Book Report: The History of Love

Eager to delve into the salty seas of literary pearls this New Year, I checked myself out a copy (upon Eagle's chit chat recommendation while waiting for the next available teller at the local credit union we both engage with) of The History of Love by Nicole 'Rhymes with Strauss' Krauss. Twas a good read, all in all. Though I will confess that, in my eager beaverness, I dove a little too deep, too fast. (wait, beaverness?) As in, I sat myself down at my local tea shop/smoothie shop and read 70 pages at a time, reader me running at full gallop. And while my eyes certainly registered all n letters, spaces, punctuation and singular typo, my brain did not. Picture if you will: a wild frontier with two horses all geared up, clopping away at full speed, thingies that connect their harnesses to their intended load dragging behind them on the ground, and left behind in the dust, me, standing in my grounded chariot, coughing and rubbing her eyes. (Horses = my eyeballs. Me = well, me, my brain. Eyes = the eyes of my brain.) So then I found myself more than halfway through the book and seriously confused.
Enter in Internetted study notes. Never in my scholastic career did the need arise for me to make use of such crutches! Yet here I am, the setting sun of school long behind me, and I'm fumbling in the dark trying to unclasp the secrets of said lovely novel. So, yeah, I had to read the summary of the book to actually understand the book. The book, for the record, is not complicated. There were just some key facts that I glossed over in my sophomoric attempt at speed reading that made it, well, confusing.
Speaking of speed reading and the history of love, of my love to be exact, I once dated a speed reader. She was not a speed reader by profession, but by hobby only. Which maybe added to the irritation I felt over how frickin smug she was at how frickin good she was at it. Ack! I can remember sitting next to her in bed, both of us nosed in our own books of choice, but me only just barely, hanging by fingernails, mine, on the the thin ledge of words lined up on the pages because I was so distracted by the affrontingly triumphant sound of her page turning! It was happening so fast! And so loud! Oh, the sound! A gold trophy scraped down the length of a chalk board in an otherwise quiet bedroom. And to top it off she had the audacity to enjoy herself via actually being able to understand the tale at such break neck speed! Ack! I'm tensing just reliving the memory!
Interestingly enough, my repressed competitive streak and equally repressed/completely underdeveloped resolve to share how I was feeling at that point, were somehow - get this - linked to how I related to her throughout the entirety of the relationship. And ultimately led its untimely demise.
I am happy to report, though, that knowing she could read what took me one hour to write in under 30 seconds is no longer filed under 'THINGIES THAT GET MY GOAT.' Nor am I as fervently chomping at the bit to plow through the next book, Everything Is Illuminated. I intend to take my time on that. Which is probably doubly in my favor as the plot lines, I'm told, are pretty much (and controversially) the same.

whoa, happy new year! what is that noise?

it has been a minute. and for the next minute I shall take the opportunity to quietly discuss a certain sensitivity of mine: my sense of hearing. if there was a quantitative scale with which to measure hearing capacities, which I'm sure there is (ok, quick wiki research reveals yes. it is called the RMS (root mean square) sound pressure and is measured in Pascals. numbers times 10 to the -5 power are not as snappy sounding as the common quantitative measure of visual acuity, say, 20/20. or 6/6 if you belong to the church of metric.), I would reveal mine hear and perhaps there would be a moment of mostly metaphorical and maybe even some literal silence while you stand amazed at what couldn't possibly be true. I have excellent (tho at times selective) hearing. an odd blessing at times. I can hear, coming up my stairs, if my neighbor down the hall has the tv on, the high pitch whine is like an invisible laser to my brain. I can hear my phone ring (it's on vibrate) in a crowded room, my ears able to discern its particular cry out of the din of public enthusiasm. it comes in quite handy for many situations. and not so much for others.

