It having been forever (okay, a month) since I updated, I decided I would rectify this by blogging an old favorite.
Book: So You Want to Be a Wizard
Author: Diane Duane
First Published: 1983
Thirteen-year-old Nita is absolutely sick of being beat up, but fighting back seems to help just about as much as doing nothing. Hiding out from her tormentors in the library one day, she finds a book titled So You Want to Be a Wizard. Joke, right? Wizardry doesn't exist.
Except that when Nita takes the Wizard's Oath, she finds out that--oops--it does. And being a wizard isn't just about waving wands and reciting spells to get those bullies off her back. It's about danger, responsibility, sacrifice, working with other wizards, and fighting the Power that wants to grind down the universe.
Hey, the book did warn her.
So You Want to Be a Wizard is the first in a series of seven (soon to be eight) books about Nita Callahan and her partner in wizarding, Kit Rodriguez. You can probably read them out of order--they're more or less standalone novels--but it's better to read them straight through.
I've loved these books for years. They're in the same vein of Diana Wynne Jones and Madeleine L'Engle, in that while magic exists, it's not fun and cute, but powerful and dangerous, even when it's good. And when it's bad . . . hooo boy. Duane pulls no punches--her characters face moral dilemmas and terrible choices, even as they're in the middle of regular growing-up traumas. Probably what I like best is that Kit's ethnicity is never a Big Huge Thing, but instead just another part of his identity. But that's just me.
Read them for the magic, the moral dilemmas, the warm and real (and not always simple) friendship between Nita and Kit, the humor, the strange and unexpected beings they encounter (sharks, sentient white holes, and mobile Christmas trees are just the beginning, trust me), the . . . oh, just read 'em.
Wednesday, February 23, 2005
Monday, January 24, 2005
I know, I usually don't update so quick, but I had to blog this one. Seriously. Just had to. I'm ignoring my other homework to do so. This means you have to go read it!
Book: Whale Rider
Author: Witi Ihimaera
Published: 2003 (in the U.S.)
You may have heard of the movie, which won all sorts of awards and stuff a few years ago. That's why I initially picked this up. I can't compare them, because I haven't seen the movie yet. But now I damn well want to.
Koro Apirana, a Maori chief in New Zealand, is horrified and disgusted when his first great-grandchild is born a girl. He needs a boy to carry on the chieftainship and preserve the swiftly-dying Maori traditions. Ignoring the multitude of signs that baby Kahu is exactly the one to carry on, he starts searching for a boy among the other families of the tribe, with little success, and rejects the love Kahu offers him every day. Lucky for little Kahu, she's got her Nanny Flowers and her uncle Rawiri to back her up. Still, all she wants is her great-grandfather's love and approval. Interwoven throughout is the story of an old bull whale, coming to the end of his life and still longing for the golden human master he knew in his youth. When Kahu and the old bull whale meet . . . well, you'll have to read it and find out.
This book reads more like a legend than your usual novel, with unexpected snippets of novelesque narration. Ihimaera doesn't pull any punches--he shows a brutal roadside accident and the death of hundreds of beached whales with the same matter-of-factness as he shows a school play that the great-grandfather (predictably) didn't show up for. The novel is mostly narrated by Kahu's uncle Rawiri, which allows us to see her birth and early years. Some parts switch to an italicised narration of the whales' experiences in the sea.
It's a little confusing at times, but the legendary feel and your immersion in Maori culture make this an addictive read. I closed the book with the feeling that Ihimaera no doubt wanted to evoke: that Kahu was destined for great things. I'm also extremely interested in finding out more about the Maori culture. Well, what are you waiting for? Go pick it up!
Book: Whale Rider
Author: Witi Ihimaera
Published: 2003 (in the U.S.)
You may have heard of the movie, which won all sorts of awards and stuff a few years ago. That's why I initially picked this up. I can't compare them, because I haven't seen the movie yet. But now I damn well want to.
Koro Apirana, a Maori chief in New Zealand, is horrified and disgusted when his first great-grandchild is born a girl. He needs a boy to carry on the chieftainship and preserve the swiftly-dying Maori traditions. Ignoring the multitude of signs that baby Kahu is exactly the one to carry on, he starts searching for a boy among the other families of the tribe, with little success, and rejects the love Kahu offers him every day. Lucky for little Kahu, she's got her Nanny Flowers and her uncle Rawiri to back her up. Still, all she wants is her great-grandfather's love and approval. Interwoven throughout is the story of an old bull whale, coming to the end of his life and still longing for the golden human master he knew in his youth. When Kahu and the old bull whale meet . . . well, you'll have to read it and find out.
This book reads more like a legend than your usual novel, with unexpected snippets of novelesque narration. Ihimaera doesn't pull any punches--he shows a brutal roadside accident and the death of hundreds of beached whales with the same matter-of-factness as he shows a school play that the great-grandfather (predictably) didn't show up for. The novel is mostly narrated by Kahu's uncle Rawiri, which allows us to see her birth and early years. Some parts switch to an italicised narration of the whales' experiences in the sea.
