The Absent City

I finished reading The Absent City by Ricardo Piglia recently.  What an interesting and strange novel, most accurately described as surreal.  The basic plot concerns an Argentine journalist investigating something – he is chasing a story, following anonymous and strange leads that lead to multiplying questions.  Eventually, the journalist’s story becomes the story of Macedonio and his wife/automaton Elena.  We come to discover that Macedonio was able to instill the soul (maybe?) and/or the memories and/or the dreams (or all three?) of Elena in an eternal machine.  This Machine is housed in the Museum and tends to predict the dreams/actions of those living.  It is explained much more convincingly and lovingly in the novel. 

The novel switches perspectives often and detours into vivid recollections of Elena’s (or the Machine’s) dreams or stories or predictions (I’m not certain what to call them – are they describing factual events, whether past, present, or future?  I think so, but am unsure).  There is a detailed accounting of one dream/story/prediction that describes an island society where Finnegan’s Wake is considered the religious text of the civilization, causing language constructs to change on a whim.

There are other dreams/stories/predictions that describe historic Argentine political events and attitudes.  The author also uses the book to discuss how humans’ inventions (whether actual tangible objects like machines, or intangible things such as political theories and justifications, and language) can sometimes become uncontrollable; how well-meaning intentions cannot be excuses for creations that spiral out of control.  Here is an extended excerpt that is related directly to Argentinian history, but also has relevance in any culture:

The State knows all the stories of all the citizens, and retranslates them into new stories that are then told by the president of the republic and his ministers.  Torture is the culmination of that desire to know, the maximum degree of institutional intelligence.  That is how the State thinks, and why the police mainly torture the poor, only the poor or the workers or the dispossessed . . . only in very exceptional cases have they tortured people belonging to other social classes, and these cases have become major scandals . . . and at the end they had to retreat before international pressure, which accepts as a given that the humble from the fields, the wretched and feverish from the ghettos and the poorest neighborhoods of the city will be massacred and tortured, but reacts when intellectuals and politicians and the children of well-to-do families are treated this way.  Because, in general, the latter already collaborate of their own accord and serve as an example and adapt their lives to the criteria of reality established by the State, without there being any need to torture them.  The others would do the same, but they cannot because they have been leveled and cornered, and even if they wanted to and took great pains to that end, they can no longer act like the model Japanese citizen who works fifteen hours per day and always greets the general manager of his company with the slighest of nods.  They control everything, they have founded the mental State . . . which is a new stage in the history of institutions.  The mental State, the imagined reality, we all think like they do and imagine what they want us to imagine.

As you can tell by my brief description and the quote above, language and how it describes and creates reality is an important theme throughout the book.  Piglia makes references to real and fictional characters, mixing things up so much that you are uncertain if you are reading a real or fictional account (the protagonist, Macedonio, is a real figure, an Argentinian author).  I think the book would have been significantly more satisfying had I been Argentinian or fluent in Argentinian history and culture.

[As an aside: in another of Piglia's books called Assumed Name, the author is a character in the novel and is trying to solve the mystery of an unpublished manuscript allegedly written by another real Argentine author, Roberto Arlt.  The end of the novella reproduces the mysterious manuscript.  Piglia was so convincing in his book that Arlt's daughter called him and told him that he should not have published the manuscript without her permission.  Also, the U.S. Library of Congress catalogued the manuscript as authored by Arlt.  It remains wrongly catalogued to this day (I learned all this when I read the introduction to the edition I have, hoping to glean greater meaning from what I had read).]

The Absent City was confusing at times, and had moments that felt “stream of consciousness-y” (see above excerpt as an example), a style that I don’t always like.  However, there were also moments of exceptional writing:

Elena thought the man was a magnet that attracted and drew the iron shavings of the soul to itself. She was already thinking like a madwoman.  She felt her skin release a metal dust.  That is why her body was completely covered, including gloves and a long-sleeved blouse.  The only part exposed was her face, the rusted skin of her external gears.

