensitive but not at all fragile. I'm coming to realize that I am really very delicate. Over the past year I went over the edge, I fell to pieces, and I waited for someone to pick me up again even though I see myself as a strong, independent, self-aware woman. If I wrote a book today it would have to do with this experience. It would probably ask questions that I don't have answers to yet. Like, in the light of disaster, how much of this idea of strength/independence is a ruse? It would also deal with perception vs. reality and more latent aspects of personality.
Sounds risky.
I'm not afraid of swimming in murkier waters, I just don't like to jump in and initiate things.
Speaking of initiating things, I think this post inaugural in the sense that you've used your entire name on crowcrastination...
That's not my entire name. Not according to my parents or the government. Still, that's what most people call me. First and last. As if it's one word.
If you don't mind me saying so, it's a little close to a rather dodgy element in American history.
Nah, it's totally different. My name is fun, concise, alliterative.
What would happen if your name started with a J instead of a K?
Mama Crow would never let that happen. I have a cousin Jim, but he's not on the Crow side of things. Ironically, now that cousin #4 is gone, my entire generation has a name that begins with either a J or a K. How curious.
Anyway, you seem to have a thing for crows.
Not just crows. I also like ravens, hummingbirds and peregrine falcons.
What's up next on crowcrastination?
Either a story about dropping my keys in the dumpster, or an account of why I believe the Asian Mafia is real. Maybe some wisecracks about my name. Or something else entirely. I never know what I'm going to cook up here.
One last question. If you could be a tree, what type of tree would you be?
A cypress.
Hi, Kim Crow. You look nice today.
Hi, Kim Crow. Thanks, same back atcha!
Isn't it a bit odd to interview yourself?
As I see it, I live alone and I'm therefore prone to long bouts of talking to myself out loud. Writing it all down seemed like the next logical step. Besides, people often ask me if I write like I speak or if I speak like I write. Maybe this will shed some light on the subject?
So do you write like you speak or speak like you write?
I'm not sure. When I write, I am definitely hearing the words in my head before I get them written or typed. As I speak, I sometimes let the $3 word slip out here and there and folks will give me a hard time about it because they can't just Google it to figure out what I'm talking about.
Why don't they just ask you what it means?
I wonder the same thing every time it happens.
When you first started crowcrastination, you wrote short stories 250 words or less. But over time you've moved away from the format. Why?
I began this blog as an attempt to look productive at a job where I had nothing to do. Limiting myself to this format seemed like a way to create effective boundaries between myself and the Internet at large. Eventually I found it to be very limiting from a personal standpoint.
How so?
Well, as a form, short stories are difficult. A plot has to work within its format. It also was a challenge to make sure my narrative made sense in such a short word count. I usually embrace a challenge, but this one felt like a burden. I stopped writing here for awhile.
So you were too much of a critic? What made you start up again?
Being too critical of myself is almost always my problem. I re-upped and started writing again after someone I respect stumbled across my blog and gave me a hard time. I changed the content to be more megalomaniacal. This seemed to bode well with the platform of blogging.
How do you feel about talking about yourself all the time?
It's like a giant slice of awkward cake. It doesn't feel quite right, but in the end it is so delicious.
Mmmm. Cake.
Don't get me started. This sort of over indulgence is what's made me lose and gain the same 25 lbs three times.
Well, cookies are your medium anyway. Care to share a favorite recipe or some baking tips?
Hmmm. I'll keep the recipes to myself for now. As for tips, I have 3:
- If the recipe calls for butter, use real butter.
- Don't skimp on the salt. Doctors say sodium is bad, but it does important things chemically to your cookies.
- Also, if you have the willpower, let your dough sit (refrigerated) overnight. The liquid in the eggs will soak up your flavors better. The dough will still be good for about 3 days.
Speaking of funky, you often talk about how your computer is acting strange.
True. I think it has either asthma or a seizure disorder. It has fits that interrupt my life many, many times per day.
Can you gauge your level of frustration?
On each occurrence, I'd say it's somewhere between opening up the tinfoil/lotus leaves only to find that the sticky rice has been dyed blue and the realization that you've let your favorite bra go through the dryer.
This doesn't seem too bad..
The resentment builds and compounds when it happens 30 times per day. Plus, my laptop has to be plugged into the wall and now relies on a mouse and keyboard to be useful. It's a desktop in a laptop's body. I'd really like to put it in a home.
Once you threatened to drop kick it, did you ever really abuse it in this way?
No, I thought about it, and it seemed like a bad idea.
Like the time you and your friends were inebriated and decided to reenact the mixed martial arts in Ong-bak Thai Warrior?