It's a little confusing at times, but the legendary feel and your immersion in Maori culture make this an addictive read. I closed the book with the feeling that Ihimaera no doubt wanted to evoke: that Kahu was destined for great things. I'm also extremely interested in finding out more about the Maori culture. Well, what are you waiting for? Go pick it up!
Wednesday, January 19, 2005
Quick note to say that this blog is probably going to be very heavy on the children's books from now on. I'm taking a children's lit course in my master's program right now, and we have to read 115 (!) books. Gee, that's going to be a hardship for me, right?
Book: Away Laughing on a Fast Camel
Author: Louise Rennison
Release Year: 2004
A hoot. A hysteria-inducing lunatic farce of teenage girlhood. Bridget Jones without the cigarettes or the booze, not from lack of trying on Georgia's part.
Fourteen-year-old Georgia Nicolson is heartbroken. Her boyfriend, Robbie the Sex God, has gone away to Kiwi-a-gogoland (New Zealand), leaving her in crap old England with her parents, who don't even have the decency to be boring. Her dad has just bought a weird three-wheeled car, and insists on driving it. (!!) Her mum has the hots for a doctor and insists on using Georgia as an excuse to see him. Her baby sister Libby has just acquired a cat, Gordy the cross-eyed mad offspring of Georgia's own mad Angus. Euwwwwwwwwwww.
Luckily, even love and family can't get Georgia down for long. She, and all her fab mates, are up to all their usual lunacy in no time at all, like disco-dancing to break up the boredom in English class, rating their dates on the snogging scale, sticking their eyelids together with too much false-eyelash glue, and learning to fathom the minds of boys. (The secret, apparently, is that they're all quite mad. No argument here.)
Georgia is half a parody and half completely true to life. She's boy-crazy, self-absorbed, ditzy, and mouthy. She's also sweet to her baby sister, very very funny, and genuinely trying to figure this all out. I love Georgia because she reminds me of just why the teenage years sucked.
It's not especially deep or meaningful. It's just good clean fun. In fact, read the whole series, not necessarily for clarity (although it would help) but also because they're all this lunatic and delicious. Although I should insert a caveat--don't read them all in a row, or you'll stop laughing and start getting annoyed. Just have one on hand for those gloomy days when you really need to snort milk out your nose. Also, do not do NOT skip reading the glossary in the back of each book. It translates a lot of the slang and the references--not only for the American audience, but also for the audience that isn't, strictly speaking, Georgia Nicolson. Some unnecessarily, but most of it comes in handy.
Collectively, they're known as the Confessions of Georgia Nicolson series. It goes:
Angus, Thongs, and Full Frontal Snogging
On the Bright Side, I'm Now the Girlfriend of a Sex God
Knocked Out by My Nunga-Nungas
Dancing in My Nuddy-Pants
Away Laughing on a Fast Camel
Check out Louise Rennison's web site for excerpts, etc. The next one, Then He Ate My Boy Entrancers, is coming out in June of 2005. Fabulosity!!
Book: Away Laughing on a Fast Camel
Author: Louise Rennison
Release Year: 2004
A hoot. A hysteria-inducing lunatic farce of teenage girlhood. Bridget Jones without the cigarettes or the booze, not from lack of trying on Georgia's part.
Fourteen-year-old Georgia Nicolson is heartbroken. Her boyfriend, Robbie the Sex God, has gone away to Kiwi-a-gogoland (New Zealand), leaving her in crap old England with her parents, who don't even have the decency to be boring. Her dad has just bought a weird three-wheeled car, and insists on driving it. (!!) Her mum has the hots for a doctor and insists on using Georgia as an excuse to see him. Her baby sister Libby has just acquired a cat, Gordy the cross-eyed mad offspring of Georgia's own mad Angus. Euwwwwwwwwwww.
Luckily, even love and family can't get Georgia down for long. She, and all her fab mates, are up to all their usual lunacy in no time at all, like disco-dancing to break up the boredom in English class, rating their dates on the snogging scale, sticking their eyelids together with too much false-eyelash glue, and learning to fathom the minds of boys. (The secret, apparently, is that they're all quite mad. No argument here.)
Georgia is half a parody and half completely true to life. She's boy-crazy, self-absorbed, ditzy, and mouthy. She's also sweet to her baby sister, very very funny, and genuinely trying to figure this all out. I love Georgia because she reminds me of just why the teenage years sucked.
It's not especially deep or meaningful. It's just good clean fun. In fact, read the whole series, not necessarily for clarity (although it would help) but also because they're all this lunatic and delicious. Although I should insert a caveat--don't read them all in a row, or you'll stop laughing and start getting annoyed. Just have one on hand for those gloomy days when you really need to snort milk out your nose. Also, do not do NOT skip reading the glossary in the back of each book. It translates a lot of the slang and the references--not only for the American audience, but also for the audience that isn't, strictly speaking, Georgia Nicolson. Some unnecessarily, but most of it comes in handy.