I like that passage: Elena as both human and machine; all of us a combination of human and machine, that which is natural and that which is human-made.  I recommend the book by giving it 3.5 out of 5 stars, but give warning that it is often difficult to follow if you are anticipating a linear plot.

The White Dog

Tim and I visited one of our favorite Richmond restaurants last Saturday night, The White Dog.  It is a small corner restaurant in the Fan; you have to walk down a few steps to get into the eatery (although it is not in a basement, per se – there are windows to the outside world where daylight comes streaming in).  The ceiling is low, the bar is a small, nicely maintained, wooden accroutement where one can enjoy imbibing beverages.  There are little nooks and crannies throughout the small space where the owners have surreptitiously placed tables.

Tim and I were seated at a small table on the side of the bar.  We were greeted promptly by our boisterous waitress (her voice sometimes seemed to echo through the short passageway down which we were seated).  But she was prompt, courteous, and helpful.  She rattled off the specials with no problem, and sold me on the vegetarian special (I believe I have eaten the vegetarian special every time I have visited The White Dog (it is always different and always delicious)).  This time, the entree consisted of a flaky pastry stuffed with roasted red peppers, squash, goat cheese, and probably a bunch of other vegetables that I couldn’t individually pick out.  It was really very yummy.  The pastry was served with homemade couscous (which were big, round, fat balls of semolina – much bigger than the kind we make at home), a mushroom croquette, green beans, and a tangy sauce.  Everything on the plate was wonderful - I especially appreciated that the green beans were left fresh and crisp, with little adornment, as the rest of the meal was heavier and bursting with flavors.

Tim ordered the special fish entree - walloo, served with polenta and green beans, and smothered in a chunky remoulade.  Tim ate most of the food on his plate.  I tried the fish (even though I do not particularly care for fish) and it was good (although too “fishy” tasting to me). 

The items on the menu change seasonally, I believe, and they all sound like they would be pretty darn good.  I was contemplating ordering the pasta pockets stuffed with brie and pear and served with arugula, but, as mentioned above, opted for the special.  There are meat items, including chicken, duck, and steak.  Honestly, I could have eaten anything on the menu (except for the seafood) and been happy – everything was tempting.   The White Dog also features a decent selection of wine and beer on draught (I had a pint of Magic Hat #9).  The entrees are not cheap, running anywhere from about $15 to $30 (but averaging around $20), which is probably why we don’t visit more often.

We could not fathom having dessert with our bellies so full from our main courses.  We conversed in the pleasant atmosphere (The White Dog plays music, but it is never overbearing as it can be in many of the other restaurants we like in the Fan).  The White Dog is named in honor of the beloved mutt of the husband and wife owners, which adds a nice sense of homeiness to the place.  The host at the door is always the owner and he is always nice.  Once, when we had to wait for a bit to be seated, he served us free drinks.  I highly recommend that everyone hightail it over to White Dog as soon as possible: we heard a rumor that the owners were going to sell the establishment.  We hate to see it go, because it has consistently been fabulous.  I award the restaurant 5 stars out of 5 (I believe that is my highest rating yet).

How does a book become a classic?

My good pal Stephanie forwarded me this article from the Man Booker Prize web-site, wherein the author discusses how the opinion of a book evolves to the point where it is considered a classic – basically, how does a novel come to be considered part of “the canon?”  Of course, Steph is busy perusing intellectual content in her free time while I am reading about the rock some woman found that seems to reveal the face of Elvis (be thankful - I almost blogged extensively on that topic).

