1968: The Year That Rocked the World

Near the end of this excellent history, Mark Kurlansky says:

"The year 1968 was a terrible year and yet one for which many people feel nostalgia.  Despite the thousands dead in Vietnam, the million starved in Biafra, the crushing of idealism in Poland and Czechoslovakia, the massacre in Mexico, the clubbings and brutalization of dissenters all over the world, the murder of the two Americans who most offered the world hope, to many it was a year of great possibilities and is missed. . . The thrilling thing about the year 1968 was that it was a time when significant segments of population all over the globe refused to be silent about the many things that were wrong with the world.  They could not be silenced.  There were too many of them, and if they were given no other opportunity, they would stand in the street and shout about them.  And this gave the world a sense of hope that it has rarely had, a sense that where there is wrong, there are always people who will expose it and try to change it."

I was only a junior in high school that year, a senior for the last of it, and was only vaguely aware of what was going on.  Not until I went to college in 1969 did I become involved in any sort of protest, first the mild demonstration that occurred on the Muhlenberg campus (I still have the "Peace" armband I wore then) and then some Washington marches.  There was definitely something in the air that I felt and absorbed.  By the end of my college years, much of the hope Kurlansky talks about was gone, especially after McGovern lost the election in '72n and the Vietnam War continued to drag into the 70's. 

It seems to me that people were less afraid in the 60's.  They spoke out.  They fought for their beliefs with their bodies, not just via e-mail or text or Facebook.  People have not given up - I applaud the Veterans for Peace who protested (130 of the protesters arrested) December 16th when they demonstrated against the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, and President Obama's decision to move our troop pullout from 2011 to 2014. 

What's so amazing is that, despite certain governments thinking it was all a conspiracy, the student revolutions happened at the same time, independently of each other.  I was aware of Paris and Czechoslovakia, but didn't know - or didn't remember -- the details, and don't remember hearing about Mexico and the other revolts that happened back then, in Italy, Spain, Germany. 

The government learned how to work the media for their own ends.  We don't see the coverage we should be seeing today; the war is a footnote.  How many of you knew there was a protest in December in Washington?  The numbers are manipulated, photos destroyed and data skewed (that went on in the 70's too) so that the wars can go on.  It happened then and happens today.  There will always be truth-tellers who can't be silenced, though (Joe Sacco, Michael Herr, Michael Moore).

I knew nothing about Alexander Dubcek, and plan to read more on him (HOPE DIES LAST: THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ALEXANDER DUBCEK).  He seemed to me a wise and compassionate man.  If you want to learn some sharp history with a slew of anecdotes, connections, and references to music, feminism, art, philosophy of the times, read this book.  It may not make you a revolutionary, but it will make you think about what matters, about what makes a nation great.  It will teach you much and if you already know all about it, will make you remember.

(You may be able to get a used copy at http://www.powells.com/ like I did.)

The Best Anti-War Book I've Ever Read

This is another older book that's been on  my "Books Wanted" list for a long time.  I finally purchased it at Powell's (if you still have Christmas shopping to do, Powell's has free shipping now, with guaranteed Christmas delivery at http://www.powell's.com/  -- I got the Vintage International 1991 edition for $7.95).

Hunter Thompson said "We have all spent ten years [now over 40!] trying to explain what happened to our heads and our lives in the decade we finally survived -- but Michael Herr's Dispatches puts all the rest of us in the shade."

This is one instance where the critics were right on.  It's a harrowing, heartbreaking, honest, enlightening book.  The theme of youth destroyed runs throughout:  "I realized later that, however childish I might remain [Herr was in his mid-20's when he was a Vietnam War correspondent] actual youth had been pressed out of me in just the three days that it took me to cross the sixty miles between Can Tho and Saigon."  He is meticulous about his word choice: "pressed out of me" is perfect, encompassing the weight of many things, among them the heat, death, constant danger.  Or what about this:

              ". . . it was never easy to guess the ages of Marines at Keh Sanh since nothing like youth ever         lasted in their faces for very long.  It was the eyes:  because they were always either strained or blazed-out or simply blank, they never had anything to do with what the rest of the face was doing, and it gave everyone the look of extreme fatigue or even a glancing madness.  (And age: If you take one of those platoon photographs from the Civil War and cover everything but the eyes, there is no difference between a man of fifty and a boy of thirteen.)"

What's changed?  War destroys youth, and the war we're involved in now is no different in that respect from Vietnam.  That destruction of youth, of innocence, of life itself - for what? - eats at Herr.  All becomes meaningless, a dream, a longing to escape hell.  "How many times did somebody have to run in front of a machine gun before it became an act of cowardice?"  Think about that.  Bravura has morphed into indifference, a desire for the ultimate escape.

This is the kind of book where each sentence is so striking I could have underlined entire chapters.  "Colleagues" is just what it says, what it felt like for Herr and his fellow reporters.  It is also an indictment of the military elite who worked in concert (a different type of collegialism) to lie to the American people - and the world - through their distortion of facts on the ground.  Herr and his friends saw the war firsthand and struggled against that hardened elite to reveal the extent and many levels of destruction.  Other "reporters" bought into the "cross-fertilization of ignorance", the "psychotic vaudeville" that disgusted Herr and his friends.

The second part of this chapter could be subtitled "War As Movie".  Herr begins by saying "I kept thinking about all the kids who got wiped out by seventeen years of war movies before coming to Vietnam to get wiped out for good."  Growing up on war movies made the war initially seem unreal - you were in your own movie -- and it quickly became a horror movie.  This chapter also contains the crux of the problems faced by the reporters, "what we knew together, that in back of every column of print you read about Vietnam there was a dripping, laughing death-face; it hid there in the newspapers and magazines and held to your television screens for hours after the set was turned off for the night, an after-image that simply wanted to tell you at last what somehow had not been told."

He talks about an older correspondent who blew off the numbers in Khe Sanh (200 dead, 1000 wounded) by saying, "Oh, two hundred isn't anything.  We lost more than that in an hour on Guadalcanal."  This so disturbs Herr and his friends that they leave the table, but they "heard that kind of talk all the time, as though it could invalidate the deaths at Keh Sanh, render them somehow less dead than the dead from Guadalcanal, as though light losses didn't lie as still as moderate losses or heavy losses.  And these were American dead they were talking about; you should have heard them when the dead were Vietnamese."  This passage reminded me of a poem I wrote years ago:

                                                           Significant Losses

(Madeline Albright stated that “significant losses”

were not expected in a war with Iraq)

What makes a loss “significant”?

What is the magic number that

crosses the border into “significance”?

One death reverberates.

One death is significant

to the mother,

the father, wife, children,

sisters, brothers,

grandmothers, grandfathers,

aunts, uncles, cousins,

not to mention to

the one killed.

And what of the innocents gone?

The many children maimed, dead?