Exactly.
What should your readers do when your computer finally goes kaputska?
They should read other blogs. My friend's blogs are mostly listed in my links. I'd also recommend White Whine (a daily complaint made by a white person), the Sixeyes mp3 blog, Flip Flop Flying for expatriate artist and travel writing, or fourfour. I've followed fourfour for years now. It's a perennial favorite.
Why do you like these blogs?
I think that good blogs cover just a handful of topics, but covers them well. All of these blogs have a focus that mine sometimes lacks.
Do you think about changing the content of your blog?
Constantly. For one thing, I'd love to add an audio element-- maybe weekly music mixes or the occasional radio drama. I also wonder about how much I should reveal here. The posts in which I've poured out my heart and soul aren't received in a way that I can really, accurately gauge the response.
You're speaking of course of your posts on depression.
Yes, to some extent. It's not really surprising. Most people react to depression this way, even if they've had experience with it themselves. But I can almost always tell who's been depressed by their response. It's like migraines sufferers. People with migraines know the difference between a migraine and a bad headache. Those with depression know the difference between depression and a string of bad days. It's frustrating when people that suffer bad headaches claim to have a migraine, but if it helps them understand the pain I guess it's a good thing. Same goes for depression.
Is there anything that's off limits on your blog?
I will not write openly about my friends without their permission. I will not discuss why I can no longer listen to Jimi Hendrix. My humor can be on the offensive side, and I try to limit that so I'm not misconstrued. Also, I am trying very hard to discuss my professional life on a more theoretical level.
Where are you at, professionally?
I'm at a point in my career (or lack thereof) where I need some lessons in how to market myself and my services as a dramaturg better. I could also use a terminal degree in theatre. In general, I'd really like to have some health insurance.
Where do you hope to be?
I am essentially a knowledge worker in a creative field. For me, success isn't about the volume of finished products or a dollar amount. I think I'll feel most satisfied professionally when I'm comfortable with the quality of my work, and I am in a position where I feel secure enough to branch out and help others operate at the top of their game. Something I'm very good at that I don't often have the opportunity to do is connecting creative people with one another. I think I have a knack for pairing people with mutually beneficial talents. Plus, it makes me feel good.
Maybe you should move to Los Angeles and become a producer...
As a Bay Area native I am naturally skeptical of all things Los Angeles.
You're from the Bay Area but people always think you're from somewhere else. What's their damage?
I dunno. When I lived on the east coast, people always thought I was from Vermont because I have a sort of hippy element that doesn't jive with the mid-Atlantic region. I found east coasters have a hard time thinking west of the Mississippi. Native Portlanders know that I'm not one of them, but they are few and far between these days. Portlanders in general tend to assume that I'm an anonymous Elsewhere. Folks from the Bay Area either know where I was born and raised or don't feel the need to talk to me.
The Bay Area's a big place. What part are you from?
The south end. North of Steinbeck Country. Technically, it's the tenth largest city in the US.
Do you know the way?
Yes I do, Dionne. Just follow the Interstates until you come to something that looks like suburbia's wet dream.
How do you like living in Portland?
I think the honeymoon phase is over. I love this town, but its atmosphere makes me prone to laziness. Something also makes me feel like I'm not firmly rooted here. Even though I've lived here for years now, I drive or walk around and I don't have that sense of the uber familiar. It's also not nearly coastal enough for my tastes.
It might not be coastal, but it's at the confluence of 2 rivers! Surely this could satisfy your want for water.
A wise woman once told me, "Never get a pet turtle when what you really want is a kitten." Likewise, don't live in a river city when you really want to have zero resale value to your car because all the salt water has made it a rusty barrel of bolts.
You should write a book about the young woman and the sea.
I'd rather go tidepooling and write a book about something else.
Like what?
From a personal standpoint, I'm not sure if I'm ready to write one. I always thought of myself as sensitive but not at all fragile. I'm coming to realize that I am really very delicate. Over the past year I went over the edge, I fell to pieces, and I waited for someone to pick me up again even though I see myself as a strong, independent, self-aware woman. If I wrote a book today it would have to do with this experience. It would probably ask questions that I don't have answers to yet. Like, in the light of disaster, how much of this idea of strength/independence is a ruse? It would also deal with perception vs. reality and more latent aspects of personality.
Sounds risky.
I'm not afraid of swimming in murkier waters, I just don't like to jump in and initiate things.
Speaking of initiating things, I think this post inaugural in the sense that you've used your entire name on crowcrastination...
That's not my entire name. Not according to my parents or the government. Still, that's what most people call me. First and last. As if it's one word.