Anyway, back to the books: what (debatable) criteria do the Booker Prize folks think have been historically used to determine whether or not a novel is to be considered a classic?  These are the standards I gleaned from their article:

• the books have to achieve a level of critical and popular success that endures for many years
• the books must receive literary accolades
• the books must be studied at schools and universities
• there usually has to be more to these books than simply a rollicking good story – either in terms of the depth of the issues they discuss, the innovative nature of their stylistic form, or the impact they have on contemporary culture
• the books deal with perennial themes such as love, death, loyalty, self-fulfillment, guilt, and violence that modern novelists are still exploring
• the books must have specific contemporary relevance
• the books must profoundly influence modern writers

Of course, the article correctly points out that not all classics meet many or all of these criteria (particularly the first one listed).  I tried to think about how I would determine if a book is a classic or not, but first I considered whether or not it is meaningful to give the “classic” designation to a book and whether or not it is relevant to have a canon. 

I do think it is important for a Reader (yes, Reader with a capital “R”) to have read what are considered “the classics” (of course, not all of them, but some or many).  I earnestly believe that my immersion in the classics has made me a better reader and thinker, and has helped me to judge appropriately whether a book and writing in general is “good” or not (which, of course, is all subjective) (and, just because I recognize good writing does not make me a good writer (see this blog as proof)).   I also believe that it is important for our society to have a canon.  We need to have a collective representation of our society in order to keep our story alive through the generations.  However, I readily admit that I have been subjected to propaganda, and that schools in America buy-in and promote the notion of a canon.

Of course, I enjoy a “rollicking good story” as much as the next person, and sometimes feel the need to read as many of those as possible, regardless of whether the other characteristics of the novel and writing are sub-par.  But when you find that book (and it is rare) that has a rollicking good story, and well-rounded characters, and beautiful writing, it is such a pleasure. 

I do think the “contemporary relevance” and the “perennial themes” characteristics as listed above are paramount for a book to be considered a classic.  Perhaps that is why some books that I love and are well-written with fully-drawn characters I would not consider as classics (like Smilla’s Sense of Snow or Wicked).  Of course, there are also plenty of books that I thought dragged, but because of their style, language usage, and themes, I would deem as classics (like East of Eden or My Name is Red).  How would you define a classic, since, obviously, I have no concrete ideas?  Should it be a subjective delineation or should there be an accepted canon? 

On another note related to this article, the Booker Prize organization and Vintage Books are attempting to re-package some of the classics in the hopes of making them more appealing to those who have not already read them.  I do think this is an excellent idea, having been drawn to the recent Penguin Classics Deluxe Editions due to their graphic-novelesque covers.  The two organizations are working in cahoots to release pairs of themed books – one novel that is considered a classic, and one modern novel that is on its way to being deemed a classic.  One example is the pairing of Middlemarch by George Eliot with Possession by A.S. Byatt in what they are calling “Vintage Love.”  They are also hosting a contest, open to the public, to pair the Booker Prize winning novel Midnight’s Children by Salman Rushdie with a pre-twentieth century classic.  So, if you are interested in submitting an entry, here’s your opportunity:

For a chance to win the complete set of all ten Vintage Classic Twins . . . please send us your suggestion for the best pre-twentieth-century classic novel to twin with Midnight’s Children, and your reasons for this choice by 31st August 2007.

Of course, Midnight’s Children is probably the one Salman Rushdie book I have not read.  However, the contest gave me a good excuse to head to the bookstore and buy the novel.  I’m already about 150 pages in and am contemplating what book I will nominate as my twin.  I’ll let you know after the 31st. 

Sake, Sake, Sake, Bomb, Bomb, Bomb!

Friday night, Tim and I decided to head to Sumo San for dinner.  Because Sumo San is in the Bottom, and therefore, relatively close to our home, we have eaten there several times before.  It has wonderful sushi and is usually not very crowded during the dinner hours.  I haven’t been to Sumo San at night (i.e. after about 10:00), so it may very well get crowded as part of the nightclub scene that is Shockoe Bottom.

We were quickly seated Friday night and studiously pored over the dinner menu.  Of course, we decided to order sushi, and not one of the many hot dinner entrees that the restaurant serves.  I have never had anything but sushi at Sumo San, although Tim has had chicken teriyaki before, and other friends have eated tofu and sauteed spinach.  Those dishes were all hits with their respective eaters, as the sushi always is with me.