Collectively, they're known as the Confessions of Georgia Nicolson series. It goes:
Angus, Thongs, and Full Frontal Snogging
On the Bright Side, I'm Now the Girlfriend of a Sex God
Knocked Out by My Nunga-Nungas
Dancing in My Nuddy-Pants
Away Laughing on a Fast Camel
Check out Louise Rennison's web site for excerpts, etc. The next one, Then He Ate My Boy Entrancers, is coming out in June of 2005. Fabulosity!!
Saturday, December 18, 2004
Book: Holes
Author: Louis Sachar
Original Release: 1998
This is a cool book.
I've liked Louis Sachar for a long time. His Sideways Stories from Wayside School is a classic of screwball grade-school humor. But when I set Holes down, I said, "Shit, this man can write."
Twelve-year-old Stanley Yelnats (IV) comes from a long line of guys who just can't win. They blame the famous Yelnats bad luck on the dirty rotten no-good pig-stealing Stanley Yelnats the first, who incurred a gypsy's wrath just before leaving the old country. Now, wrongfully accused of stealing a pair of famous shoes from charity, our Stanley gets sent to Camp Green Lake, where bad boys get turned into good boys by means of digging holes.
There's no lake.
For that matter, there's no green.
There are, however, a lot of holes. Along with a Warden who puts rattlesnake venom in her nail polish, a sadistic guard called Mr. Sir, the fatally poisonous yellow-spotted lizards, and fellow campers who put Stanley right at the bottom of the pecking order. Welcome to the next eighteen months, Stanley.
From these very basic beginnings, Sachar spins a story where three different storylines tangle like creeper vines. The first storyline is the tale of Stanley Yelnats the first's exit from the old country, and just what he did to make that gypsy mad. The second is the tale of Green Lake at the end of the 19th century, and how it came to be neither green nor lakey. The third, of course, is our own Stanley's experiences at Camp Green Lake, and how his actions put right the wounds of the past, whether he knows it or not.
There's an element of magical realism to this story that I wasn't expecting but enjoyed quite a bit. Also, the guys in Stanley's cabin aren't misunderstood puppy dogs. They're as hard as rock, and you have to watch to catch any hint of vulnerability. Sachar doesn't fall into the trap of making them all reform into model citizens, even though they're affected by Stanley as much as he is by them. Stanley's one friendship, with the silent and mysterious Zero, isn't cemented in an instant, but is a believable process.
Pick this up for a memorable, truthful, funny story.
Movie: "Holes"
Director: Andrew Davis
Original Release: 2003
My motto (or one of them, at least) is "the book is always better." That being said, there are a few movies that come close to matching the book. "Holes" is one of them. It helps that they got Louis Sachar to write the screenplay, so he knew what to leave in and what to take out.
I don't need to recap the plot (I hope!). While Disney went with big (or at least respected) names for their adult actors, they were smart enough to use relative unknowns for the kids' roles. Possibly the most famous (relatively speaking) is Shia LaBeouf, who's been on the Disney TV show "Even Stevens" for several years.
Sigourney Weaver (the Warden) and Jon Voight (Mr. Sir) make great, slightly loopy villains. LaBeouf brings out Stanley's shy awkwardness without it becoming too annoying, and the interaction between him and Khleo Thomas (Zero) makes their characters' evolving friendship believable. While the jumps between past and present take some getting used to, once you sort it out, it works pretty much as in the book. The sweet (and doomed) romance in the Green-Lake's-past storyline especially got to me, but you all know how much a sucker I am for that stuff.
Possibly my largest gripe is that they completely changed Stanley's physical type. In the book, he was very overweight, and while he lost some, he certainly didn't slim down to the toothpick proportions of LaBeouf. The official reasoning was that a severely overweight actor would have too much difficulty with the physical portions of the acting, especially during the high-temps on-location shoots for Camp Green Lake. Hmmm. Anyway. I still liked it. A good idea is probably to read the book first, though, or you might have a hard time sorting out who is who with all the different storylines.
Merry Christmas, y'all! Or whatever holiday of your choosing.
Author: Louis Sachar
Original Release: 1998
This is a cool book.
I've liked Louis Sachar for a long time. His Sideways Stories from Wayside School is a classic of screwball grade-school humor. But when I set Holes down, I said, "Shit, this man can write."
Twelve-year-old Stanley Yelnats (IV) comes from a long line of guys who just can't win. They blame the famous Yelnats bad luck on the dirty rotten no-good pig-stealing Stanley Yelnats the first, who incurred a gypsy's wrath just before leaving the old country. Now, wrongfully accused of stealing a pair of famous shoes from charity, our Stanley gets sent to Camp Green Lake, where bad boys get turned into good boys by means of digging holes.
There's no lake.
For that matter, there's no green.
There are, however, a lot of holes. Along with a Warden who puts rattlesnake venom in her nail polish, a sadistic guard called Mr. Sir, the fatally poisonous yellow-spotted lizards, and fellow campers who put Stanley right at the bottom of the pecking order. Welcome to the next eighteen months, Stanley.
From these very basic beginnings, Sachar spins a story where three different storylines tangle like creeper vines. The first storyline is the tale of Stanley Yelnats the first's exit from the old country, and just what he did to make that gypsy mad. The second is the tale of Green Lake at the end of the 19th century, and how it came to be neither green nor lakey. The third, of course, is our own Stanley's experiences at Camp Green Lake, and how his actions put right the wounds of the past, whether he knows it or not.