exhibit A: my living situation. I live next to a pack of wild animals who spend their waking hours (which subsequently become my waking hours) galloping laps around their apartment, while operating loud kitchen machinery and listening to every episode of every season of every tv show imaginable. and when they are not doing that, they are moving furniture. I would like you to believe that that is just a common homespun analogy, but, ok, well it is. but also it's like they are the reason why that metaphor exists. I have woken up, middle of the night, confused, frightened, and ultimately irritated, to loud noises and earth quake motions. who the heck rearranges their apartment at 1 in the morning? ah yes, my neighbors. and it seems their inspiration was piqued once again at 7am. tho I can't imagine the results where worth writing home about seeing as their laborious process involved so much incomprehensible blathering and inefficient, or shall I say localized, carriage of unseen items. ear plugs alone are not enough to block out perpetual NoiseFest '11. and a polite request on my behalf to them to not move their furniture so late at night or early in the morning is out of the question. it is obvious that they love the feng shui. I shall not stand in the way of Love. although losing sleep over it is apparently not beyond the realm of reality.

and ok, really, it does not take the hearing equivalent of 20/20 vision to hear my neighbors every stomp, so my point is just that I am sensitive to all things auditory. including, but not limited to, accents. or more specifically, dialects. which leads me to. . .

exhibit B: the mists of avalon. this book has been on and off my reading list for years. since high school when I witnessed a theater friend of mine carry it around for the better part of a year. it is a hefty endeavor, plowing thru that literary milestone. and I, for one, do not have that kind of time. I do, however, engage in certain activities where my listening capabilities are free (I am speaking of art), and an affinity for books on tape. so thank you seattle public library for loaning me the great work of genius that is mists of avalon on cd.

it takes place in britian. a fact cemented in stone via all their fancy lilted manner of speaking. I have found, in the past, that if I am around an accent long enough, I pick it up unwittingly. I'm like a refrigerator to a magnet. I'm not sure how I feel about that analogy. regardless, I found myself the other day, faced with the fact that within some moderately pedestrian sentence spoken in my own personal affectation, a single word of very british pronunciation slipped in line and marched out with the rest of them like it was the most normal thing in the world. I don't think anyone else noticed. and I was more or less amused by it. and I'm only just finishing Book 1 (of 4 books) that make up the entire arthurian drama, each book consisting of approx 12 cds, each of which are approximately one hour in length. according to some (wikihowtospeakwithabritishaccent), that is more than enough time to master the art of fooling people into thinking I am not of this land. that last sentence would be a lot funnier if I could actually read it aloud to you, faked british accent and all.

so for the time being, you must imagine it, and maybe the next time I see you, you will find yourself asking yourself 'where in the name of the goddess has ilvs been that she talks thus?' again, funnier if you could hear it with the accent on it already.

combo science and book report: only one of which I needed to be paid to do

I spent part of my morning yesterday collecting my saliva in the name of science. I have voluntarily participated to be a participant in a study on twins. for money. How hard can it be? Fill out some paper work, send of a spit sample - which, in my head, I assumed it would take the form of some cotton swab to the lining of my cheek. that's what they do for those HIV tests with the short turn around time. this test, different. it involved a small plastic cup and directions that where particularly adamant about how much sample they needed. FILL TO HERE (red arrow points to the half way mark). NOT WITH BUBBLES, WITH LIQUID. ok, ok, geez. and so I did. and it took not forever, but long enough to make me realize how gross of an activity I had involved myself in, long enough to thank the universe that studying other people's spit is not my job, long enough to think that if I weren't getting paid, I would be really annoyed. instead of just mildly, curiously annoyed. and so it goes.

'so it goes' has now been entered into my speech library thanks to a very interesting fellow by the name of Kurt Vonnegut. I just read Slaughterhouse 5. I may have read Breakfast of Champions in high school, I don't remember. I plan on looking back to the time that I read this particular novel with some degree of fondness.

Kurt V writes in the beginning how he is telling others his intent on writing an anti-war book. One reaction goes as follows:

"You know what I say to people when I hear they're writing anti-war books?"

"No. What do you say, Harrison Star?"