Tim and I opted for 3 different types of sushi: spicy tuna rolls, cucumber rolls, and California rolls (that’s right, we are not extremely adventuresome).  I love Sumo San’s spicy tuna rolls and almost always get them when we visit.  The cucumber rolls I find a little bland, but Tim really enjoys eating them.  I had never had Sumo San’s California rolls until this visit, and they were stupendous. 

Everything was brought quickly and without much fuss.  We wound up being served by three different waitresses during our visit, which was odd, but may be the way they work there.  My favorite thing about Sumo San is that we can sit at a table right next to the window that looks out onto the street.  Shockoe Bottom often has an interesting cast of characters wandering about, so there is always something entertaining to view.  The table is level with the street, so you feel like you are part of the urban landscape.  I like that, and I wish more restaurants in Richmond had this feature.

The most amusing thing at Sumo San happens when a customer orders a Sake Bomb.  If you do not know, a Sake Bomb is a pint of beer with 2 choptsticks perched on the rim of the glass.  A shot glass full of sake is then balanced on the chopsticks.  The contraption sits on a table until the owner of the restaurant (a middle-aged gentleman) comes out and yells, “Sake!  Sake!  Sake!”  The restaurant crowd yells back, “Bomb!  Bomb!  Bomb!”  Then the owner bangs his forehead on the table with some force, the shot glass full of sake plummets into the pint glass of beer, and the person who ordered the drink has to chug the beer/sake mixture.  I have also seen this ritual performed when the owner has not been available: one of the waitresses will don a football helmet before banging her head on the table.  Good, clean fun!

I enjoy going to Sumo San – it is a great place to eat fresh sushi, especially if you are in a rush (service always seems to be quick), and the urban atmosphere is a definite asset.  It is my favorite sushi place in Richmond (I like Sticky Rice (four words: bucket of tater tots) but it gets too crowded with wannabe hipsters for me).  I give Sumo San 4 out of 5 stars.  Go visit and order a Sake Bomb!

Klan Sheep

Last Tuesday everyone in my office (myself included) drove up to Mt. Crawford, VA (near Harrisonburg) to volunteer at the Rockingham County Fair.  Yay!  A day out of the office and a visit to a fair!  Fortunately, the heat wave had broken by Tuesday, so we enjoyed 90 degree temperatures with little humidity.

Our first duty when arriving in Mt. Crawford was to eat lunch.  We stopped at Mrs. Rowe’s Country Buffet, where, for $7, we were able to eat as much country cooking as we liked.  As an aside, why does Southern food traditionally require that vegetables be overcooked, leaving them with little taste, very mushy, and, seemingly, having no nutritious benefit at all?  Anyway, the best thing about Mrs. Rowe’s was the cornucopia of pies that we could partake of.  I chose a slice of strawberry-rhubarb, and it was awesome.  I should have just had a lunch of pie.

After pie, we headed to the fair, where we handed out free ice cream tickets.  Then several of us were free until later in the afternoon.  We wandered around the midway, looking at the rides (of course, none of them were operational until 4:00 in the afternoon).  We walked through the barns of cows (lots and lots of cows, some with very large horns), sheep, poultry, and hogs.  They were smelly and big.  We saw sheep being shorn and being judged, which was gripping.  After they were shorn, the majority of the sheep were clad in garments that made them look like mascots of the Klan.  Strange.  I think it was to keep them warm or prevent them from bumping into things and bruising themselves.  I don’t know; I am an urban girl (actually, both my co-worker and I were extremely startled and jumped when a Clydesdale horse whinnied right near us).                                              

We also got to see the Junior Miss Rockingham County Fair, Miss Rockingham County Fair, and Mrs. Rockingham County Fair.  All were wearing tiaras and sashes, and flitted around the fair flirting with cowboys.