There's an element of magical realism to this story that I wasn't expecting but enjoyed quite a bit. Also, the guys in Stanley's cabin aren't misunderstood puppy dogs. They're as hard as rock, and you have to watch to catch any hint of vulnerability. Sachar doesn't fall into the trap of making them all reform into model citizens, even though they're affected by Stanley as much as he is by them. Stanley's one friendship, with the silent and mysterious Zero, isn't cemented in an instant, but is a believable process.
Pick this up for a memorable, truthful, funny story.
Movie: "Holes"
Director: Andrew Davis
Original Release: 2003
My motto (or one of them, at least) is "the book is always better." That being said, there are a few movies that come close to matching the book. "Holes" is one of them. It helps that they got Louis Sachar to write the screenplay, so he knew what to leave in and what to take out.
I don't need to recap the plot (I hope!). While Disney went with big (or at least respected) names for their adult actors, they were smart enough to use relative unknowns for the kids' roles. Possibly the most famous (relatively speaking) is Shia LaBeouf, who's been on the Disney TV show "Even Stevens" for several years.
Sigourney Weaver (the Warden) and Jon Voight (Mr. Sir) make great, slightly loopy villains. LaBeouf brings out Stanley's shy awkwardness without it becoming too annoying, and the interaction between him and Khleo Thomas (Zero) makes their characters' evolving friendship believable. While the jumps between past and present take some getting used to, once you sort it out, it works pretty much as in the book. The sweet (and doomed) romance in the Green-Lake's-past storyline especially got to me, but you all know how much a sucker I am for that stuff.
Possibly my largest gripe is that they completely changed Stanley's physical type. In the book, he was very overweight, and while he lost some, he certainly didn't slim down to the toothpick proportions of LaBeouf. The official reasoning was that a severely overweight actor would have too much difficulty with the physical portions of the acting, especially during the high-temps on-location shoots for Camp Green Lake. Hmmm. Anyway. I still liked it. A good idea is probably to read the book first, though, or you might have a hard time sorting out who is who with all the different storylines.
Merry Christmas, y'all! Or whatever holiday of your choosing.
Tuesday, November 09, 2004
So I've been a real mystery woman lately, but tonight I will change all that!! Momentarily anyway. Sigh. It's been a busy semester.
*shrug* Busy semester notwithstanding, I've been reading some kickass books and watching some kickass stuff, and I'll just share a couple with y'all tonight.
Television Series: Firefly
Creator: Joss Whedon (also known for Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Angel, and various feature film scripts including Toy Story
Airdates: 2002 only
The story of Firefly is conclusive evidence that networks are on crack. This is a show with great writing, great acting, original and carefully crafted background, and real entertainment value. So naturally it was cancelled after 15 episodes. Sheesh!
I'll admit it; the thing that first attracted me to Firefly was the quotes on IMDb. I love Joss Whedon's dialogue. The man and the writers he hires play with language like it's silly putty. They take stock dialogue and go to town on it. Check out this sample:
[standing over his wounded opponent, refusing to kill him]
Mal : You know, they say mercy is the mark of a great man.
[stabs the man]
Mal : Guess I'm just a good man.
[stabs him again]
Mal : Well, I'm all right.
They also take stock stereotypes and turn them inside out. Mal, the captain and arguably main character, has that ol' tragic past . . . on the losing side of a civil war, he now has to live under the rule of the Alliance he once fought. He has lost all the beliefs and ideals that drove him throughout the war and now has what can best be described as a nihilistic outlook on life. Instead of pouting and brooding all around Serenity like a big ol' anchor, he is often the driving force behind the plots, as well as having some of the best lines, and is doing his utomost to live his life the best way he knows how.
Every character seems to be a stock sci-fi character with some unexpected twist that humanizes them. Zoe, the stone-faced second mate, is married to the court-jester pilot, Wash, who plays with toy dinosaurs and can do things with the wheel that make the Blue Angels look like chumps. Kaylee is the brilliant mechanic who likes teddy bears, flowers, and ruffles. Book is the ship's chaplain who knows an unsettling amount about guns and crime. Jayne is the thuggish mercenary who names his guns and sends money home to his mom. Inara is a highly respected, classy, and ladylike prostitute . . . who actually likes her job. Simon is the spoiled rich boy doctor who will go to the ends of the universe for someone in pain and through hell itself for his baby sister. River is the psychic genius who has at best a waving acquaintance with sanity.
This isn't a shiny glossy techno-cool sci-fi universe, either. It's gritty, run-down, dangerous, and with a western-frontier ethos that is an unexpected but completely believable touch.
The show also has the classic Whedon touch of strong character-based stories, and constantly asking questions about ethics, morality, and humanity that can't be tidily answered in one hour minus commercials. I really, really wish they hadn't cancelled this show. Oh well . . . the movie's coming out next April, and the DVD's are available now. If you have RealPlayer and plenty of hard drive space, check out this page for rough'n'ready versions of the episodes: Hello Cowgirl
I recommend "Serenity" or "The Train Job" for a neophyte, since they're both pilot-type episodes (after viewing "Serenity," FOX asked for a more action-packed, shorter pilot. Again with the crack.) Anyway, they're good introductions to the world and the characters.