Those who were in the line of fire,

losing their arms, legs, heads?

Are they significant?

Those who calculate loss

as significant

only when the numbers climb

until the death toll reaches

a particular thousand

and the screams and protests of

the survivors grow to a blood-red

river’s roar –

then, and only then, say

it’s time to stop,

to pull out.

After they’ve proven their guns

still work,

their bombs still kill,

that they’re still significantly

effective.

Your mother and my mother,

your sister and my sister

say

One death –

one –

is not slight.

One death is a

significant

loss.

The Cool Cat with More than 9 Lives

It's hard to imagine any Rolling Stones fan who won't want to read Keith Richards' Life, and anyone who's at all familiar with Richards from past articles won't be buying it for the gossip factor.
Mick Jagger claimed in Sunday's NY Times Style magazine, "Personally, I think it's really quite tedious raking over the past.  Mostly, people only do it for the money."  Notice that he says "most people" - Keith may or may not be included in that company.  It's hard to believe that would have been Richards' motivation, as he turns an exceedingly critical eye upon his own past behavior -- there would have been less painful ways to make money.  And his compliments regarding Mick far outweigh any gibes.  That's not why I bought the book -- and I don't think it's hit the bestseller list because of what Keith might have to say about Mick.  I wanted to hear him tell about how the band started, but especially to hear what he has to say about the songs.  And I got what I was looking for.

Sure, he tells long and harrowing stories about his past drug addiction(s).   Even then, though, what comes through is his concern about how his behavior affected the band and its music.  He's worried more about collateral damage than any harm to himself.  The guy does remember a lot, though, considering his state much of the time, for decades.  His descriptions of the lure and horrors of heroin abuse - and cocaine - seemed to me (a person who has dealt with this in her own family) to be unabashedly honest.  He completely captures the power of addictive desire and the ravages that desire can bring to a person's world and the people around him.  He has no compunction about showing things as they were, no matter how selfish or damaged he may appear.  As revealing  -- and often laugh-out-loud amusing -- as Keith's stories are, the extended quotes by other musicians and friends like Tom Waits are just as revelatory - Waits' being, unsurprisingly for such a literate musician, very good indeed.

What redeems Keith, and always has, is his talent and tremendous love for music and fellow musicians, which is apparent whenever you see him play.  His vulnerability and care for his true "mates" -- male and female -- also comes through, unforced and uncloying.  The man has a great heart, which is probably why so many remain(ed) so loyal to him through thick and thin.

I remember seeing the Chuck Berry film Keith talks about in his book, and thinking how patient he was dealing with Chuck's crazy demands and quirks.  That story's in here, along with many others on fellow musicians (Willie Nelson, John Lennon, Etta James).  For me, though, some of the best parts of the book are when he describes the genesis of a song.  Another reason for wanting Keith's story is you know the man fears no type of censure (the book only reinforces this). 

Re: songwriting, Keith repeatedly says,

                  "Good songs write themselves.You're just being led by the nose, or the ears.
                   The skill is not to interfere with it too much.  Ignore intelligence, ignore everything;
                   just follow it where it takes you. . . You think, where did I steal this from?  No, no,
                   that's original. . . And you realize that songs write themselves; you're just the conveyor." 

Sure, this has been said before, (the same thing happens with poems, as other poets, too, have said before), but I think we're getting some originality here, a truly individual way of wording a truism.  I just like the way he puts it. 

It would be interesting to get Charlie Watts' take on the band's history (Keith has nothing but good things to say about his pal and bandmate, from the get-go).  But if Charlie never does (and it seems unlikely given his quiet reticence), we have this loud and honest memoir by the father of all rock 'n roll pirates.

Just Give Me Some Truth

Last week I saw two films on John Lennon, and both were disappointing.  As a Beatles fan(atic) from way back, it troubles me to see distortions onscreen, particularly when the audience may consist of people unfamiliar with Lennon's life who may take these depictions to heart.

The first was the feature film +Nowhere Boy, directed by Sam Taylor-Wood.  The best thing I can say about this film is that Aaron Johnson looked, in long shots, like the young John, especially when he had his Buddy Holly-like glasses on.  The most effective scenes were those when John and Paul first meet and the Quarrymen play their first gigs.  On the other hand, the scenes with Ann-Marie Duff (estranged mother Julia) were exaggerated (her acting, their relationship with each other).  Yes, Julia was young when she had John, but I've read many many books on the Beatles and didn't expect to see her attraction to and love for him so over-the-top flirtatious, nearly incestuous.  John grieved deeply and always after her sudden death, but it wasn't because of any sexual attraction; it was because he was just starting to know her after years of absence.


Christopher Eccleston in Lennon Naked had the accent down, but is too old to be portraying John Lennon in the the mid-60's through early 70's.  That alone was distracting, but more than that, again we had stereotypical Lennon anecdotes, including

•  his cruelty to others (Cynthia, childhood friends, Brian Epstein)
• his possible sexual liaison with Brian Epstein (the beginning of the film concentrates on this)
•  his childishness/failure to "grow up" (jumping into pool with clothes on, bed-in being mocked by the press)
• his insensitivity to the other Beatles when breaking up the band (at least they showed Paul jumping the gun by announcing he was quitting before Lennon could get the word out)

Although these things are documented and well known, to concentrate on them without also showing clearly his creativity, humor, and generosity seems just another attempt to sensationalize. 

Fortunately, Lennon NYC on PBS Monday night redeemed John's portrait.  Of course, it was a documentary, so we saw what was.  Documentaries can also distort, but this one did not.  John didn't come off looking like a saint -- his excessive drinking and boorish behavior during his famous "Lost Weekend" was honestly depicted, as was his neglect of Julian.  But we saw his outspokenness against the Vietnam War and Nixon's efforts to have him deported for this; his love for NYC/America; his great love for Yoko and Sean.   And, of course, his huge talent in action.  It was fascinating to see how the melodies came and lyrics were revised as the songs evolved.  This is the John Lennon we should remember.

Striking Oil with Rick Bass

Where The Sea Used To Be, there are now forests, mountains, tremendous layers of rock.  This deeply-layered novel has multiple depths as well - several layers of storylines going - the topmost being the search for oil, led by Old Dudley. 

Old Dudley echoes characters in books I've previously read:  Marcus in Iris Murdoch's A Message to The Planet, Sam Pollit in Christina Stead's The Man Who Loved Children, and Maurice Conchis in John Fowles' The Magus, all impish master manipulators, sometimes sadistic, seemingly impervious to the human/physical destruction they leave in their wakes.  Despite his extremely difficult and often repulsive personality, Old Dudley is loved.  It is not, however,within his capacity to return it; the only thing he feels any passion for is his constant search for oil as he penetrates the rocks beneath him, and his dominance over others as he strives to attain this end.