Later, we worked at the Young Farmer’s booth grilling burgers and dogs.  I was in charge of the big, open pit grill, and let me tell you, it was very hot, smoky, and greasy.  I had tears streaming down my face the entire time I was cooking (hmmm . . . tasty, burgers mixed with tears).  I had to wipe off my glasses about 10 times as they became coated with splattered grease.  But it was fun.  After feeding the masses their meat, we went to work at the ice cream booth.  What a relief from the grill!  The bad thing about the ice cream is that people kept asking for dips.  What is a dip?  I’m used to hearing a request for scoops, or cones, or bowls, but dips?  It was very confusing to me.

Finally, about 8:30, we were able to leave and drive home.  We had a pretty enjoyable, yet tiring day.  Everyone should head to a fair, the sooner, the better.  If you are in the Richmond-area, the Powhatan County Fair is taking place right now, and I believe the Chesterfield County Fair starts soon.

Ode to Cassette Tapes and Beloved Staplers

I read this article about cassette tapes in the newspaper last Saturday, and was reminded about how much I love cassette tapes.  They were the audio medium when I was growing up - cassette tapes were how I listened to music.  I remember buying my first tapes in eighth grade, behind the school, from some “troubled” kid (I purchased the Cure’s Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me, U2’s The Unforgettable Fire, and the Police’s Greatest Hits).  I still have all three of these cassettes as well as many others.  I culled off a whole bunch that I never listened to as I transitioned over to CDs, but I kept the classics. 

I am not an audiophile, so sound quality is not of the utmost importance to me.  My car still only has a cassette player, so I always keep a handful of tapes in the car for shorter trips (so I don’t have to fool around with getting the discman and the adapter out to the vehicle (yes, I’m totally lame and “old school”)).  I still prefer cassette tapes to CDs, as they are much more durable: I would never leave CDs in a hot car whereas I leave my tapes in there all the time, and I can throw tapes on the floor and don’t have to be concerned that they might scratch.  Tapes also start at the place where you stopped listening.  I know that this can be frustrating when you want to hear a particular song, but I also remember all the B sides that I would have never listened to and come to love if I had been able to flip to the one hit song with just the push of one button.

According to the article, cassette tape manufacturers are still around, making tapes for speciality markets like audio books (particularly for the blind), court recordings, and religious messages, so, be comforted that the market is not completely dried up. 

So what do casette tapes have to do with staplers?  Not really sure, but while reading the article, I thought about how I might start a weekly blog feature called “Invention of the Week,” where I would feature a common item and detail its history and usefulness.  I thought I would start with the stapler, as I was admiring the usefulness of staplers at work just the other day.  I did a quick Wikipedia search on staplers, and read about its boring history.  So I thought, how can I make this interesting?  Do I really want to commit myself to a weekly posting when I can barely post on a regular basis as it is?  I decided to postpone the idea for now.

But then, at the bottom of the Wikipedia page, I saw a link to VirtualStapler.com.  Yes, in case you are not certain how a stapler works, you can go to this site and virtually practice stapling using three different types of staplers!   Even more fascinating is the poetry section of this site – yes, that is correct, poetry in honor of staplers.  My favorite is this haiku by the Stapler Goddess:

Small metal staple
So small, yet so powerful
Connects paper

Please feel free to write your own poetry in honor of the stapler.  I promise to keep it posted.

What’s with these young whippersnappers today?

One of my co-workers forwarded this article to everyone at my workplace.  Basically, the article challenges the notion that younger folks are more ecologically attuned then their older counterparts:

Young folks are more likely than their elders to be non-recyclers. Thirty percent of 18-30-year-olds recycle “nothing,” vs. 20 percent of 31-42s, 23 percent of 43-61s and 19 percent of those 62-plus. Other recent polls show a similar pattern. WSL Strategic Retail asked people if they are doing things in their homes to save energy. Sixty-five percent of the 18-34s said they are, vs. 85 percent of those 55-plus. Ipsos Reid found 47 percent of 18-34s have done little or nothing to reduce greenhouse gases by making their homes more energy efficient, vs. 24 percent of those 55-plus.