"I say' Why don't you write an anti-glacier book instead?' "

What he meant, of course, was that there would always be wars, that they were as easy to stop as glaciers.

wait a minute, so does this mean, that with our current state of environmental crisis, ie melting/receding/disappearing glaciers, that we are finally coming to our senses and phasing out war? that peace shall prevail? oh, hey wait, didn't there use to be a glacier right there. . . argh.

what a lousy analogy that is, Mr Star, if that is really your real name. I say, yes on saving glaciers and waging peace simultaneously. and no thanks on melty melty and that whole war thing. so there, put that in your tiny vial and analyse it.

all about love. kinda.

today, while dropping off a library book to the downtown library's automated drop box, I was approached by an older woman pulling an over stuffed tote. 'I don't normally do this...' was her lead for her request for money. she had bus tickets, wanted cash to buy food. I had 2 bucks. I had been thinking about taking the bus anyways. sure, I said, reaching for my money. I peeled two bills off my more then 2 dollars wad of money and pocketed the bus pass. an amicable exchange followed; she turned to leave, I turned to place my over due by one day book in the box (bell hook's 'all about love.' I loved it! I love you! read it! don't read it! I love you anyways!). also in my bag, I noticed while closing the latch, food items I did not get to at lunch today. specifically half a granola bar and one hard boiled egg. I put the egg in my pocket and walked after the lady. she hadn't gone far (stopping to offer up a barter with people as she walked slowed her down). I caught up and offered her my egg, leaving the opened granola bar to crumb around in my bag. as I handed it over, several unconcurrent thoughts ran thru my head. one - it feels good to give. I have 2 more hard boiled eggs at home. and two - the soy yogurt tupperware that housed said ova was one of my favorite tupperware pieces! it is a one of a kind and I just gave it away to a total stranger who might just throw it away and not reuse/recycle it!
this is my brain.
this is my brain trying to wrestle with the idea of attachment.
sigh, my perfect lightweight egg transporter, gone
there are enough reused soy yogurt containers for everyone. release the soy yogurt container into the universe. the universe shall provide all the soy yogurt containers you shall ever need. amen.

the pull of PUSH

thru the magic that was my 6 month enrollment at Bent Arts writing institute, I was exposed to many an unfamiliar author. one poet in particular who generally left me slightly slack jawed, the words 'what the f***' falling from my mouth like ripe fruit off a tree was Saphirre, of PUSH the book/Precious the movie fame.

I saw the ads for Precious in the paper when it came out but never heard anything about it. nor did I know anyone who had seen it. the book, I just got a 'yeah it's really intense' heads up. if it was anything like her poems, I was in for it. but not purely satisfied with knowing of its very existence, curiosity and the library colluded together and I found myself with a bright shiny paperback copy of it.

and it's been a while since a BOOK REPORT so here we go:

AHHHHHGGGGG DON'T READ THIS BOOK!!!!!!!!!!! and I'm not trying to reverse psychology you. ok, actually, do what you want, fellow americans. read it, dont read it. you want my opinion, keep reading: holy moses that book is, well, just as I was warned, so very much intense! yeah and I guess the back cover does a little heads up, but a banal promotional paragraph breezing over a plot about incest, abuse, poorest of poor education and some kind of unforgettable journey doesn't even begin to scratch the surface of the emotional raking over hot coals that is reading an entire book dedicated to the topic, the set up, the play by play, the consequences of it all. jesus. h. christ. granted/thank you universe, it is FICTION. but non writers, here's a little secret: all fiction is based on, ahem, TRUTH. uh, yikes.

brings up the little issue of what is the value of bringing into this already difficult at many times such an intense wrecking ball of a book. why bring the people down? what is the point? how does this further the people/world towards a better future?

answers I do not know. or rather, I have not the time left at work where I am writing this (dance belt teaches 20 people of the world to dance thriller) to delve into so deep a philosophical convo.

but I do know/have time to say that it did serve as a sort of existential point of reference. it had kinda a HOTZONE effect. in that, no matter how bad things are for me right now (I was feeling a little emotionally wrecked before i started it. maybs not the best time to read it. (kinda like the time I watched DANCER IN THE DARK whilst deep in the throws of depression. file under I've had better ideas.) I forced it finish in two days while at work. lucky for me, it was folk life and I had the healing powers of several hundred hurdy gurdies (sp?), fiddlers, scottish dancers, balkan singers and crusty jug bands at my disposal.), it's really not all THAT bad. in fact, in comparison, my life is a walk on a flat trail in a beautiful nature preserve. my feet are dry and cozy, my lighter than air backpack is full of nourishing snacks. i am a lucky son of a gun.