Book: Weetzie Bat
Author: Francesca Lia Block
Original Release: 1989
This is a special and unusual book, and not for everyone. If you're very conservative, very grounded in reality, and get annoyed by lavish and poetical prose, don't read this. If you're just the opposite, run don't walk.
This book doesn't have a terribly cohesive plot, but I'll try to nutshell it. Teenaged Weetzie Bat (and that is her real name) loves L.A., and is looking for someone that will love it with her. Her best friend, Dirk, is also looking for a good man to love. Three wishes from a magic lamp bring them Duck for Dirk and My Secret Agent Lover Man for Weetzie. But now Weetzie wants a baby . . .
Like I say, this is not your run-of-the-mill teenage story. It creates its own logic, and you find yourself going along with it. Weetzie's sweetness and optimism are occasionally too light and bright for me, but Block's later books feature somewhat darker characters. In the end, Weetzie Bat is a story about the families we create and the life we make for ourselves from day to day. "I don't know about happily ever after," Weetzie says, "but I know about happily."
Hookay, folks, that's it for tonight. Hopefully I'll be able to post something new soon.
*shrug* Busy semester notwithstanding, I've been reading some kickass books and watching some kickass stuff, and I'll just share a couple with y'all tonight.
Television Series: Firefly
Creator: Joss Whedon (also known for Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Angel, and various feature film scripts including Toy Story
Airdates: 2002 only
The story of Firefly is conclusive evidence that networks are on crack. This is a show with great writing, great acting, original and carefully crafted background, and real entertainment value. So naturally it was cancelled after 15 episodes. Sheesh!
I'll admit it; the thing that first attracted me to Firefly was the quotes on IMDb. I love Joss Whedon's dialogue. The man and the writers he hires play with language like it's silly putty. They take stock dialogue and go to town on it. Check out this sample:
[standing over his wounded opponent, refusing to kill him]
Mal : You know, they say mercy is the mark of a great man.
[stabs the man]
Mal : Guess I'm just a good man.
[stabs him again]
Mal : Well, I'm all right.
They also take stock stereotypes and turn them inside out. Mal, the captain and arguably main character, has that ol' tragic past . . . on the losing side of a civil war, he now has to live under the rule of the Alliance he once fought. He has lost all the beliefs and ideals that drove him throughout the war and now has what can best be described as a nihilistic outlook on life. Instead of pouting and brooding all around Serenity like a big ol' anchor, he is often the driving force behind the plots, as well as having some of the best lines, and is doing his utomost to live his life the best way he knows how.
Every character seems to be a stock sci-fi character with some unexpected twist that humanizes them. Zoe, the stone-faced second mate, is married to the court-jester pilot, Wash, who plays with toy dinosaurs and can do things with the wheel that make the Blue Angels look like chumps. Kaylee is the brilliant mechanic who likes teddy bears, flowers, and ruffles. Book is the ship's chaplain who knows an unsettling amount about guns and crime. Jayne is the thuggish mercenary who names his guns and sends money home to his mom. Inara is a highly respected, classy, and ladylike prostitute . . . who actually likes her job. Simon is the spoiled rich boy doctor who will go to the ends of the universe for someone in pain and through hell itself for his baby sister. River is the psychic genius who has at best a waving acquaintance with sanity.
This isn't a shiny glossy techno-cool sci-fi universe, either. It's gritty, run-down, dangerous, and with a western-frontier ethos that is an unexpected but completely believable touch.
The show also has the classic Whedon touch of strong character-based stories, and constantly asking questions about ethics, morality, and humanity that can't be tidily answered in one hour minus commercials. I really, really wish they hadn't cancelled this show. Oh well . . . the movie's coming out next April, and the DVD's are available now. If you have RealPlayer and plenty of hard drive space, check out this page for rough'n'ready versions of the episodes: Hello Cowgirl
I recommend "Serenity" or "The Train Job" for a neophyte, since they're both pilot-type episodes (after viewing "Serenity," FOX asked for a more action-packed, shorter pilot. Again with the crack.) Anyway, they're good introductions to the world and the characters.
Book: Weetzie Bat
Author: Francesca Lia Block
Original Release: 1989
This is a special and unusual book, and not for everyone. If you're very conservative, very grounded in reality, and get annoyed by lavish and poetical prose, don't read this. If you're just the opposite, run don't walk.
This book doesn't have a terribly cohesive plot, but I'll try to nutshell it. Teenaged Weetzie Bat (and that is her real name) loves L.A., and is looking for someone that will love it with her. Her best friend, Dirk, is also looking for a good man to love. Three wishes from a magic lamp bring them Duck for Dirk and My Secret Agent Lover Man for Weetzie. But now Weetzie wants a baby . . .