Although I've probably read short pieces by Rick Bass in lit journals, as his name was familiar, I had never read any of his books.  For a first novel (1998), this book is profound, learned, and polished.  At times it is mythic, as in the moving scene when the great black bear joins the dying Helen at her picnic table for a late-night pancake feast.  It's also deeply grounded in reality -- Bass's descriptions of the tiny mountain town of Swan and its surrounding land and water, of its inhabitants both human and animal, and of the relationships that develop among them are as sharp and clear as November mountain air.

Even the town's name has echoes and reverberations, layers like the rock Old Dudley seeks to master.  There are two Swans - when Wallis, one of Dudley's proteges, first seeks out the town, he is told to go onward to the second Swan.  At the end of the book, Artie, the owner of the town bar, says he spotted two swans for the first time in thirty years.  The swans, which had been plentiful before that, had been killed by wolves many years since, so their visits had ceased.  Matthew, Old Dudley's finest protege (until Dudley sapped his essence, his oil, his richness) tells how the only time swans make a sound is "right before they die.  It's the only sound they make in their whole life.  That's why they call it a swan song.  They lie down and stretch out their neck and whistle.  It's not a pretty sound -- not at all like you'd think.  It's horrible."  Matthew then goes on to say that he heard this sound when, as a kid, he caught one and stoned it to death.  Perhaps this is why Matthew allowed Old Dudley to sap the life out of him -- he was caught ( baited) and, like the swan, gradually killed (the swan's stoning by Matthew like Old Dudley's repeated shots to Matthew's life force).  Stoning - an appropriate image in a book filled with images like this, of the earth's various layers being, in one way or another, put to mankind's service. 

Old Dudley's manhood could be compared to the oil drill - his worst nightmare is waking with a flaccid penis (dry oil well).  What constitutes manhood?  In Dudley's mind, it is bending others to his will, whether it be his proteges, women, townspeople, or nature in its various forms.  Although he feels superior to the rock he drills, Dudley is still afraid of the nature he doesn't know -- the woods, the upper layers of the earth, animals, snow --  and repeatedly curses these things. 

The one thing he can't control is his daughter Mel.   She retains her independence from him, having chosen long ago to stay in Swan and track the wolves( see Women Who Run With the Wolves - Mel personifies one of these archetypal women).  Although she's inherited Dudley's stubbornness, she refuses to be cowed by his cruelty, his sarcasm, his will.  She's connected to the upper earth (people, the wolves and other animals around her), to the townspeople (particularly Helen) and possesses a respect for life, nature, and self that Dudley lacks. 

Dudley teaches Matthew and Wallis how to find oil; Helen teaches the townspeople how to read the weather; Matthew teaches Wallis how to track elk; and Mel leaves her decades-long tracking of wolf patterns to teach the town's children.  Along the way, people learn as much from the world around them as they do from their specific tutors.  One character, young Colter, springs free from the confines of the town to explore farther north, out of reach of the rigs and Dudley's grasp, leaping over the rock wall Matthew built years ago (it runs for miles through the land) and which was lengthened and built on since by all the townspeople.  This wall is a constant work-in-progress.  It connects the people to their land.

Rick Bass is a wonderful nature writer with a deep understanding of human nature as well.  I knew I would love this book after reading the first sentence:  "He had been eating the whole world for the seventy years of his life; and for the last twenty, he had been trying to eat the valley."  Clever Bass, hooking me.

The Singular Mark Twain

This year is the 100th anniversary of Mark Twain's death.  He stipulated that his Autobiography not be published until this date occurred - now it is coming out in 3 volumes to be published by the University of California Press (1st volume due November 2010).  After reading The Singular Mark Twain by Fred Kaplan, I am even more anxious to delve into Twain's autobiography.  Twain said, "I think we never become really & genuinely our entire & honest selves until we are dead -- & not then until we have been dead years & years.  People ought to start dead, & then they would be honest so much earlier."  His Autobiography promises to be a revelatory read.

The Singular Mark Twain is another tome - 655 pp. - but his story was told with such panache that it was not at all daunting.  As a longtime fan of Twain -- I re-read The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn again last year and found it even deeper than I remembered it -- it was interesting to me to read of his life, his love for his wife Livy, and the relationships he had with other important figures of the age, particularly William Dean Howells.  I read Howells' A Hazard of New Fortunes in college, but don't remember much of it.  Howells certainly was a good and loyal friend to Twain over the course of many, many years, and Twain was often not an easy man to deal with. 

I would have eliminated some of the details of Twain's financial problems; his penchant for poor investments was detailed repeatedly.  These are the only parts of the book I glossed over.  I'd been aware that he became even more difficult toward the end of his life, but did not know the details.  It was dismaying how easily swayed he was by his daughter Clara against Isabel Lyon, who devoted so many years of her life to making Twain happy as secretary, companion and housekeeper.  This was probably the worst case of Twain turning against people he had formerly held dear.  The darker aspects of his personality (and his writing) were always there -- it seems that as he aged, he was less reticent to keep them hidden.

What was most entertaining to me was seeing the variety of ways he manifested his individuality. He was generally fearless in airing his opinions, some of which were quite unpopular in his day -- he was disdainful of religion, outspoken against prejudice (a contrast to his early years), and against imperialism.  He was an avid traveler who preferred ships over trains, curious to experience the mores and people of many different lands.  He explored areas physically and mentally that many of his contemporaries were reluctant to visit.

I can see why Hal Holbrooke never gets bored playing Twain.  Mark Twain was such a rich personality, so full of wit, so very "singular."  He was very often blind to his faults, but aren't we all? 

What Happened to the Battle That Was Ragin'?

As Jenny Diski says repeatedly in Picador's lovely "BIG IDEAS/small books" edition of The Sixties:  "The music was undeniably as great as we thought it was."  She repeats this over and over again, and over and over again I agreed with her.  She says, perfectly, "The music knew where we were going in our heads and wrote the score."  It reminded me of the scene in The Big Chill when one of Harold's (Kevin Kline's) college friends accuses him of being stuck in the 60's because all he plays on his stereo is 60's music.  One friend says, "Come on, there's been some great music since then", but isn't able to name any.  (That film soundtrack remains one of the best of all time.)

This is a small book, in both size and length, at 134 pages, but Diski is succinct, objective, and honest in her analysis of those times.  She's also a Brit, so it was interesting to read her take on what was happening in the U.S. from someone "across the pond."

I have another book by Diski, Stranger on a Train, (subtitled "Daydreaming and Smoking Around America With Interruptions").  The title alone was funny, and I really enjoyed this addition to the Travel section of my bookcase.  It was much more than a book on her travels by train, and the difficulties of smoking during her travels; like Paul Theroux, she has a knack for writing memorable portraits of the people she meets, and for writing profoundly on life in general as she makes her way to her destination.