thanks saphirre, for the friendly, albeit slightly traumatic reminder.

my history with history

during my 10 minute break at work yesterday I found myself, my boss and one work study student, at the mercy of other work study student's 9 minute and 58 second rant. the freshman was waxing unpoetically about just how boring the classes/professors/TAs she is subjected to are. one class was a particular thorn in her side due to the vapid, dusty movie clips she was forced to watch and in theory learn from. she went on to describe a selection from a movie with already forgotten title, a documentary about the (unfortunate) use of blackface in early US theatrical history. specifically about how African Americans in had to unironically wear blackface in order to perform, the disadvantaged masquerading as the privaledged mocking the disadvantaged. I cannot imagine a more humiliating charade.
'. . .i don't see what the big deal is,' she argued, 'I mean, that's what enabled them to have a start in theater. . .'
I instantly shed the glazed look I had donned earlier in response to her non stop rudimentarily verbose discourse; she now had my full attention. glancing over at boss, who, being the highest in command/oldest person in attendance, I expected to take some kind of action in the form of intelligent counterpoint, was sitting still on the stairs, looking a little more tense and uneasy than a minute ago, but still still nonetheless. meanwhile, spirited youth was still going on and on. this is the point were I should say something. I do not.

I've been wanting to read 'Lies My Teacher Told Me' for a very long time. I finally have it in my possession and in the past 7 days since acquiring it I have yet to do more than skim the Contents and scan the photos. I have yet to even read the full back cover. this is not the first history book I've done this to. and it is not for lack of want. I am a good student, I love school, I love to read and learn. one exception being History. it bores me to tears. the presentation of it, that's what gets me. that's what I tell myself because the information in and of itself is interesting and important to me but the long paragraphs of sentences with names and dates that feel so out of context without pictures of faces and images places have some neurological effect that sends me into a narcoleptic stupor. maybe it's because I am a very visual person. but even the historical graphic novels I've tried out fail to really reach me. it's like if you were to ask me, prone to taking joy from my OCD tendencies, to sort a bucket of sand by color and shape. I could do it, and once I started I would finish and might even get into it from time to time, but man, what a chore.

meanwhile, in my brain, I've been sorting out exactly what I would have said to aforementioned unlearned student (well, I guess that's what a student is, someone who is learning what they don't already know (or think they know, in this case)) or will say if I am blessed with the opportunity to work along side or above her (er, dare I mention that I almost accidentally dropped a large bolt on her head from like 30 feet up? this was before her conservative commentary.) again.
'ok, let's say that that was black folk's foot in the door, but think about it in a different way. yes, they had their 'big break,' but at what cost? I am a freelance theatre tech, you are a work study student. I got called for this job- didn't even have to ask, and I get paid a decent wage. they know me, respect me and trust I am capable. You are a relative stranger, had to sign up for this class, are having to pay to take it, and have to be monitored throughout your shift. ok, seems fair enough in the grand scheme of having to work up the job ladder. but what if, upon graduation into full on freelancer, you still had to apply for the job, still had to pay to be there, and still were not trusted to complete tasks on your own just because you are who you are. yes, you have to jump thu hoops, but you are still working in theater, are you not?
to put in in nontheatrical terms, let's say you apply to work in a lab (this student is a biochem/theater double major). but science, being all methodical and analytical and all, is for men. so in order to work there, you had to dress like and live your working hours as a man. and you were required to not only laugh at sexist jokes, but make them on a regular basis as well. sound like a good time? eventually, time passes and larger factors would influence local ideas and women would eventually, somewhat begrudgingly, be allowed to work in labs in all their unmasked estrogenic glory. so what do they have to complain about?'

more importantly, where was that comeback 24 hours ago? sigh. I could go on, but me thinks I be preaching to the choir. what will it take for me to get to the point where I can respond to such comments in a timely fashion ie in the moment, with grace, aplomb, intelligence, compassion? when I figure it out, I'll let you know. . .