If you don't mind me saying so, it's a little close to a rather dodgy element in American history.
Nah, it's totally different. My name is fun, concise, alliterative.
What would happen if your name started with a J instead of a K?
Mama Crow would never let that happen. I have a cousin Jim, but he's not on the Crow side of things. Ironically, now that cousin #4 is gone, my entire generation has a name that begins with either a J or a K. How curious.
Anyway, you seem to have a thing for crows.
Not just crows. I also like ravens, hummingbirds and peregrine falcons.
What's up next on crowcrastination?
Either a story about dropping my keys in the dumpster, or an account of why I believe the Asian Mafia is real. Maybe some wisecracks about my name. Or something else entirely. I never know what I'm going to cook up here.
One last question. If you could be a tree, what type of tree would you be?
A cypress.
25 August 2008
Wodehouse Woes
O Wooster, Bertie Wooster! Where the hell did you go, Bertram Wooster?
Deny thy borrower and return to me,
Or, if thou wilt not, at least send me Jeeves,
And I'll no longer be a raving bitch about all the books I've lost.
With apologies to Mr. Shakespeare, but this is a real tragedy. My entire Wodehouse collection has gone astray! I am kneeling down like the Infant Samuel at prayer in hopes of its safe return. How could I have let these books out of my sight? As Bertie Wooster might say, "the imagination boggles."
To end this series on ex-books, I turn to the catalyst for the creation of the entire List. Indeed, sir, it was my search for my P.G. Wodehouse books which first alerted me to the fact that my scruples need some fine tuning in the borrower/lender relationship department.
A couple weeks ago I had an urge to spend my afternoon with the idle rich-- a Wodehouse specialty. I looked over my shelves to no avail. I walked up to the library and paid $23.75 in library fines (an occupational hazard of the irresponsible dramaturg) before I realized that this branch had just one Wodehouse in its stacks and it did not include the antics of my two favorite characters. It was about golf. I read one of the stories, but it was not as amusing as anything involving Aunt Agatha or a silver cow creamer.
I even stepped into the little bookshop around the corner to see if I could get my hands on a copy. But this tiny (but excellent) source only had Carry On, Jeeves on hand. This is a collection of short stories concerning Jeeves and Wooster. But I was in the mood for a novel. And, being that I just paid a large fee to the library, I wasn't about to settle for anything less than a full Wodehousian novel.
I've long been besotted with the Jeeves and Wooster crew. I first read their exploits when I was quite young. My sister, eight years my elder, often passed along her literary leftovers. Being the reverent-yet-obnoxious younger sibling, I would badger her for the books she was reading incessantly, even if the books weren't entirely age appropriate for me.
Unlike many of J's books, I thought Wooster and Jeeves were actually funny. They also didn't make me ask her questions like, "Why are the pigs calling each other 'Comrade'?" My sister was wise enough not to justify such queries with a response Instead, she would narrow her eyes, glaring acerbically through her thick, barely fluttering eyelashes. This is a trick I am still trying to learn today because it looks so cool and is highly effective. (Even with years of practice, I am not having much luck.)
Perhaps because of my introduction to this literary duo, I feel as if there is almost an allegorical correlation between the gentleman and his valet and myself and my sister. She is my Jeeves; I am her Bertie Wooster. While we were growing up, I was continuously concocting these impulsive schemes. She would sit back, half amused by my antics but very much operating her own more wisely constructed plots.
As our age gap has leveled out, I am less prone to such antics and J rarely needs to bail me out of whatever predicament I have fallen into. Besides, my Libran need for balance has caused me to embrace my latent Jeeves-like qualities. Or, maybe I've never been quite so feckless as Bertie but I really want the correlation to jive.
In any case, I've come to appreciate the Wooster and Jeeves novels on different terms over the years. I can think of few writers that equal Wodehouse's dexterous use of a structured comedy. Very little is off limits when it comes to his satire-- from British Gentleman's social clubs (The Drones) to fascism (Spode's Black Shorts). To add a cherry to the sundae, Wodehouse's playful and buoyant command of language is a sheer delight to read.
And this is precisely why I loaned these books out in the first place. Each borrower has an affinity for comedy, either written or performed. As much as I laugh when I'm around them, I find that lacking my Wodehouse novels is no laughing matter. Further absence of these books might lead me to do something brash like buying a terrarium and a new pet newt (to be named Gussie Fink-Nottle). Without further delay:
By Jeeves! (a final fragment in a long list of books)
Jeeves makes his acquaintance and one of his famous hangover cures.
Jeeves offers Bertie some musical direction.
Deny thy borrower and return to me,
Or, if thou wilt not, at least send me Jeeves,
And I'll no longer be a raving bitch about all the books I've lost.