I'm glad Diski made clear at the beginning of the book that:

"The Sixties, of course, were not the decade of the same name.  They began in the mid-1960s with the rise of popular culture. . . aided by a generation of people who did not have an urgent economic fear, nor (in Britain) a war to deal with, and it ended in the mid-1970s when all the open-ended possibilities we saw began to narrow. . ."

She says that the "big idea" we had, that included "freedom, liberty, permission, a great enlarging of human possibilities" was "an idea we failed to think through.  It was a failure of thought essentially, rather than a failure of imagination."  This is crucial.  What made those times so exciting and made them feel so open-ended was the power of our imaginations.  We had a great sense of play. 

She talks about the "terrible clarity of vision" that's "available to the young of every generation, and those who look become the trouble-makers, the difficult ones, that the elders complain about eternally."  How much better could the gist of those times be stated?  This also rang a bell to me personally, as I have always felt that I'm the "difficult" one of my siblings, the one unafraid to pull the covers off the truth and talk about what lies underneath.  I think a lot of those who were close to me at the time held that same spot in their family dynamic.

Diski is truthful about the failures of those times, but also kind toward our youthful hopes and dreams.  "Like the young at all times, I imagined that such as us had never happened before, and that nothing was ever going to be the same again once the old had passed into their pottering retirement.  What the young don't get is that they are young; the old are right, young is a phase the old go through."

To paraphrase Dylan, there are certainly still "battles ragin'", but I don't see youth on the front lines of those battles (against war and various oppressions) like we were in the 60's.  There are surely youth out there who are pursuing their ideals, and those ideals surely include freedom and liberty.  But despite the proliferation of media tools for networking and the spread of information, I don't hear or see much real rebellion in the air, at least not from youth.  Diski thinks the generations older and younger than us "are more inclined than we were to reproduce for their young what they experienced in their childhood, rather than offer them Wonderland.  We were stardust, we were golden and we had to get ourselves back to the garden. . ."

 

The Passage

Recently, I find myself pulling fantasy novels off my bookshelf. Is it because I need an escape from the debilitating and constant unemployment situation? Because of the continuing and futile war, disappointment in Obama, floods and earthquakes killing so many people? Although I’ve always enjoyed fantasy and sci-fi (I loved Anne Rice 's vampire series, and the heroine in Dana Gabaldon’s Outlander series is one of the all-time greats of any genre), they don’t form the bulk of my library, and recently, I’ve been reading a lot of nonfiction. But it’s also true that since childhood, I’ve loved myths and fairy tales. I still periodically re-read them, and just bought a nice leather volume of Bullfinch’s Mythology at the latest AAUW Book Sale. Myths are, after all, our oldest stories. Stories of quests, strange creatures, and the battle of good versus evil remain as popular today as eons ago. (Also, the first novel I wrote turned out to be a fantasy novel – did I subconsciously want to write a tale like those that first hooked me on reading?)

My nephew recently lent me The Book of Lost Things by John Connolly, which was very well-written. I particularly enjoyed his history of the fairy tales used in the book, in an appendix to the novel.

The book that’s lingered in my head for weeks now, though, through others I’ve read in the meantime, is The Passage, by Justin Cronin. I bought the book after reading an interview with him on the Powell’s Books website (http://www.powells.com/); the book sounded intriguing, and I was in the mood for escape after the two tomes I’d just finished (see earlier blog).

The theory voiced most often in the media in explanation of the spate of films and novels about vampires and zombies in the past few years is this: We feel helpless in relation to the economy, environmental disasters, and endless and futile wars (sounds like I fit right in). These vampire/zombie films and novels voice our helplessness in the face of implacable foes that can’t be killed and which we can’t control.

From the first chapter, Cronin convinces us that his world is real. It could be our world, which is what makes it truly frightening. Although The Passage is dark and terrifying, it’s also full of compassion for its characters. The unlikely heroine is a child, but there is another character whose presence remains throughout the book even after he’s physically left the scene, and was, to me, the true hero.

These vampires are unapproachable and not the least enigmatic, unlike Lestat or Louis (or Edward in the Twilight series). They’ve been created by man, and man can’t fix the terror he’s unleashed.

My only complaint is the ending. I felt the same way after reading the long and creepy, and sometimes maddeningly repetitive novel, Drood. This ending isn’t as frustrating, but I did have the same urge, though only momentary this time, to toss the book across the room. Then I re-read the last chapter and thought maybe it had to end that way. Or did it? Cronin’s definitely left things open for a sequel.

Two Massive Tomes

My sister Lydia usually reads several books at a time.  I may have a book of poetry on my coffeetable that I'll read to break up a long novel or book, but I usually just concentrate on one book, preferring to lose myself in that one world and give it my full attention.

For a change, though, I decided to tackle both the 1200+-page history Gotham by Burrows and Wallace, and the 800+-page novel NewYork by Edward Rutherfurd.  I'm coordinating the chapters by date, i.e., I'll read the history of New York through a certain date, and then the novel through that same time span.  It's easy to link the two because Rutherfurd's chapters are subtitled by date, and the massive history can easily be stopped when I reach the stopping end of an era, so to speak.  Gotham ends in 1898, while the novel takes us through the September 11th attacks on the World Trade Center.

What's interesting about doing the reading this way is seeing how the novelist makes the historical record come alive (although Gotham wasn't his only source).  We care about these characters.  What made one man or woman a Loyalist and others Patriots?  The fictional characters interact with historical ones like Ben Franklin and George Washington.

We follow several families through the generations, with certain talismans being passed down from one to the next.  The most poignant thread was that of the wampum belt, which we encounter toward the beginning of the novel, and which ends up being worn (and disintegrates) during the World Trade Center attacks.

Burrows and Wallace's writing, although like a textbook, is not dry.  The biggest difficulty I had with it was the weight of the book itself - how to hold it without making dents in my legs or ending up with aching wrists! 

I discovered many facts about New York City that were unknown to me before this reading, such as the fact that NYC was one of the largest slaveholding sites, fighting long and hard against abolition, and that NYC was our first capitol.  Of great interest to me was reading about the history of the publishing industry, how it began and evolved.  The footnotes were as interesting as the text - here's a sample, regarding the sewing industry:

"Singer introduced a family machine in 1856.  Home sales were sluggish at first, until Singer offered them at half price to ministers' wives and to sewing societies connected with churches, after which sales to "respectable" women picked up. . ."

The Draft Riots of 1863 detail the lynching and burning of blacks.  This is but one of the horrifyingly violent episodes in NYC's history, and one of Rutherford's characters, whose family we've come to care about, is a victim of this horror.