Salman Rushdie vs the Vampires

buenos new year to you.

salman rushdie is a brilliant writer. I am casually strolling thru his book, The Ground Beneath Her Feet, at a snails pace, enjoying the sights and sounds, the fruits and berries of his labor. while I am in deep reverence, in awe with his natural ability, I am also not 100% engrossed as to not be easily distracted by certain happenings in the nearby woods, happenings that require my complete all encompassing attention: teenage vampires. that's right, I have been, if I may be so crude, sucked in.
my youngest kin/cousin once removed or so, lent me book one of the Twilight series. no, correction, she lent my dad the book. he got thru a few chapters before he started to feel the effects of the teenage angsty romance venom at which point he struggled to keep his eyes open, interest peaked, eventually retreating back to that alternate universe adults call 'reality,' but not before utilizing some degree of practical magic to turn the book into a paperweight. enter me. at first I was just reading a few chapters here and there, before bed, between classes and work. then I got some mercifully brief yet still wicked head cold that put me out for a good 33ish hours. the first 6 of those I spent alternately taking in plenty of fluids (could someone tell me exactly how many cups is in a plenty? thx) and polishing off the remaining 300+ pages of said pop vampire tome numero uno in which beautiful old dangerous white people spend their waking hours (read: all day, all night) working hard not to take in plenty of fluids. or at the very least, strictly monitoring exactly what type of fluids are imbibed.
so, now I'm mildly hooked. I admittedly have a proclivity for the drop dead gorgeous undead. and while the series leaves some to be desired in certain literary aspects (er, book two plot?) and in protagonistic character traits (the heroine's lily liveredness is somewhat draining), the overall experience is indulgently satisfying, a nice quick distraction off the main path. now, where were we, mr. rushdie?

ps
I am fascinated by horror stories and how they reflect certain trends/aspects of society. I read recently that the popularity of vampire movies today has a bit to do with the recession/lack of goods to be had, in that vampires exemplify the sexy alluring measure of restraint. hmmm, interesting. perhaps I need to read books 3 and 4 to really get a good perspective. research, my friends, strictly research.

greatest invention already thought up

following a remedial online search, I came to discover that my brilliant idea has already been acted upon by others more electronically capable than I. readers, may I introduce to you sheer manifested genius: the bookmark-dictionary. it's brilliant, useful. no more having to lug around that dusty tome of a webster. you don't even have to put your own book down. short of having your own personal assistant on hand whose sole purpose in life as a personal assistant is to bestow accurate, up to date definitions on demand, this is the proverbial shit. it's the one feature on those disagreeable palm ebook things that make me pause and consider handing over my hard earned money and taking one of those paperless paperbacks for a spin.
the only thing that could make it better is if the entire gadget, and not just the keypad portion of it, fit within the pages. perhaps a few more technological advances are in order. or just a more thorough google search.

post script
I just read a bunch of reviews about the item pictured above, none of them very good. apparently the word selection is as remedial as my initial research. so until the word count of the product expands inversely to the thickness of it, I be double fisting it literary style with a novel in one hand, dictionary in the other.

why this book have no photos?

this year I have taken upon myself the culinary task of baking Geode's birthday cake. a fluffy, moist, white coconut cake. I was given a due date and descriptors to abide by, but no list of must have ingredients. I am not a seasoned baker. but I do love to cook. in my 'you say difficult, I say delicate' diet, I do not eat the cattle dairy or cattle cattle. let it be known, also, that my taste receptors equate 'healthy' with 'yum.' therefore, she, on the verge of 30, is at my mercy.
this evening was Stab 1 at Mission Birfday Cake: recently, I fished out of my parent's give away pile the hot off the press in 1984 glossy covered copy of 'Natural Foods Cookbook, Vegetarian Dairy-Free Cuisine' complete with dessert recipe, tucked almost at the end of the book, entitled 'Outrageous Coconut Date Cake.' while I was warily aware that people's personal definitions for common adjectives ranges greatly, my faith had already been won over by previous completions of several recipes towards the front of the book. so I followed the recipe (well, except for the raisin 'frosting.' I switcherooed half the raisins for prunes. don't knock it till you try it, it tastes good. also, geode already punched me in the arm for it.) and the results, in a coconutshell, were 'hey, that's not bad. no, wait, that's pretty good. except for the frosting.' barring strict adhearence to the request that it be fluffy and white, the cake was a success! leaving me with confidence to forge forward, the Natural Foods way, and, while I'm at it, try other people's ideas of healthy and dairy free 'cake.'