Like I say, this is not your run-of-the-mill teenage story. It creates its own logic, and you find yourself going along with it. Weetzie's sweetness and optimism are occasionally too light and bright for me, but Block's later books feature somewhat darker characters. In the end, Weetzie Bat is a story about the families we create and the life we make for ourselves from day to day. "I don't know about happily ever after," Weetzie says, "but I know about happily."
Hookay, folks, that's it for tonight. Hopefully I'll be able to post something new soon.
Sunday, September 12, 2004
Hey all! I’ve got an unprecedented three--count ‘em, three--items for y’all today. So let’s get started, shall we?
By the bye, I’ve given up on the “Genre” classification. I never know what to write.
Book: The Arm of the Starfish
Author: Madeleine L’Engle
Original Publishing Date: 1965
You probably know Madeleine L’Engle best from A Wrinkle in Time, and that may well get blogged one of these days too; it’s an old favorite. This book actually has as minor characters Calvin O’Keefe and Meg Murray . . . although they’re adults, and married (yes, to each other), with a veritable stable of offspring. But they’re not the real focus of the book.
The main character, Adam Eddington, is another old favorite, mostly because of the next book down. In this one, he’s a sixteen-year-old student looking forward to a summer working for a famous marine biologist before heading off to college. Exciting? Yep. A huge chance to learn? You bet. Dangerous?
Oh yeah.
To poor Adam’s astonishment, he is tossed willy-nilly into a world of international intrigue that he has no clue how to deal with . . . except he has to, because from the moment he meets gorgeous Carolyn “Kali” Cutter in the airport, he’s in a game that doesn’t have a back door out. And he has to decide what side he’s on, because another thing this game doesn’t have is a fence to sit on.
This isn’t my favorite Madeleine book, because Adam’s initial waffling annoys me. Maybe it was because I know who the bad guys were right from the off. I don’t know if that’s because I knew them from another book, or if it’s just that obvious. But Adam is genuinely confused, and he genuinely does his best to work things out and do the right thing. He starts out the book feeling arrogantly grown-up and cosmopolitan, (he’s going to Berkeley after the summer; apparently a wunderkind. Cripes, remember when people could still do that?) and discovers in the course of the book, that being grown-up has way more duties and responsibilities than maybe anyone is prepared for. (Preach it, sistah Madeleine. This grown-up thing sucks.)
One last note: if you’re expecting more visits to Camazotz and tessering, forget about it. This is a book rooted firmly in our world, which is dangerous and terrifying enough for anybody.
Book: A Ring of Endless Light
Author: Madeleine L’Engle
Original Publishing Date: 1980
This is a deeply special book to me, because whenever someone in my life dies, I re-read it to get a handle on death. Because that’s exactly what Vicky Austin, the main character, is struggling to do. The book starts out with the funeral for the sudden death of a family friend, and it goes from there. Vicky feels surrounded by death every day, from news of horrendous accidents in the paper to her own grandfather’s slow death of leukemia to a sorta-kinda-ex-flame who’s just attempted suicide. (More on Zachary Gray later.)
The huge story question--and it is a huge one--is, can Vicky come to understand and accept death, and still be able to celebrate life?
To really confuse her (like she wasn’t already), she’s suddenly got three guys to juggle. Leo, the son of the family friend who died, makes it pretty clear he wants to be more than a friend. Unfortunately for him, he’s nobody’s Prince Charming, least of all Vicky’s. She describes him as a basset hound at one point (not unkindly), and that pretty much sums it up. Then there’s Zachary Gray, who is sophisticated, gorgeous, and more than a little bipolar. As noted above, he’s recovering from an attempt at suicide, and over and over again tells Vicky that she’s the only thing keeping him wanting to live. Which is a horrible thing to tell anyone. And then there’s Adam Eddington, back again, one summer after the events of The Arm of the Starfish. On the outside, he seems way steadier than Zachary. But even he’s messed up in his own quiet way, still struggling with the events of the earlier book, and pushing Vicky away every time things start to get more than friendly.
The only place Vicky feels at peace and in control is with the dolphins. They’re Adam’s special project (marine biology, remember?) and he’s exploring human/dolphin communication. He recruits unscientific Vicky to help him out, and she succeeds beyond his wildest expectations--and hers. Playing and working with them, she’s able to forget about the confusion and difficulties in the rest of her life.
But death lurks in the background, and it’s not going to go away.
As noted above, this is a special book to me. Vicky’s romantic, poetic nature echoes my own in some ways, and her horror over death and struggle to fit it into life have helped me to come to terms with things in my own life. It’s not a typically plotted book--sometimes it seems to meander--but that’s because the story question is so amorphous and philosophical. It’s not a terribly light read. Sit down with this one for the first time.
Oh, and DO NOT--repeat, DO NOT--watch the horrible Disney adaptation. Quite aside from the fact that they have Mischa Barton as Vicky (arggh! Did they not read the book? Vicky is a normal girl!), they absolutely butchered the story. With a hacksaw. They made it about the dolphins. Jeezus christ!
And neither Adam nor Zachary are remotely as cute as they should be, unless you really go in for that middle-school look. Eurgh. Did they even read it???