With apologies to Mr. Shakespeare, but this is a real tragedy. My entire Wodehouse collection has gone astray! I am kneeling down like the Infant Samuel at prayer in hopes of its safe return. How could I have let these books out of my sight? As Bertie Wooster might say, "the imagination boggles."
To end this series on ex-books, I turn to the catalyst for the creation of the entire List. Indeed, sir, it was my search for my P.G. Wodehouse books which first alerted me to the fact that my scruples need some fine tuning in the borrower/lender relationship department.A couple weeks ago I had an urge to spend my afternoon with the idle rich-- a Wodehouse specialty. I looked over my shelves to no avail. I walked up to the library and paid $23.75 in library fines (an occupational hazard of the irresponsible dramaturg) before I realized that this branch had just one Wodehouse in its stacks and it did not include the antics of my two favorite characters. It was about golf. I read one of the stories, but it was not as amusing as anything involving Aunt Agatha or a silver cow creamer.
I even stepped into the little bookshop around the corner to see if I could get my hands on a copy. But this tiny (but excellent) source only had Carry On, Jeeves on hand. This is a collection of short stories concerning Jeeves and Wooster. But I was in the mood for a novel. And, being that I just paid a large fee to the library, I wasn't about to settle for anything less than a full Wodehousian novel.
I've long been besotted with the Jeeves and Wooster crew. I first read their exploits when I was quite young. My sister, eight years my elder, often passed along her literary leftovers. Being the reverent-yet-obnoxious younger sibling, I would badger her for the books she was reading incessantly, even if the books weren't entirely age appropriate for me.
Unlike many of J's books, I thought Wooster and Jeeves were actually funny. They also didn't make me ask her questions like, "Why are the pigs calling each other 'Comrade'?" My sister was wise enough not to justify such queries with a response Instead, she would narrow her eyes, glaring acerbically through her thick, barely fluttering eyelashes. This is a trick I am still trying to learn today because it looks so cool and is highly effective. (Even with years of practice, I am not having much luck.)
Perhaps because of my introduction to this literary duo, I feel as if there is almost an allegorical correlation between the gentleman and his valet and myself and my sister. She is my Jeeves; I am her Bertie Wooster. While we were growing up, I was continuously concocting these impulsive schemes. She would sit back, half amused by my antics but very much operating her own more wisely constructed plots.
As our age gap has leveled out, I am less prone to such antics and J rarely needs to bail me out of whatever predicament I have fallen into. Besides, my Libran need for balance has caused me to embrace my latent Jeeves-like qualities. Or, maybe I've never been quite so feckless as Bertie but I really want the correlation to jive.
In any case, I've come to appreciate the Wooster and Jeeves novels on different terms over the years. I can think of few writers that equal Wodehouse's dexterous use of a structured comedy. Very little is off limits when it comes to his satire-- from British Gentleman's social clubs (The Drones) to fascism (Spode's Black Shorts). To add a cherry to the sundae, Wodehouse's playful and buoyant command of language is a sheer delight to read.
And this is precisely why I loaned these books out in the first place. Each borrower has an affinity for comedy, either written or performed. As much as I laugh when I'm around them, I find that lacking my Wodehouse novels is no laughing matter. Further absence of these books might lead me to do something brash like buying a terrarium and a new pet newt (to be named Gussie Fink-Nottle). Without further delay:
By Jeeves! (a final fragment in a long list of books)
The Code of the WoostersPerhaps those friends I've loaned my Wodehouse books are too busy reading Aunt Dahlia's magazine, Milady's Boudoir? But I say enough with this witch hunt. As a thank you for sloughing through this series, I'll leave you with the some clips from the Jeeves and Wooster television series. It's not quite the same as the books, but my raging crush on Stephen Fry makes up for that.
Right Ho, Jeeves
The Inimitable Jeeves
Stiff Upper Lip, Jeeves
Jeeves makes his acquaintance and one of his famous hangover cures.
Jeeves offers Bertie some musical direction.
22 August 2008
Post 10a ends with a subtle threat
This post will make more sense if you've been reading the series 10 rants about my ex-books. Parts #1, #2, #3, #4 , #5, #6 ,#7, #8 and #9 contain relevant squawking. Part #10 has yet to be written.
As we approach the end of the Ex-Libris List, I wanted to take a brief foray into Tangentland. There's no actual list in this post, just a story that relates to the list. It has more to do with the end of the series than the middle of it, hence jumping ahead to name it 10a.
A funny thing happened when I was bumbling around Powell's yesterday with my friend Jesse.