the one thing this book lacks, that, at first thought, would just put this book over the top into the realm of best ever, but at second thought, would, well, maybe it's best they didn't, is photos of the finished product. whilst googleimagesearching other decorated vegan cookies, it became quite clear that sometimes, healthy just ain't pretty. specially desserts. no, just desserts. kale salad is beautiful, cooked butternut squash is ravishing. date/nut bars, 'no-bake' couscous cake, oatmeal cookies, etc etc are, it hurts my hippie sensibilites to say it, ugly. tasty, yes. but sadly lacking in the looks department. MY CAKE AND CUPCAKES ARE NO EXCEPTION. they look, er, healthy. (which, personally, is hardly a cause for hesitation as my hand reaches out to snag snacks of any kind.) but when trying for a food item that is characteristically, name-sakey white and fluffy, whole wheat wholesome with prune paste is a hard sell. but know that they are, in fact, delicious (in the publicly accepted form of the word) in a way that only words can describe.

dem nuts sho hard to crack.

a while back, the universe bestowed upon me a small gift. the universe being my buddy Cyrus and the small gifts being 30+ pounds of Brazil Nuts still in their shell. i heart Brazil Nuts. i heart even more free Brazil Nuts.

so then the problem arose that i had no nut cracker. cracking 30+ pounds of nuts was not on the front burner of my industrial stove of a life so i just havent bothered. either to find a nut cracker or to do anything productive with the nuts. wait, i take that back. the majority of the nuts, housed in an old pillow case, have come in quite handy maybe once or twice when they were able to double as a hard lumpy bean bag. or nut bag, if you will. contrary to what you would think, sitting on a reasonable sized nut bag is more comfortable than one would think.

but i digress. more recently, that same universe who thought it fit to bestow upon me a large lode of tree nuts, has come forward to gift me what amounts to be the key to the city, a nutcracker, for 27 cents. thank you u district garage sale circa last weekend.
now, the single jointed crushing device turned out to be somewhat of a double edged sword. yes, now i can harvest the gold out of these suckers, but a) Brazil Nut shells are formidable and my hand is sore and b) i am one of those people that likes to do a job thru and thru, not leave it half done, no matter how tedious a task. so now, yes i am feasting upon most excellent Brazil Nut Creme ala ilvs, yet my enjoyment is clouded as the project of cracking the as of yet uncracked shells looms heavily before me.

on a positive note. i did find out that cracking Brazil Nuts is a job made infinitely easier when you soak the nuts in water for at least 2 hours if not over night.

on a different note altogether, i have noticed that when i spend any amount of time around those who speak with a marked or even slight accent, the urge to mimic it is great. i catch myself tossing out words with oblong vowels and clipped consonants. not to the point of being annoying but sometimes it gets real close to the boarder of where charming meets weird. this is something i know about myself with regards to the spoken language. this week, the written language has some thing new to teach me about myself. i am 3/4 of the way thru 'Their Eyes Were Watching God' by the incomparable Zora Neal Hurston. for those of you not in the know, reserve a copy from the library and check out the fact that the practically the whole thing is written staying true to 'the dialect spoken by blacks of African and Caribbean descent in the South of the early 20th century.' that accent has been floating thru my cerebrum for the past 4 days and it is threatening to bubble out my mouth. the result of which would be neither cute nor charming but more along the lines of awkward bordering on inappropriate. lucky for me, i live in a bubble on capitol hill and i dont have any black friends i hang out with on a regular basis so the chances of me insulting someone is real low. er. i mean, lucky for me, the book is only 197 pages long...

the dirt: blaming your shortcomings on drugs only works if you actually do them.

and even then you gotta face the music at some point.