Actually, historically, this makes perfect sense.  Some of those who are 55-plus either lived through the Depression or were raised by parents who did.  They were, therefore, more likely to be instilled with a sense of thriftiness and the need to not be wasteful.  Kids today (don’t I sound damn old with my “kids today”), in general, were raised to expect to receive everything they want, with little work.  Recycling does take minimal work and can be a nuisance, so I can readily imagine that the youth of today couldn’t be bothered. 

I admit I’m being stereotypical about generational attitudes.  Probably what explains the differential is just the immaturity of young folks and their lack of money.  They haven’t paid utility bills, or haven’t paid them for very long.  If they are paying utilities, they most likely live in shared apartments and are not paying to cool or heat a large house.  Young folks also cannot afford the extra expense of energy efficient products (even if it saves them money).  I even balked at buying energy-efficient light bulbs because the front-end cost was so high.  As usual, money can be a dominant motivator.

I did chuckle while reading some of the excuses people gave for not recycling, especially, ”it is too difficult.”  Is it?  I wonder if I would recycle if I had to actually transport it to a location and not just put it in a container outside my front door.  Would you?

The Worst Hard Time

“Of all the countries in the world, we Americans have been the greatest destroyers of land of any race of people barbaric or civilized.” -  Hugh Bennett

I had seen the book The Worst Hard Time by Timothy Egan everywhere – bookstores, libraries, etc.  So, recently, when we were visiting the main library to pick up some books they were donating to the Holocaust Museum, and a copy was on the first shelf I looked at, I decided to check it out.  The book won the National Book Award for non-fiction, so I assumed it would be very well-written and interesting.  That was a bad assumption.

The book tries to give an accounting of the Dust Bowl days from the perspective of the farmers and ranchers who stayed with the land as it was trying to expel them.  As most people who have had a public education know, there was a great farming boom in the late 1800’s and early 1900’s in the Mid-west of the United States.  Land that had once been considered inhospitable grassland was first sectioned off to cattle ranchers (after displacing and/or slaughtering both the Native Americans and the buffalo), and then parceled off to homesteaders to farm.  These farmers, or nesters as Egan calls them, settled into dugouts and made a fortune by planting and selling wheat at inflated prices.  Of course, the crops were only bountiful during this time because the area was experiencing an unprecedented period of excessive rainfall.  Eventually, in the 1930’s, the rain stopped, the world economy collapsed, and the earth fought back.

The book unsuccessfully attempts to tell about the hardships that the nesters experienced as they settled in to these “Dust Bowl Days” of huge dust storms, swarming grasshoppers, no food, no money, and no hope.  Unfortunately, Egan does not develop the characters enough to have us truly care about them.  He would have been more successful had he focused on just one or two people or families and described their travails in detail.  Instead, he presents snippets of a myriad of characters, and it is, frankly, difficult to delineate one from another.  Most of these people had tragic stories (although their abuse of the land is to blame for much of their hardships); selecting one or two to focus on would have been more effective story-telling and would have elicited a greater emotional response from the reader.

The book does have its good parts: the descriptions of some of the worst dust storms are fascinating and vivid; the conveying of the desperation of living with the constant dust, wind, heat, and hopelessness is felt (especially as I read the book while it was 104 degrees outside and dry as a bone); and, in my opinion the most interesting part, was how the government responded to the Dust Bowl situation.  I wish there had been more details about the conservation programs that were put into affect, but I did like the detail about Hugh Bennett (quoted above), who was a soil scienctist and FDR’s point man on restoring the Dust Bowl.  The book also described how and why the Soil and Conservation Districts were started in America, something I never knew and an interesting tidbit of trivia in relation to my job.