A note to non-Portlanders: Powell's is Portland's epic bookstore. It is several stories high and takes up an entire city block. First time visitors experience a real WOW factor. Eventually you learn the lay of the land, or you've adopted Portland's special brand of jadedness, or you're in a bad mood because it's been drizzling for 200 days straight and you walk into Powell's and think, "Get me to the Blue/Rose/Pearl Rooms because I need a book on x/y/z." Or, more likely, "Get me to the Purple Room because I need a toilet."
I hadn't been to Powell's in ages, despite the fact that I've been touting it here on the blogosphere by linking every single title on the list to the store's site. Before I even set foot in the store I get a, "That's weird," notion buzzing around my brain because I am spotting books from the list EVERYWHERE-- they're in the windows, on display tables, on the featured shelves at the end of the rows and rows of books. I think I could literally shake the shelves and the entire contents of the list fall to my feet.
My reaction to this was a muddied one. At first I felt bad for obviously having fallen prey to marketing ploys at bookstores over the years. Then I just shouldered it off figuring that I had good taste in books, and so what if that also meant that I was keeping apace with the trends.
However, my old anxieties kicked into overdrive and I ended up with this clamor of disparaging noise in my head. My internal monologue went a little like this:
Maybe.
In the long run, I just don't think naming names is my style. But for the record: If you borrowed my stuff, I know who you are and I'm judging you silently from afar.
As we approach the end of the Ex-Libris List, I wanted to take a brief foray into Tangentland. There's no actual list in this post, just a story that relates to the list. It has more to do with the end of the series than the middle of it, hence jumping ahead to name it 10a.A funny thing happened when I was bumbling around Powell's yesterday with my friend Jesse.
A note to non-Portlanders: Powell's is Portland's epic bookstore. It is several stories high and takes up an entire city block. First time visitors experience a real WOW factor. Eventually you learn the lay of the land, or you've adopted Portland's special brand of jadedness, or you're in a bad mood because it's been drizzling for 200 days straight and you walk into Powell's and think, "Get me to the Blue/Rose/Pearl Rooms because I need a book on x/y/z." Or, more likely, "Get me to the Purple Room because I need a toilet."
I hadn't been to Powell's in ages, despite the fact that I've been touting it here on the blogosphere by linking every single title on the list to the store's site. Before I even set foot in the store I get a, "That's weird," notion buzzing around my brain because I am spotting books from the list EVERYWHERE-- they're in the windows, on display tables, on the featured shelves at the end of the rows and rows of books. I think I could literally shake the shelves and the entire contents of the list fall to my feet.
My reaction to this was a muddied one. At first I felt bad for obviously having fallen prey to marketing ploys at bookstores over the years. Then I just shouldered it off figuring that I had good taste in books, and so what if that also meant that I was keeping apace with the trends.
However, my old anxieties kicked into overdrive and I ended up with this clamor of disparaging noise in my head. My internal monologue went a little like this:
Everyone thinks I'm a big liar. people are reading this list and thinking that I just came here to Powell's and picked out 87 titles from the recommended reading shelves. Not so! I owned these books. People borrowed them from me. I COULD NAME NAMES. I could implicate people. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrgh!When I mentioned this to Jesse he said, "Crow, I think naming names is generally a good idea."
Maybe.
In the long run, I just don't think naming names is my style. But for the record: If you borrowed my stuff, I know who you are and I'm judging you silently from afar.
21 August 2008
Take a Picture, It Will Last Longer
This post is the penultimate part of a series of 10 rants about my ex-books. Parts #1 and #2 will help to set the scene. Parts #3, #4 , #5, #6 ,#7 and #8 contain relevant squawking. The end is in sight!
Ask me for my favorite book lovers haunt -- a place to enjoy reading a book, or a place to browse/buy books. I can rattle off several in the various metropolises I have called home. For a far-afield example, after picking up a title at Kenny's Bookshop, one might need to head over to Banana Phoblacht to escape Galway's gales and indulge in one of the best hot chocolates I've had in my life.
I just learned that one such haven for books (in another one of my former homes) has closed. Candida's World of Books shut its doors this February. Though I learned of its demise some six months after the fact, I still felt a great sense of loss. This bookstore was a gem.
Candida's was a half a block away from my workplace in Washington, DC. I spent many a lunch break and a good chunk of my paycheck there. After toiling away (at a place where we unabashedly created as much drama off stage as we put on stage), it was nice to have a place like this to decompress from a stressful day. I liked my job a lot, but having Candida's as a nearby crutch made it livable.