Movie: O Brother Where Art Thou
Directors: Joel and Ethan Coen
Original Release Date: 2000
I first wanted to watch this movie because it’s based on Homer’s Odyssey and I’m a gigantic dork. But I fell in love with its random humor, its fascinating sepia-toned photography that evokes the Dust Bowl of the 1930’s, and most of all, the music. I’m still a bluegrass lover.
Slick-talkin’ Ulysses Everett McGill has four days to get to his family home before a flood washes away the treasure he’s got stashed. He takes with him his chain-mates, hard-edged Pete and sweet-hearted Delmar, and they bumble their way across 1930’s Mississippi, going through about fifteen cars, lots of money, and meeting some of the strangest people you’ll ever be privileged to view on screen, including a crew of white-sheeted Christians on their way to be saved in the river, another crew of white-sheeted Christians performing a lynch-mob, some “sy-renes” washing their scanties in a creek, a guitar player who’s sold his soul to the devil, and a one-eyed Bible salesman.
Joel and Ethan Coen use both the sepia photography and the bluegrass music to evoke the Great Depression. Unlike musicals, where the characters burst into song for no apparent reason, these characters (usually) have a fairly good and logical reason for gettin’ tuneful. Most if not all of the songs are traditional bluegrass spiritual songs (even “A Man of Constant Sorrow”, which I could have sworn had been written for this because it fits so well). As my friend and I reminded each other so often during the movie, don’t look for logic. Just go with the story, which creates its own logic.
By the way, how much do I love it that the only people Ulysses McGill can’t outtalk are his own wife and daughters?
Suggested drinking game: take a slug for every time you recognize a reference to the Odyssey, Homer, or the ancient world. Unless you’ve got a really hard head, you’ll be under the table by the time Ulysses refers to himself as “the damn paterfamilias.”
Wow! That's it for today, folks. I got books to read and movies to watch. And there's this rumor about homework . . . I'm hoping it turns out false.
By the bye, I’ve given up on the “Genre” classification. I never know what to write.
Book: The Arm of the Starfish
Author: Madeleine L’Engle
Original Publishing Date: 1965
You probably know Madeleine L’Engle best from A Wrinkle in Time, and that may well get blogged one of these days too; it’s an old favorite. This book actually has as minor characters Calvin O’Keefe and Meg Murray . . . although they’re adults, and married (yes, to each other), with a veritable stable of offspring. But they’re not the real focus of the book.
The main character, Adam Eddington, is another old favorite, mostly because of the next book down. In this one, he’s a sixteen-year-old student looking forward to a summer working for a famous marine biologist before heading off to college. Exciting? Yep. A huge chance to learn? You bet. Dangerous?
Oh yeah.
To poor Adam’s astonishment, he is tossed willy-nilly into a world of international intrigue that he has no clue how to deal with . . . except he has to, because from the moment he meets gorgeous Carolyn “Kali” Cutter in the airport, he’s in a game that doesn’t have a back door out. And he has to decide what side he’s on, because another thing this game doesn’t have is a fence to sit on.
This isn’t my favorite Madeleine book, because Adam’s initial waffling annoys me. Maybe it was because I know who the bad guys were right from the off. I don’t know if that’s because I knew them from another book, or if it’s just that obvious. But Adam is genuinely confused, and he genuinely does his best to work things out and do the right thing. He starts out the book feeling arrogantly grown-up and cosmopolitan, (he’s going to Berkeley after the summer; apparently a wunderkind. Cripes, remember when people could still do that?) and discovers in the course of the book, that being grown-up has way more duties and responsibilities than maybe anyone is prepared for. (Preach it, sistah Madeleine. This grown-up thing sucks.)
One last note: if you’re expecting more visits to Camazotz and tessering, forget about it. This is a book rooted firmly in our world, which is dangerous and terrifying enough for anybody.
Book: A Ring of Endless Light
Author: Madeleine L’Engle
Original Publishing Date: 1980
This is a deeply special book to me, because whenever someone in my life dies, I re-read it to get a handle on death. Because that’s exactly what Vicky Austin, the main character, is struggling to do. The book starts out with the funeral for the sudden death of a family friend, and it goes from there. Vicky feels surrounded by death every day, from news of horrendous accidents in the paper to her own grandfather’s slow death of leukemia to a sorta-kinda-ex-flame who’s just attempted suicide. (More on Zachary Gray later.)
The huge story question--and it is a huge one--is, can Vicky come to understand and accept death, and still be able to celebrate life?
To really confuse her (like she wasn’t already), she’s suddenly got three guys to juggle. Leo, the son of the family friend who died, makes it pretty clear he wants to be more than a friend. Unfortunately for him, he’s nobody’s Prince Charming, least of all Vicky’s. She describes him as a basset hound at one point (not unkindly), and that pretty much sums it up. Then there’s Zachary Gray, who is sophisticated, gorgeous, and more than a little bipolar. As noted above, he’s recovering from an attempt at suicide, and over and over again tells Vicky that she’s the only thing keeping him wanting to live. Which is a horrible thing to tell anyone. And then there’s Adam Eddington, back again, one summer after the events of The Arm of the Starfish. On the outside, he seems way steadier than Zachary. But even he’s messed up in his own quiet way, still struggling with the events of the earlier book, and pushing Vicky away every time things start to get more than friendly.