The most disappointing aspect of the book was the ending.  There is page after page of horrific descriptions of starving people, horrible, blinding dust storms, etc. and then it just ends.  Egan talks about how FDR and Bennett try to implement programs to heal the land and help the farmers, but we do not get to read about the specific results of the programs.  What was successful?  What was not?  How did the land get back to being productive?  Did all the land become productive again?  I have no idea, and I want to know.  But the book just ends.  I was disappointed in the book, and my disappointment is reflected in my rating: 2 out of 5 stars.

Random 8

Apparently, I have to complete a meme – Tim tagged me (in fact, he tagged the entire World Wide Web).  I am supposed to let you, my valued readers, know 8 random things about myself (I know that you are all vitally interested in this information).  So, here goes:

1.  I had open heart surgery when I has in third grade.  It actually was a pretty positive experience (from what I remember).  I got to recuperate in a hospital and then at home for over a month.  I received tons of gifts (Smurfs, Strawberry Shortcake dolls, Bobbsey Twins books, etc.) and tons of attention.  No worries – I am 100% healthy now.  All that remains is a scar on the side of my chest.

2.  I like getting my news via the newspaper.  I try to read news on-line, but I just don’t have the capacity or time to get the entire story that I desire.  The newspaper provides me with a finite number of pages and in-depth stories.  I also like the feel of the paper, and doing the crossword puzzles in ink.

3.  I walk to work every day and have done so for years.  Actually, I changed jobs in 2000 in order to be able to walk to work (there were other reasons, but it was a major motivation).  I try to encourage others to walk, but they won’t.  I did recently check the “walkability” of our address, and we received a 66 out of 100 (not so great, but ok).  (I liked the walkability rating site, but do agree that there are issues, such as topography and safety, that need to be considered).  (For example, the site lists the closest grocery store to us as a small, corner market that I would not enter unless I was forced to, and the other grocery store is close enough to walk, but at the bottom of a very steep hill.  Walking up that hill is too much with several bags of groceries).   

4.  I love really bad mystery TV shows.  I guess it comes from my childhood watching Murder She Wrote, but I adore any mystery show.  Banacek, Columbo, The Rockford Files, etc. Put it on and I’ll watch it.

5.  I took classical guitar lessons for many years.  When I was about 25, I decided that I needed to spend less time watching television and spend more time doing something productive.  I tried a whole bunch of activities such as yoga, kickboxing, and guitar lessons.  The guitar lessons stuck.  Part of it was my great guitar teacher (Jack Jones, if anyone is looking for a teacher), and part of it was just enjoyment.  I took lessons for about 6 years, got pretty good, had several recitals, and then decided to stop, as I wasn’t practicing as much as I should in order to justify the cost of the lessons and I had reached a plateau in my progress.  I thought I would still play without taking lessons, but I don’t.  All those hours of practice were wasted.

6.  I am a huge Denver Broncos fan.  I have an obsession with the “Greatest Quarterback to Ever Play the Game,” John Elway.  I never liked football until I saw a wild card playoff game in 1987 between the Denver Broncos and the Cleveland Browns.  John Elway led the Broncos to a last minute comeback that was breathtaking, and which made me a fan of football and the Broncos forever.

7.  I don’t own a cell phone.  I don’t really want one.  I am not important enough to necessitate being available at all times.  I also hate to see people who are tied to their cell phones, and, increasingly, it seems that people are.  There are times when I wish I had one, but there has never been a crisis where I have needed one. 

8.  I love to crochet and knit.  My junior-year roommate, Heather, taught me how to knit and then my old friend Tracey taught me how to crochet.  All of my family members and close friends have received scarves from me.  If you get married or have a baby, I will most likely make a blanket for you as part of your gift.

Gosh, that was a difficult exercise.  I have now realized that I am the most boring person I know.  If anyone knows any random things about me, please let me know so I can feel better about myself.  Also, add 8 random things about yourself to either your own blog or in the comments section here, so I can know more about you. 