There's so much here - women's history, mercantile history, wars and battles and greed and generosity, writers and artists, plagues and inventions, common sense and blindness.  As I love the intensity, excitement, bustle and uniqueness of our most exciting city, it was a pleasure to discover its history.  I was touched that Rutherfurd ended his novel shortly after one of his characters visits Strawberry Fields, and then finds out that a Freedom Tower is to be erected at Ground Zero.  His character says: 

"That Strawberry Fields garden he'd come from, and the Freedom Tower he'd been thinking of:  taken together, didn't they contain the two words that said it all about this city, the two words that really mattered?  It seemed to him that they did.  Two words:  the one an invitation, the other an ideal, an adventure, a necessity.  'Imagine' said the garden.  'Freedom' said the tower.  Imagine freedom.  That was the spirit, the message of this city he loved."

It was an interesting experiment on my part, tackling these two books this way, and I'm glad I did it.  I'd recommend this method to anyone, but you may want to purchase a lapdesk first. . .

Please Go to "Please Give"

My Aunt Moogs conscientiously made small donations to many different charities; my mom does the same; I continue to do so despite being unemployed.  The desire to support causes we believe in (and believing that our doing so helps) runs in the family.  So I could identify with Kate's (Catherine Keener's) guilt and angst in Nicole Holofcener's Please Give, now playing at the 19th Street (Civic Little) Theatre in Allentown, at 7:30 tonight through Thursday.

The question is:  Where does it stop?  Do our small donations make a dent in the suffering all around us?  Are our assumptions about charities valid?  Once we start giving, the pleas quickly become a deluge.  Are we better off making one lump-sum donation to a single cause?  Do we stop giving and worry about ourselves?  Or do we just do what we can and try not to lose sleep over all that's undone?

In this film, Kate (Catherine Keener) wonders how to justify a purchase of expensive jeans for her daughter when people on the street below her (lovely and amazing) apartment freeze and go hungry.  And how does she justify making a profit re-selling old furniture at a huge mark-up, purchased from sellers ignorant as to its value -- does she tell them, and watch her own livelihood disappear?  Or learn to live with the guilt?

Nichole Holofcener has an ear for the way real people talk and act, especially women experiencing various degrees of crisis or stasis.  She presents her characters as they are, leaving us to judge them, as she does not.  Some scenes are uncomfortable to watch, as when Kate's daughter Abby receives a facial and her pimples are literally squeezed, but we cringe as well when Kate attempts to give her restaurant leftovers to an elderly gentleman outside a restaurant.  He's waiting in line to be seated, and Kate's and her family's embarrassment at her mistaking him for homeless is palpable.  This kind of discomfort -- the recognition it sparks and the questions it raises -- is one of the reasons film can have such power to move us.

The well-to-do vintage furniture store owners Kate (Catherine Keener) and Alex (Oliver Platt) have arrangements to purchase (or have already purchased) the apartment next-door.  This apartment is presently occupied by an elderly woman (Ann Morgan Guilbert as Andra), grandmother to Mary (callous) and Rebecca (kind and dutiful, played by Rebecca Hall, so beautiful in Vicky Christina Barcelona).  Kate and Alex can't expand into the apartment next door until Andra dies.  They wonder and worry how this agreed-upon transaction appears to Andra and her granddaughters, and how their friendly (and sometimes calculated) overtures appear.  The granddaughters don't seem bothered by the arrangement.  And crotchety Andra?  There are indications that she may not be too batty to be unoffended. 

The acting is splendid all around.  Sarah Steele deserves a Supporting Actress nomination for her role as Abby, accurately and perceptively capturing the surface concerns (the desire for expensive jeans), the backtalk, and the depth of a smart 15-year-old girl.  During the facial scene mentioned above, her complexion and expression minutely change as she listens to offhand news from Mary (Amanda Peet) that she realizes holds more import than her young heart can bear.  I was happily surprised to see Sarah Vowell in a small part as one of Kate's store patrons. 

The Roches "No Shoes" perfectly opened the film, a perfect fit in tone and content -- "I complained that I had nothing left to lose/And then I met a manWho had no shoes... "

Rah Rah for the Ri Ra Pub!

Why is the Tropicana casino in Atlantic City such a maze?  My brother says casinos are deliberately designed that way so that you're enticed to gamble at every turn.  We all surely got our exercise over the few days we were there.  After winding our way past the fountain and the ceiling palm fans, we found the Ri Ra (sorry, can't seem to add accents to this font) to get something more substantial than Boardwalk food.

There was a soccer game in progress on several big-TV screens in this Irish pub, the fans openly expressing their enthusiasm with cheers and moans when one of the players got kicked in the nose.  My brother used to play soccer, so was into it.  Despite some annoying distractions, I relished my lunch.

Everyone was pleased with their food here, from kids to parents to grandmother.  I ordered a Reuben (yes, I know, I had one in an earlier blog, but I love them) and it was, I think, the best one I've ever had, due in large part to the delicious thick bread that was used to enclose lots of lean corned beef and the Ri Ra special sauce.  I didn't feel guilty, as I knew I'd make up for the ingestion of so many calories with plenty of walking later.  Plus, aren't vacations made for guilt-free indulging?

A friend had recommended the Fiesta buffet, which we tried on a later night (I would have foregone the mediocre seafood there for the melt-in-your-mouth pot roast once I discovered it on second go-round). I think it was unanimous that we enjoyed the Ri Ra more; in fact, most of us returned there before we left for home and had another delicious lunch.

So if you're in Atlantic City and near the Tropicana, try the Ri Ra.  It's on the second floor in the Havana Tower.  I had hoped to try the Cuban restaurant also, but couldn't get anyone else to accompany me.

Now I'm home again, with food in the house, and tried a new curried chicken recipe last night that turned out great, from the Penzey's Spices catalogue.  This week:  a BBQ'd brisket, which makes lots of leftovers.  It always feels good to be cooking again after vacation food.  Since I ignored the temptations to gambleat every turn of the maze, I came home able to afford food despite the continuing unemployment situation.  I must eat, musn't  I?  So must we all, and enjoy it as much as we can.

A Masterpiece

Roberto Bolan͂o's  2666, the 3-volume boxed set of paperbacks, had been sitting on my bookcase for well over a year, like a giant whose footprint lay hidden in the woods waiting to be discovered.  I would look at it and then forget about it, moving on to other less intimidating books, but last week took it off my shelf and parted the leaves.  Like the four critics in Part One of the book, I felt the exhilaration of discovering an author whose words will excite controversy and multiple interpretations until 2666 and beyond. 

I don't know what the title means, but it doesn't matter.  The book itself is full of mystery, a slow and quiet suspense that draws the reader in.  There's the mystery of the elusive Archimboldi, the obvious mystery of the murders in Mexico, the mystery of each life that passes through the pages, the mystery of life itself.  Characters, even minor ones, begin talking and go off on a monologue or tale that seems to have nothing to do with the main story, but advances our understanding of the world in the way that both fables and reportage do, in their different ways. 