Candida's was truly a World of Books. It could have been described as a travel bookstore, but that wouldn't be quite accurate. Travelogues, maps and guidebooks were offered in abundance. It was a place to stop in if you wanted to pick up a a replacement copy of 501 Russian Verbs along with a photo journal of Thailand, an introduction to South African diamond mining, a novel written in Portuguese, Italian erotica, a shiny new copy of The Master and Margarita, a children's book about passports, and a hitchhiker's account of his journey from Bratislava to Bucharest.
Candida and her staff were extremely knowledgeable, and could provide really excellent recommendations. Say you're a big Haruki Murakami fan, but you're in the mood for a classic. Candida's staff might pluck the Japanese classic Wild Geese by Ogai Mori from the shelf. I've seldom had bookshops that have come up with suggestions so quickly and so reliably.
I have always loved to travel (perhaps more than I love books or, dare I say it, theatre) and I've kept a list of places I would like to visit since I was a little girl. Iran has been on that list for many, many years, despite the fact that as an American I am supposed to believe that I will be burned at the stake upon entering the country. (Lies!) At the time I was frequenting Candida's, I was also reading up on Iran. Reading Lolita in Tehran was a relatively new and popular title at the time, and I came into Candida's one day complaining that I found it to be a disappointment. Candida of course had the perfect suggestion: Persepolis and Persepolis 2.
I began to read the first one on the ride home on the Metro. I lived at the end of the line, so I had a lengthy trip home. I finished the book, unaware that the entire train had disembarked. I sat alone sobbing for this sad-yet-affirming book had stirred me so much. A conductor finally came through and had to ask me to leave.
By the time I left the train, I had missed my bus, and I had over a 90 minute wait for the next one. This gave me more than enough time to read the second. I cried the whole bus ride home. Over the next week, I re-read this pair of books at least a dozen of times.
After my introduction to Persepolis,** I ditched the Iran phase and went through a graphic novels phase. I read all the big titles of the genre. Like many others, I'm not particularly fond of the term graphic novel, and it's true that this list isn't solely graphic novels. Ergo...
Picture Books
*Buy local and/or support the little guy!
**No, I have not seen the Persepolis movie. Yes, I would very much like to see it, so please invite me over to watch it already.
***If you haven't returned the Bigfoot book because you're still laughing, I understand. However, as a fee for having absconded with my book for so long, the courteous thing to do is to return my book along with its BRAND NEW SEQUEL, Bigfoot: I Not Dead.
Ask me for my favorite book lovers haunt -- a place to enjoy reading a book, or a place to browse/buy books. I can rattle off several in the various metropolises I have called home. For a far-afield example, after picking up a title at Kenny's Bookshop, one might need to head over to Banana Phoblacht to escape Galway's gales and indulge in one of the best hot chocolates I've had in my life.
I just learned that one such haven for books (in another one of my former homes) has closed. Candida's World of Books shut its doors this February. Though I learned of its demise some six months after the fact, I still felt a great sense of loss. This bookstore was a gem.
Candida's was a half a block away from my workplace in Washington, DC. I spent many a lunch break and a good chunk of my paycheck there. After toiling away (at a place where we unabashedly created as much drama off stage as we put on stage), it was nice to have a place like this to decompress from a stressful day. I liked my job a lot, but having Candida's as a nearby crutch made it livable.
Candida's was truly a World of Books. It could have been described as a travel bookstore, but that wouldn't be quite accurate. Travelogues, maps and guidebooks were offered in abundance. It was a place to stop in if you wanted to pick up a a replacement copy of 501 Russian Verbs along with a photo journal of Thailand, an introduction to South African diamond mining, a novel written in Portuguese, Italian erotica, a shiny new copy of The Master and Margarita, a children's book about passports, and a hitchhiker's account of his journey from Bratislava to Bucharest.
Candida and her staff were extremely knowledgeable, and could provide really excellent recommendations. Say you're a big Haruki Murakami fan, but you're in the mood for a classic. Candida's staff might pluck the Japanese classic Wild Geese by Ogai Mori from the shelf. I've seldom had bookshops that have come up with suggestions so quickly and so reliably.
I have always loved to travel (perhaps more than I love books or, dare I say it, theatre) and I've kept a list of places I would like to visit since I was a little girl. Iran has been on that list for many, many years, despite the fact that as an American I am supposed to believe that I will be burned at the stake upon entering the country. (Lies!) At the time I was frequenting Candida's, I was also reading up on Iran. Reading Lolita in Tehran was a relatively new and popular title at the time, and I came into Candida's one day complaining that I found it to be a disappointment. Candida of course had the perfect suggestion: Persepolis and Persepolis 2.