pardon my absence. i have been on drugs. but only for the past two weeks. and really only otc ibuprofen. and when that ran out, my roommate's prescription muscle relaxer. why the muscle relaxer? because it goes so well with the book THE DIRT - confessions of the world's most notorious rock band. that and i got in a car accident and now my spine feels like it got punched in three places. oh, and this happened on the way home from the airport. where was i? you ask. well,

prior to all this, i was in germany, stockholm, germany. it was both phenomenal and tiring. i felt in awe of the place, lost, and in awe of how lost i felt. i rode borrowed bikes along cobblestone streets trying not to see how far i could go without pulling out my tattered hand me down map. i drew buildings and beer bottles. i built up sketchy bikes. i swam in lakes. i was frustrated by my sudden illiteracy and not being able to find a single drinking fountain in all of berlin. i return with an even greater appreciation for population density and friendly usable public transportation. the last two weeks of my journey i dedicated to reading the last 300 pages of DON QUIXOTE. a goal i had set

in the two weeks before that. the full goal was reading all of it, actually, not just the last 300 pages. (which i did eventually manage thank you very much). aside from setting personal literary milestones, i was preparing for my trip by not really doing any kind of research. in fact i was doing so little that it dipped into something that resembles negative planning if there is such a thing and there is cuz that is pretty much what i did. i had 2 contacts, too much free time and a plan that i bailed on last minute.

ilvs, meet europe. europe, meet ilvs. 

uh, it's pronounced 'elvis.'

BOOK REPORT: fried green tomatoes at the whistle stop cafe,

or: i feel really gay reading this book.
i pretty much devoured this book in like 3 days. not sure what it is about a tragic love story between two women that is obvious but never called out for what it is eventho there is no denying it, but count me in. that and i really liked the movie, wanted to see how the printed word compared. i won't spoil it one way or another for those of you who have not seen one or read the other, but i will say that the movie is better on a whole. tho the book does go into the lives of the slavey folk in more detail and that is satisfying to read about. but the movie, despite major changes to the plot, did it justice.
which is the same opinion held by my 5th grade teacher Mrs. Larsen. Of course, when 12 year old me heard her say this (to my mom i think who was standing there next to me), i assumed she liked the movie better because it played down the gay mary s m/mary l p relationship. which it does. and played up the not gay kathy bates/jessica tandy relationship. at least, that was the reason i remember her giving.
regardless i was a little disappointed. perhaps a little heart broken. i had had a little crush on her. not in a 'song by that 80's hair band whose name i never bothered to remember' kinda way, but more of a 'you and i are cut of the same cloth at least that's what i'm banking on' kinda way. similar to the crush i had on Sr. Christine. 'cept i wasn't in awe/scared of Mrs. Larsen.
if ever in my adolescent life there existed a clearly gay, strong role model for me, it was her. only at the time, i did not recognize her lesbianism as such. it was hiding just barely behind the cover of the convent, excused by her title of PE teacher, silently flouting about behind her loud colorful hammer pants. i see it now tho, in friends, acquiantences, in myself. in our mannerisms, our speech patterns, that certain look, attitude. eh, i wonder what ever happened to her. . .
but yeah, the book is alright. pretty easy. makes me want to eat bbq and cornbread. there are recipes in the back of the book but the bacon fat and buttermilk theme is a bit much for me with the sensitive constitution/aversion to bacon.

(ok, so this is like 2.5 weeks old. never got around to posting it. i am in berlin right now, more on that later.)

BOOK REPORT - Immunity. (the first 43 pages, at least)

i read moby dick. earlier this year. it took me approximately 3 months to do so. but i did it. it is done. and it was worth it. i won't go into the details cuz, well, you are probably familiar with the gist of it. but what i will tell you is that it has inspired me (that and the most recent library book sale) to catch up on my classics/must read reading. like the somewhat arbitrary top 100 novels of all time.  instead of being intimidated, i thought, you know what, im gonna do it, read all 100 novels, be 'caught up,' be that person who knows all those obscure literary references, pretend i majored in american lit. 

but then reason kicked in. 100 books is a lot. and some sound really boring (no offense tolstoy!). and how come marquez is like the only hispanic/latino on the list? and he only shows up on like 5 of the 7 thousand versions of the top 100 list. so i made some modifications on the list. i still wanna read the books. but i also want to read not so caucasian authors. and those other people, what do you call them? women? yeah. so my new goal reads that from this day forth i shall read: books on the 'top 100' list, books by persons of color, books by women, and the occasional science (fiction) book. oh, and the occasional inspirational spirituality book.