Part Four, "The Part About the Crimes", differs from the other parts of the book in that it matter-of-factly describes murder after murder.  Yes, mingled with these descriptions are investigations involving reporters and police, and other characters enter and occasionally deliver short monologues, but reading the factual descriptions of victim after victim becomes numbing.  I kept on, not skipping over any, realizing this was done to convey the horror of these still-unsolved crimes, and to force us to remember these women - they each had a name, they each had individual characteristics, they're each gone. 

Jonathan Lethem's excellent review in the New York Times on November 9, 2008, describes his excitement about 2666, and gives some background on Bolan͂o, as well as discussing the author's wish to publish the five parts of the book separately (he died before the book was printed), but as parts of one large work.  If Bolan͂o had written nothing else, this novel is enough to immortalize him (the meaning of literary fame is one of the pervasive themes of this book).

Bolan͂o's earlier novel The Savage Detectives, which has been on my "Books Wanted" list for sometime, has now moved to the top of that list.  To those of you who have 2666 waiting on your bookshelf, yet to be open and discovered:  prepare yourselves for a turbulent and rewarding meeting with a giant.

An Imminent Danger

This is very disturbing news from the New York Times:

"A federal judge in New Orleans issued an injunction against a six-month moratorium on new deep-water oil and gas drilling projects that was imposed by the Obama administration after an explosion on a drilling rig led to a vast oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico, the Associated Press reported.

The White House said the administration would appeal the ruling. Ruling in favor of oilfield services companies whose business suffered under the moratorium, District Judge Martin Feldman said that the Interior Department failed to provide adequate reasoning for the moratorium, and instead merely seemed to
assume that one rig failure meant all deep-water drilling posed an imminent danger."
Read More:  http://www.nytimes.com/aponline/2010/06/22/us/AP-US-Gulf-Oil-Spill.html?emc=na

Why doesn't this "one rig failure" mean all deep-water drilling poses an imminent danger?  Couldn't the same thing happen to the other rigs, with the same oversights and shortcuts being taken?  We won't know for a long time just how great a catastrophe this spill has been, and how far-reaching the damages.  Many people along the coast are already out of work - people who could be put to work and want to work.  It's way past time that we seriously engage ourselves in alternate, clean energy sources -- I'm not saying that people who have spent their lives fishing will be able to suddenly change careers -- I ache for them -- but we should investigate ways for them to maintain their livelihoods.

I think it'd be great if President Obama  instituted a new WPA, (see http://www.economicpopulist.org/content/do-we-need-another-wpa

not only to employ manual laborers to repair our infrastructure (to avoid future structural disasters like the Minneapolis bridge collapse), but to put writers to work, as was done with the WPA Federal Writers' Project.  According to Kevin Nance in the current issue of Poets and Writers Magazine, "Employing up to 7,500 people annually during its four-year run, the Writers’ Project nurtured a generation of authors who otherwise might have been forced into nonliterary careers." 

Why not do the same again? 

I Like to Say 'Salsa'!

Sunday afternoon I visited Tony and Rachel's apartment in Jenkintown for the first time.  I've always preferred apartments with character, and their place has it - nice wide windowsills, decent-sized rooms, unique layout.  The apartment reminded me a bit of the one I used to have on Spring Garden St. in A'town. (I should blog someday about all the apartments I've had).

When I walked in, yummy aromas wafted from the kitchen.  Rachel had prepared Spicy Mexican Torte with homemade guacamole, and salsa on the side.  The dish was made in a pie pan, and consisted of layers of tortilla shells interwoven with chorizo, peppers, and cheese.  It's one of Tony's favorites, and he'd wanted me to try it.  I enjoyed it, and would tinker with this recipe to lighten up on the peppers and increase the chorizo if I made it myself.


As the cats wandered in and out, begging for a taste, we talked and ate.  Once in a while, I said to myself, "I like to say 'salsa'."  I like to eat it, too.  I dipped my forkfuls in a combo of sour cream and salsa while I ate.

Then I explored the rooms, and Rachel's artwork on the walls (http://www.rachelsimmonsphotography.com/) She's a photographer who creates "lightboxes" and "shadowboxes", as well as more conventional photographs.  I urged her to promote herself more so that her work can be seen, as it is really interesting.  She also works with found materials to create one-of-a-kind projects, like the clock she made. 

Tony got caught up on my blog while I looked at the art (and stole glances at him, my wonderful son - I don't see enough of him!)  Then, with an ominous-looking sky overhead, I left and got caught in a fierce thunderstorm on the way home -- pulled into Lowe's parking lot outside Quakertown, as I couldn't see to drive, and pondered life as the rain poured down.  It was a pleasant Sunday afternoon despite the weather. 

Fresh Fish, Smart Waitress

When Mom, my sister Ret and I walked into Starfish Brasserie last night, we were the first customers of the evening, greeted professionally yet casually by SaraBeth, who has only been waitressing there for a week.  She asked if we'd been there before, and I told her I was there about five years ago for the fixed price dinner with a friend (this dinner had remained a stand-out in my mind over the years).  My sister had previously eaten there about a year ago.  SaraBeth told us the restaurant is under new management since my last visit, that all food is fresh, and that the new owner is very aware of the environment and brings in his fish, meat and other foodstuffs from eco-friendly suppliers.

We started out with a drink - Ret had a mojito, Mom a whiskey sour, and I had the "Treaty of 1905 Martini", made from lemongrass/ginger-infused organic vodka, muddled sage, simple syrup and saki, with a ginger garnish.  It was an interesting drink that tasted better the longer it sat peacefully, with the ginger stick sending its spice into the liquid. SaraBeth then brought us a special treat from the chef - trout mousse on a slice of cucumber.  I thought this was very good, but I'm a more adventurous eater than Mom or Ret -  they thought it was strange.

Ret and I decided to go for the fixed price dinner for $35, when we saw that one of the dessert choices was creme brulee, our fave.  For appetizer, I chose the crab cake, as I love these and rarely get them.  Per Sara's description, it did indeed consist of almost all crab, and the mustard aoli surrounding it was delish (there could have been a bit more of this to go with the crab). 

The trout - fresh from Idaho - had replaced the Bass dish, so I ordered it as my entree.  It came with roasted asparagus, cherry tomatoes, and angel-hair pasta.  Before this arrived, we dug into the bread, served with a dipping oil of basil, tomato, and garlic.  It was wonderful - small slices with a crispy crust. 

My trout was done to perfection, but what made this dish exceptional was the pasta, which can often be duddy and just sit there, bland and ignored, a wallflower on the plate.  I cut the trout, twirled the pasta around my fork, and then speared a piece of fish to go with each mouthful.  That pasta was seasoned and cooked to perfection - I love garlic, and it was in there. I was, as my sister says, obviously "relishing" my food.  In fact, when Sara came to check on us, I asked her if she liked my sound effects, and she said she really appreciated them!