I began to read the first one on the ride home on the Metro. I lived at the end of the line, so I had a lengthy trip home. I finished the book, unaware that the entire train had disembarked. I sat alone sobbing for this sad-yet-affirming book had stirred me so much. A conductor finally came through and had to ask me to leave.
By the time I left the train, I had missed my bus, and I had over a 90 minute wait for the next one. This gave me more than enough time to read the second. I cried the whole bus ride home. Over the next week, I re-read this pair of books at least a dozen of times.
After my introduction to Persepolis,** I ditched the Iran phase and went through a graphic novels phase. I read all the big titles of the genre. Like many others, I'm not particularly fond of the term graphic novel, and it's true that this list isn't solely graphic novels. Ergo...
Picture Books
The Gashlycrumb Tinies by Edward Gorey
Y: The Last Man #01 by Pia Guerra and Brian K. Vaughan
Me Write Book: It Bigfoot Memoir by Graham Roumieu***
Persepolis by Marjane Satrapi
Persepolis 2 by Marjane Satrapi
Blankets by Craig Thompson
*Buy local and/or support the little guy!
**No, I have not seen the Persepolis movie. Yes, I would very much like to see it, so please invite me over to watch it already.
***If you haven't returned the Bigfoot book because you're still laughing, I understand. However, as a fee for having absconded with my book for so long, the courteous thing to do is to return my book along with its BRAND NEW SEQUEL, Bigfoot: I Not Dead.
18 August 2008
Onto the Classics
This post is part #8 in a series of 10 rants about my ex-books. Parts #1 and #2 will help to set the scene. Parts #3, #4 , #5, #6 and #7 contain relevant squawking. Those keeping up with the series should note that I bought a new keyboard because I got so fed up trying to type the last post without a space bar.
This is an Eames Lounge Chair and Ottoman set. It is a classic.
Connoisseurs of mid-century modern furniture design will tell you there is no finer specimen than the original. Its lines and proportions are perfect. The manufacture and materials are of such high quality that there is no possible substitute. People love this chair. People love this chair enough to have it tattooed on their forearm.
The thing about classics is that people are always trying to reproduce, re-imagine or generally riff on the original. In capitalist speak: people like, people buy, people demand more, people accept cheaper knock off, people are disappointed. Well.. those familiar with the original are disappointed.
Imagine you walk into an office and to have a serious conversation with someone. They offer you a place to sit, and it happens to be an Eames Lounge Chair. You sit down and close your eyes as you cozy up against the leather. Inhale, exhale. Open your eyes. You're in another chair. One that is very similar to the one you were just in but with a few "improvements" and "updates." So instead of sitting a timeless specimen, you're left in a leather lounger that screams 1994. Now tell me: are you going to be able to have a serious conversation with the person that list likely responsible for the switcheroo? Would you trust someone implicitly with such a flawed design aesthetic?
No? You wouldn't? Well shame on you for being so shallow. And shame on me for stringing you along. That really wasn't very nice of me.
Classics are classics for a reason. We can easily identify them because they stand out as innovators and as archetypes. In many ways, our collection of classic books becomes the barometer on which we gauge our critical response for that which follows. A classic can help us decide what is good and bad about what we've read or written. It can become a placeholder in a literary evolution.
Let me let you in on a little secret, I don't like all of the so-called classics. I've sloughed through many of them just so I can snicker a little harder at all the literary references that keep popping up hither and thither. For example, though I do like Steinbeck, I'd rather pull my teeth out than read In Dubious Battle or Grapes of Wrath again. I think it's important to dislike certain books. I think it is often easier to articulate what I do not like. From these criticisms, I can paint a clearer portrait of what I do like.
Here is my list of Classic Literature gone AWOL. I like these. I miss having them in my private library. I know many readers find the classics boring or dissatisfying. As it stands, a majority of this list is from the 20th century and may therefore be easier to tackle than Edmund Spencer's The Faerie Queene.
It's a Classic...
Useless Fact: in Ireland the title of James Joyce's book (and Irish national treasure) Ulysses is pronounced YOO-li-seis whereas in America we say ewe-LI-seez.
*If you're wary of a classics list, start here.
This is an Eames Lounge Chair and Ottoman set. It is a classic.
Connoisseurs of mid-century modern furniture design will tell you there is no finer specimen than the original. Its lines and proportions are perfect. The manufacture and materials are of such high quality that there is no possible substitute. People love this chair. People love this chair enough to have it tattooed on their forearm.
The thing about classics is that people are always trying to reproduce, re-imagine or generally riff on the original. In capitalist speak: people like, people buy, people demand more, people accept cheaper knock off, people are disappointed. Well.. those familiar with the original are disappointed.