and not one of those criteria is reason for me putting down my latest book after only 43 pages. introducing Immunity, by Lori Andrews. i picked it up cuz it was on the list of reads for the Women's Bioethics Book Club. why am i not going to finish this book? several reasons: for one, i have already touched on the topic of mysterious deadly diseases with my new friend Richard Preston (see BOOK REPORT - The Hot Zone). for two, the writing does not capture me. probably because im too distracted by reason three: there is a love story a-brewing between the main character (army research lady) and some DEA agent (passionate mandude with curly hair) and it is irritating.  now, i dont mind the occasional love story. just as long as it doesnt come with a side of 'hard on'. (um, author's words). call me crazy, or bored of ubiquitous hetero narrative, or just plain gay, but i ain't got time for this bad romance novel/terribly infectious virus charade. i got other books to read. next up: Margaret Atwood. right after i finish How to Change Your Life in 5 Steps.

BOOK REPORT - The Hot Zone, or Why You Shouldn't Punch a Monkey

my sincerest apologies to all those who have come down with the newest strain of swine - cow - turducken influenza. contagious life threatening viruses are nothing to balk at. i would know. i just read The Hot Zone by Richard Preston.

the Hot Zone is not a book i would recommend to hypochondriacks (uh, sp? someone sneezed on my dictionary. . .). wait, on second thought, it is the perfect book for us. yes, it describes possibly the world's most heinous way to die via blood born pathogen in super gory detail, but it also.... i lost my train of thought. perhaps i was too busy reliving the horror that is having your insides liquify over the course of one week causing you, poor victim, to 'bleed out,' to put it nicely (follow your imagination, then go a step or two further, yup, that's 'bleeding out'). this book is every bit as terrifying as the quote on the cover says it is. and by terrifying, i mean queasy inducing, fear implanting, strong urge to disinfect my entire body making. 

pretty much i read the first horrific chapter that describes what exactly ebola and it's viral kissing cousins do to your body, asked god why on earth would he(sp?) put this book in my hands let alone let it be filed in the nonfiction section, then proceeded to block out everything else in my life as i raced to the final page to see if all of humanity was spared a global pandemic. good news, (spoiler alert!) most of us lived. bad news, now i have the knowledge of ebola squirming around in my brain. great. but wait, this might just be good news (uh, the book i read before was the Dali Lama's Art of Happiness). see, now that i know Ebola is hiding out there, it makes everything else i am scared of seem, to quote the book totally out of context, 'like child's play.' the continuum of all that can be contracted has doubled, no quadruped, no extended far beyond the previous limits of my imagination. suddenly, herpes doesn't seem so bad.

ebola, on the other hand, is indescribably bad. actually, that's a lie, Mr. Preston did a fine job of describing just. how. bad. it. is. such that i now never want to set foot in Africa. and god(sp?) forbid if you ever get a headache around me cuz i'm gonna assume the worst and quarantine you to the nearest death hut where you can 'bleed out' with your kind and the poor woman who was stuck in with you sickos cuz non ebola infested people thought she had it but really it was only bad malaria. oops. 

it did help, a little, to relive my slightly unwarranted fears, to know that you pretty much have to play bloody knuckles with a sick monkey in Zaire in order to get it. that is, until i read the part about the airborne strains of Ebola found stateside. and that, due to advances in modern technology, there are now these things called airplanes that can deliver these little pathogenic packages to pretty much anywhere in the world in less than 24 hours. beat that, fedex. 

so finally, when i come to terms with the remote possibility that i could shit out my innards a mere seven days after contact with the invisible menace, along comes this new epidemical fad from mexico/land of my favorite foods. swine influenza. the fact that i don't work on a farm/in a butcher shop where i would come in contact with said animals is helpful. vegetarians/practicing jews will have the last laugh. that is, until one of you heathens/heathens sneeze in our general direction.

por favor and for our sake, cover your mouth when you sneeze/cough/vomit up your spleen. muchas gracias.