Between the crab cake and the trout, I was as happy with this dinner as with my memories of the prior one five years before.  My only disappointment was the creme brulee.  It took forever to arrive, and then was not as firm and light as Ret and I prefer - nor was the top glaze warm.  It reminded me more of my grandmother's custard from the "olden days."  Not bad, but not what we'd hoped for.

By now, you readers know that I prefer service to be unobtrusive, which it was.  SaraBeth did not hover (I abhor hovering) yet made sure we were happy.  She was very informative before we ordered, answered any questions knowledgeably during the ordering process, and didn't clear plates away before we were finished.  I highly recommend this restaurant.  Take good company along with you and enjoy the staff, the food, and the atmosphere.  You might spend more than at many Valley restaurants, but it's worth it. 

NOTE:  Older diners might want to be aware that the background music is a mix of blues and rock and may not be to their liking.  As a child of the 60's and a rocker from way back, I relished the music as well as the food.

Ron Galella - "Smash His Camera" on HBO

I watched this documentary last night and thought it was absorbing, funny, and surprisingly touching.  Prior to watching this film, all I knew of Ron Galella was that he was the most well-known American "paparazzo" and had been involved in a lawsuit with Jackie Kennedy, who he followed relentlessly. (The title of the film is in fact what Jackie yelled at her Secret Service bodyguard when Galella photographed her in Central Park).

Despite his sometimes obnoxious pursuit of celebrity, Galella comes off as quite a sweet man in this film.  His love for his wife and his passion for his work is undeniable, and some of his photos are great. "Windblown Jackie" is probably the most famous of his shots.

See http://blog.oregonlive.com/madaboutmovies/2010/03/steven_ss_jackie_o.html

Although he is in love with kitsch (his "rabbit" cemetery and fake garden on the grounds of his Soprano-like house in NJ are good examples), many of his photos surpass luck and definitely involve skill, talent, and artistry.  He captured an era that no longer exists.  I don't know who the girl was looking at his shots in a gallery at the end, but she didn't recognize Steve McQueen (thought he was perhaps a "director") and pronounced "Bardot" bar-dot.  Hilarious, and sad.

I highly recommend this movie.

Delicious Food and Wonderful Company

When I called May Wong at Asia in February (when I was working part-time at PBS) to ask her to renew her donation to WLVT's Annual Online Auction, I had every intention of bidding on one of the $30 Gift Certificates myself, as I'd heard nothing but good things about this place.  When May told me ASIA was voted one of the top Asian restaurants in the U.S. in 2007, that only confirmed my determination to snag one of these donations.  I lucked out, and saved the Gift Certificate for my daughter's visit this week.

I liked the atmosphere as soon as we walked in and were directed to a booth - low-key, not overly decorated, inviting.  We started out with Vietnamese spring rolls, and my daughter said, "I'm excited to see the main course, since these are so good."  Since she goes out to eat often in Seattle, and is an excellent cook, her opinion matters to me.  She ordered the Ginger Honey Chicken, and I went for the Cantonese Style Chow Fun, which was made of wide rice noodles with garlic, onions, scallions, and pork.  Well, when these dishes were brought to our table, the smells wafting from both were simply delicious - and the presentation was delightful.  We each took a generous helping of each and commented to each other throughout our meal about how good it was.  Although I really liked the ginger honey chicken, the flavors in the Chow Fun appealed more to me, and perfectly fit my mood.  We each brought home about a third of our dinners, and left feeling full but not overly stuffed.

Another thing I appreciated was the unobtrusive service.  The wait staff  didn't hover over us, asking every few minutes if everything was OK -- they only came quietly to clear dishes, and just asked once how we were enjoying our meal.  I appreciate this delicacy of approach.  I told the waiter that I would be writing up his restaurant on my blog, and he reacted enthusiastically.  I told him May's donation to Channel 39 definitely paid off, as she's gained a new customer.  Another plus - they are really close to my apartment!

I highly recommend this restaurant.  It was the best dinner out I've had in a long time.  (If I sound a bit low-key, it's because Jen's gone and I'm missing her already. . .)

The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo at CLT

My sister Ret and I saw this film last night at the Nineteenth Street Theatre, after a couple of slices of pizza at Salvatore Ruffino's, by far the best pizza in town.  We took advantage of the film being shown in the "big" theater, as opposed to Theatre 514 across the street.  The "19th St." is my favorite theater in Allentown - the only place where you can hear live organ music before certain shows, and see non-mainstream films -- and what a great old building. 


Back to the movie - the book was closely followed for the most part. Certain of Blomkvist's relationships were glossed over, and the ending was different as well, echoes of Body Heat, which is one of my favorite thrillers.  I got an eerie feeling when Blomkvist first enters the cottage where he finds Harriet's Bible -- it  looked exactly as I'd imagined it.


I recommend seeing this version before the American re-make is released.  The acting was great all around, and I can't imagine the redo topping some of these performances, expecially Noomi Rapace as Lisbeth Salander, The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo.  I think I want a new haircut, short on one side, swooping over my ear on the other. . . and maybe a motorcycle???

Lost and What Was Lost

What Was Lost: A NovelI was up until 1:30 a.m. last night reading this book.  It had been on my "books wanted"  list for months - I got my copy at the most recent Bethlehem AAUW used Book Sale, but it's available on Amazon.  What a great film this would make - and unlike Lost: The Complete Sixth And Final Season, all loose ends were wrapped up in a surprising, satisfying way.  There's a several-page scene in the book that's a conversation between a music store manager and an employee who has a temper problem - it had me laughing out loud, was very realistic and very funny.  Any readers who have had to discipline an employee will get a real kick out of it.  The bulk of the book was serious - the characters were all lost, in different ways.  I highly recommend this haunting story - What Was Lost by Catherine O'Flynn.

As for the Lost series finale, they had me all the way to the church, and lost me in the aisle.  The ending was too easy, and left too many loose ends.  Viewers are already rationalizing the presence of Penny - my niece sent a link to a site that has an interesting analysis - http://www.tvsquad.com/2010/05/24/lost-finale-theories-explanations/?ncid=webmaildl2 - I'm not going to divulge any spoilers because my daughter, for one, hasn't seen the finale yet.  I'm not negating the hours of pleasure Lost brought me, but I have to say I was disappointed in the finale.

Two Cool Places in Downtown Bethlehem (or My Big Mouth, Big Waist, Big Head)

I love a good Reuben, and got one yesterday at Deja Brew on 4th Street in Bethlehem.  The rye bread was thick and toasted just right, the corned beef sliced thin with not a bit of extra fat, and the sauerkraut fresh (and it didn't overwhelm the sandwich, which fit perfectly into my big mouth. . .)