Harry Butthole Pussy Potter

I admit it – for the first time, I got caught up in the Harry Potter hoopla.  I don’t know what came over me; I have always enjoyed reading the books and looked forward to each edition in the series, but I never stayed up all night to read them, or bought the newest book on its release date.  My usual pattern was to re-read all the previous books once the latest one was released; then I would go to the book store or the library or a friend about a month later and buy or borrow the latest one.  But this time, I pre-ordered.  Maybe beacuse it was the last book, maybe I just had to know what happened as soon as possible.  But it arrived on Saturday, July 21 (it actually arrived much later than I imagined it would – it came some time in the late afternoon).  The UPS carrier (who was not our usual delivery person) told me how everyone was working overtime and that Harry Potter was basically all they were delivering.  She said there were 310 copies being delivered to my zip code alone, and that it was the smallest number for any of the zip codes in the Richmond metropolitan area (come on, 23223, we need to represent!).  Amazon packaged it in a cute box with the words, “No Muggles allowed” (or something to that effect).  I eagerly opened it . . . and then decided that I might wait to read it.

See, we had plans to go see the fifth Harry Potter movie that night.  And I thought to myself that it would be a nice refresher to see the movie prior to reading the last book.  Then, we had time after dinner but before the movie, so we decided to go to the book store, where I purchased the sixth Harry Potter, since I did not own it (I think I borrowed Stephanie’s during my last reading).  Then, on Saturday night, after having my memory refreshed by watching the fifth movie, I opted to re-read the sixth book before delving into the seventh and final.

I read some on Sunday, but we also had things to do.  I kept reading all through the week, finally finishing the sixth book on the following Saturday morning.  Now I was lagging behind the rest of the world by a week – everyone knew what happened to Harry, Ron, Hermione, and the entire magical world, except me.  I was afraid to go on-line and accidentally read some spoiler about the final book.  Tim kept threatening me, trying to reveal who died in the final book (he kept saying, “You want to know who dies?  I know who dies”).  I began the seventh book one week after its release date.

And I read it, pretty much for a solid 24 hours (with breaks on Saturday night for dinner and to see the Simpsons movie) (and, of course, to catch seven hours or so of sleep).  I finished some time late Sunday afternoon.  Of course, Tim was pulling my leg all along about knowing anything about the book, because, in fact, he knew nothing.

I thought the seventh book was the most well-written of the lot of them – Rowling really has improved her need to be repetitive and her need to summarize action instead of having action unfold.  I read on-line that many fans (as well as my friend Stephanie, who I called immediately upon completion in order to discuss the book, its deeper meanings, the ramifications of the series on our lives, etc.) felt that a few hundred pages should have been cut (where Harry, Ron, and Hermione are wandering through the woods trying to figure out what to do).  However, I think this was a successful way to portray the frustration, intensity, and boredom that the characters were supposed to be feeling (of course, I hope they limit these scenes when the final movie comes out).  I was a bit miffed about the scene where Harry seems to go to some sort of afterlife and discuss events with Dumbledore, but I did like that Rowling had Harry ask if this experience was real or in his head, and Dumbledore answered that it was in his head, but that that doesn’t mean it isn’t real. I also felt that the conversation was necessary – each book in the series comes to some sort of conclusion wherein Harry and Dumbledore chat, and things are clarified for Harry.  Of course, what makes this last book different, and what reveals how Harry has grown, is that he has to continue to make choices and take action even after his conversation with Dumbledore.

I am going to stop typing now – I believe I have gone on much too long about Harry Potter, especially since everyone has been inundated with Harry Potter fever for a long time now.  I will give my ratings, though: for Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince (Book Six), I give 5 stars.  For Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows (Book Seven), I give 4.5 stars.  For the whole series, I give 5 stars.  My favorite of the books was number four: Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire (I still tear up when I think about Cedric Diggory dying).  I will miss reading more about Harry and Hogwarts.  The books almost make me want to have a child so I can share them with him/her (not really; just a tiny, tiny bit).