Imagine you walk into an office and to have a serious conversation with someone. They offer you a place to sit, and it happens to be an Eames Lounge Chair. You sit down and close your eyes as you cozy up against the leather. Inhale, exhale. Open your eyes. You're in another chair. One that is very similar to the one you were just in but with a few "improvements" and "updates." So instead of sitting a timeless specimen, you're left in a leather lounger that screams 1994. Now tell me: are you going to be able to have a serious conversation with the person that list likely responsible for the switcheroo? Would you trust someone implicitly with such a flawed design aesthetic?
No? You wouldn't? Well shame on you for being so shallow. And shame on me for stringing you along. That really wasn't very nice of me.
Classics are classics for a reason. We can easily identify them because they stand out as innovators and as archetypes. In many ways, our collection of classic books becomes the barometer on which we gauge our critical response for that which follows. A classic can help us decide what is good and bad about what we've read or written. It can become a placeholder in a literary evolution.
Let me let you in on a little secret, I don't like all of the so-called classics. I've sloughed through many of them just so I can snicker a little harder at all the literary references that keep popping up hither and thither. For example, though I do like Steinbeck, I'd rather pull my teeth out than read In Dubious Battle or Grapes of Wrath again. I think it's important to dislike certain books. I think it is often easier to articulate what I do not like. From these criticisms, I can paint a clearer portrait of what I do like.
Here is my list of Classic Literature gone AWOL. I like these. I miss having them in my private library. I know many readers find the classics boring or dissatisfying. As it stands, a majority of this list is from the 20th century and may therefore be easier to tackle than Edmund Spencer's The Faerie Queene.
It's a Classic...
Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury
The Stranger by Albert Camus
Middlemarch by Geroge Eliot
The Sun Also Rises by Earnest Hemingway
Siddhartha by Herman Hesse
Brave New World by Aldous Huxley
Dubliners by James Joyce
Ulysses by James Joyce
East of Eden by John Steinbeck
Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck
Tortilla Flat by John Steinbeck*
Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy
Slaughterhouse Five by Kurt Vonnegut
The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde
Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf
Useless Fact: in Ireland the title of James Joyce's book (and Irish national treasure) Ulysses is pronounced YOO-li-seis whereas in America we say ewe-LI-seez.
*If you're wary of a classics list, start here.
And now for the gents...
This post is part #7 in a series of 10 rants about my ex-books. Parts #1 and #2 will help to set the scene. Parts #3, #4 , #5 and #6 contain relevant squawking.
I won't be giving these gentleman an adequate introduction. The broken space bar on my laptop is proving to be more obnoxious than the missing Y and arrow keys. I removed the space bar key so I didn't have to typelikethis (the other keys were lost thanks to dropping my Shakespeare anthology on my computer...twice). Now I can't get the damn thing back on. Without the space bar, I need to hit this tiny sensor and that can only (painstakingly) be done using my right index finger.
It's too bad that this fragment of The List has so little introduction. There are so many enjoyable reads, both heady and hysterical (sometimes simultaneously). Can you tell that my infatuations tend to be literary?
Modern Fiction by Men
I won't be giving these gentleman an adequate introduction. The broken space bar on my laptop is proving to be more obnoxious than the missing Y and arrow keys. I removed the space bar key so I didn't have to typelikethis (the other keys were lost thanks to dropping my Shakespeare anthology on my computer...twice). Now I can't get the damn thing back on. Without the space bar, I need to hit this tiny sensor and that can only (painstakingly) be done using my right index finger.
It's too bad that this fragment of The List has so little introduction. There are so many enjoyable reads, both heady and hysterical (sometimes simultaneously). Can you tell that my infatuations tend to be literary?
Modern Fiction by Men
Bless Me, Ultima by Rudolfo Anaya
The Eyre Affair by Jasper Fforde
A Spot of Bother by Mark Haddon
The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time by Mark Haddon
Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro
The Book of Laughter and Forgetting by Milan Kundera
The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera
Amsterdam by Ian McEwan
Black Dogs by Ian McEwan
Saturday by Ian McEwan
Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ's Childhood Pal by Christopher Moore
Practical Demonkeeping by Christopher Moore
The Lust Lizard of Melancholy Cove by Christopher Moore
Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami
Running in the Family by Michael Ondaatje (technically an autobiography, but reads like fiction and it's Ondaatje for crying out loud)
Diary by Chuck Palahniuk
Another Roadside Attraction by Tom Robbins
Jitterbug Perfume by Tom Robbins
Still Life with Woodpecker by Tom Robbins
Cinnamon Gardens by Shyam Selvadurai
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