My iced Americano -- believe me, I'm picky about Americanos, especially after living in Seattle -- was excellent, though it could have used a bit more ice.  I was there with two of my sisters, one of whom also had an iced Americano and chugged it down (go, Lyd!), obviously cafeeine-deprived, or maybe just used to drinking her coffee really fast, the way she eats. . . Ret had a mocha with skim and sipped hers in a very ladylike (as my Mom would say) fashion throughout her lunch.  After the caffeine hit, though, she let loose, which fit in well with the bustling lunch atmosphere at this obviously popular local spot.

The staff were all very friendly, and the layout open and inviting.  The walls were covered with local arts news and posters, and being a huge Beatles fan, it didn't take me long to spy the post that was painted with Sergeant Pepper-era Beatles.  I look forward to re-visiting for one of Jeff's Pulp-Fiction-inspired sandwiches.

Before Lunch, we stopped at Underwired to browse and chat with Lisa.  I used the Gift Certificate I'd won from Lisa's Mother's Day contest, where I'd entered a picture of Aunt Moogs (see the Underwired blog). I tried on a couple of 50's dresses.  Let me tell you (and Lisa agreed) -- waists were smaller back then, (some heads were, too, as all of the hats I tried on just sat on top of mine).  Although I was able get the zipper up, I would have had to wear Spanx underneath if I wanted to go for a Reuben in that dress!

I ended up with a dear little 1944 Modern Library Edition of Green Mansions, and a big ring that I plan to wear on my index finger.

It's great to see two old buildings in Bethlehem being creatively and respectfully utilized.  There's an art to coffee-making, and an art to the handling and display of vintage clothes and artifacts.  At Deja Brew and Underwired, artists are at work.  Their work is done with the care and attention to details that make for successful small businesses.  Check them out next time you're on the South Side.

Are you Ocean or Mountain?

Needless to say, in my time off, I've been reading voraciously.  I just finished The Outermost House by Henry Beston.  How did I miss this classic all these years?  It was first published in 1928 and has been reprinted many times - I have the 75th Anniversary Edition with an excellent Introduction by Robert Finch. 

The reader is immediately immersed in Beston's world, in his little house on Eastham Beach on Cape Cod,  surrounded by dunes and water. I could quote extensively, as there are so many lovely passages, some so breath-taking I had to stop and re-read them.  Here's an example from the last chapter:

"And because I had known this outer and secret world, and been able to live as I had lived, reverence and gratitude greater and deeper than ever possessed me, sweeping every emotion else aside, and space and silence an instant closed together over life.  Then time gathered again like a cloud, and presently the stars began to pale over an ocean still dark with remembered night."

"An ocean still dark with remembered night" - how beautiful.  I have never read such lyrical, and realistic,  descriptions of the sea: its sounds, smells, look, and life.

And way back in 1926, when he stayed there, oil spills occurred, harming the wildlife.  How disturbing and appalling that we still haven't solved that problem today.

Someone once told me -- or I read somewhere -- that people are either "mountain" people or "ocean" people.  "Mountain" people are supposedly quieter, more inward, loners; "ocean" people more gregarious and open.  I'm not sure I agree with the personality part of that, but I know I'm more drawn to the ocean.  I love to sit and watch the waves, the birds, to walk the beach and smell the ocean air.  The ocean always makes me ponder the immensity of the world, what lies behind its horizons, and to think about the strangeness of life.  I'm sure mountains spark those thoughts as well, but I'd rather think on these things while listening to the ocean's breath.  And I'd rather eat fish than venison!

This book will be a perfect segue into Mark Kurlansky's The Last Fish Tale, about life in Gloucester, Mass.

Donde esta la spais?

Why is local Mexican food so bland?  I think of Mama's Mexican Kitchen (http://www.mamas.com/) in Seattle, and how I loved going there, as it was consistently interesting food.  The huge Elvis posters added to the funkiness of the atmosphere, and I could count on some zest in both food and ambience.  At On the Border in Allentown Monday night with Sis and Mom, I was disappointed.  (Lest you think there are no local restaurants I'm enthused about, see my blog on Louie's.)

First -- the chips -- they were oily and chewy in the center, crisp only on the outside (though the salsa had plenty of zip).  Then, the taco melts were served in a way that you put them together yourself (again - where were the plates?).  The self-servings would've been OK if we'd been given a spoon, but the watery cheese surrounding the chicken (what was it - Cheez Whiz???) slithered through the fork tines, thus unmanageable, and also completely bland.  We all had pulled chicken tacos (Mom and Sis hard corn shells, me flour tortillas), and all were a mess to eat.  I couldn't tell if Mom's sound effects (grunts and moans) were from pain or pleasure, though she did finally say it was good.  There was no seasoning at all, except on the rice (which Sis didn't like) and refried beans (which Mom didn't like).  These were OK in my book, but I could have done without the overcooked corn in the rice, and it's pretty tough to mess up refried beans. . .

I looked around, and everyone was busy chewing, but no one looked happy.  Where was the fiesta atmosphere?  I'm sure the other patrons left as full as we did, but when I think of Mexican food, I think of spice -- chilis, peppers, right? -- and smiles and sparks.  Oh, Mama's!!!

Back Out/Food In/The Nan Plan

Today my back is out - don't know why - could be those darn ankle weights -- but food is still coming in, as my mouth works fine. 

Last night, I had leftover lasagne (home-made by me) with the slow-cooked tomato sauce from Moosewood Cookbook, to which I'd added Baby Bella Mushrooms from Wegman's - quite choice, I must say.

Mom and I had lunch yesterday, and I'll tell you, no deli meat can beat Wegman's brown sugar ham-off-the-bone.  The only bread Mom had was Maier's Italian, so we had the ham and W's lo-fat swiss on the Maier's - could barely talk to each other during lunch, as that bread was sticking to the roofs of our mouths, as well as our teeth, and afterwards, we looked as if someone had whitewashed our teeth with Elmer's glue.  We cracked each other up and then got out the toothpicks. . .

Business cards ordered today for "The Nan Plan" and "Culture Spin."  If anyone knows of businesses who want to publicize via blogs, I'm available!

Dinner with a friend - better than recent dine-out!

Last night my friend Wendy came for supper - I made the red lentil soup recipe that I included in my annual Christmas letter this year - delish - and Wendy brought a lovely mozarella/tomato/avocado/basil salad which she made, along with those great Wegman rosemary rolls and fruit tarts (which I saw sitting in the fridge after she left). . . This was a much better dinner than the clammy clams Monday night. 

We talked about life and interviews and dissertations and cats, cats, cats (my brother Jon just got his second one, and Wendy has 2).  I told her about our cat Jerry when I was a kid, who, after Mom ran him over pulling into the garage, went gallumphing down our hall at home with a cast on his leg, still spinning around just before he reached the wall at the end of the hallway.  Great cat, that Jerry.