The only place Vicky feels at peace and in control is with the dolphins. They’re Adam’s special project (marine biology, remember?) and he’s exploring human/dolphin communication. He recruits unscientific Vicky to help him out, and she succeeds beyond his wildest expectations--and hers. Playing and working with them, she’s able to forget about the confusion and difficulties in the rest of her life.
But death lurks in the background, and it’s not going to go away.
As noted above, this is a special book to me. Vicky’s romantic, poetic nature echoes my own in some ways, and her horror over death and struggle to fit it into life have helped me to come to terms with things in my own life. It’s not a typically plotted book--sometimes it seems to meander--but that’s because the story question is so amorphous and philosophical. It’s not a terribly light read. Sit down with this one for the first time.
Oh, and DO NOT--repeat, DO NOT--watch the horrible Disney adaptation. Quite aside from the fact that they have Mischa Barton as Vicky (arggh! Did they not read the book? Vicky is a normal girl!), they absolutely butchered the story. With a hacksaw. They made it about the dolphins. Jeezus christ!
And neither Adam nor Zachary are remotely as cute as they should be, unless you really go in for that middle-school look. Eurgh. Did they even read it???
Movie: O Brother Where Art Thou
Directors: Joel and Ethan Coen
Original Release Date: 2000
I first wanted to watch this movie because it’s based on Homer’s Odyssey and I’m a gigantic dork. But I fell in love with its random humor, its fascinating sepia-toned photography that evokes the Dust Bowl of the 1930’s, and most of all, the music. I’m still a bluegrass lover.
Slick-talkin’ Ulysses Everett McGill has four days to get to his family home before a flood washes away the treasure he’s got stashed. He takes with him his chain-mates, hard-edged Pete and sweet-hearted Delmar, and they bumble their way across 1930’s Mississippi, going through about fifteen cars, lots of money, and meeting some of the strangest people you’ll ever be privileged to view on screen, including a crew of white-sheeted Christians on their way to be saved in the river, another crew of white-sheeted Christians performing a lynch-mob, some “sy-renes” washing their scanties in a creek, a guitar player who’s sold his soul to the devil, and a one-eyed Bible salesman.
Joel and Ethan Coen use both the sepia photography and the bluegrass music to evoke the Great Depression. Unlike musicals, where the characters burst into song for no apparent reason, these characters (usually) have a fairly good and logical reason for gettin’ tuneful. Most if not all of the songs are traditional bluegrass spiritual songs (even “A Man of Constant Sorrow”, which I could have sworn had been written for this because it fits so well). As my friend and I reminded each other so often during the movie, don’t look for logic. Just go with the story, which creates its own logic.
By the way, how much do I love it that the only people Ulysses McGill can’t outtalk are his own wife and daughters?
Suggested drinking game: take a slug for every time you recognize a reference to the Odyssey, Homer, or the ancient world. Unless you’ve got a really hard head, you’ll be under the table by the time Ulysses refers to himself as “the damn paterfamilias.”
Wow! That's it for today, folks. I got books to read and movies to watch. And there's this rumor about homework . . . I'm hoping it turns out false.
Monday, August 30, 2004
Hellooooooooo everyone! I've been busy lately . . . started my graduate program, and am wading through roughly 1,296,088 pages of theoretical crud. This means I can't read as much good stuff, worthy of posting here. Also that I have no time or energy.
However, I promised myself that I would blog this book.
Book: Sunshine by Robin McKinley
Genre: Erm. Horror? Except . . . not.
Original Publishing Date: 2003 (fittingly enough, in October!)
I love Robin McKinley. She just writes whatever story comes out, and other people categorize it. She won the Newbery Medal for The Hero and the Crown and an Honor for The Blue Sword. Her Spindle's End is my favorite ever version of Sleeping Beauty. But enough gushing over past books . . . let's have a look at this one.
Rae "Sunshine" Seddon thinks she has a pretty weird life. She gets up at four in the morning, gets home at insane hours, and all her friends come from one place. Don't get weirded out yet--she's no Queen of the Night, just the Queen of the Kitchen at her stepfather's coffee house. It's a life that works for her, though, so she's reasonably content.
Until the night the vampires got her.
No, actually, it wasn't so bad when the vampires got her. It was when she got away that she started to worry about herself. Because, you see, nobody gets away from vampires. And nobody--nobody--helps a vampire to do the same.
All of a sudden, Sunshine is hip-deep in a world of vampire gang wars, Special Other Forces (think demon police, and you won't be too far wrong), and the unsettling realization that magical abilities from her father's side and a possible drop of demon blood from her mother's are gonna make things really interesting for her from now on. Not to mention her strange connection to the vampire she saved, Constantine, who's reminescent of Buffy's Angel, only not as chatty. (Actually, there's a lot about this book that may remind you of Buffy. Heck, Amber Benson, who acted on the show for a couple of seasons, even wrote a rec for the cover!)
And there are still cinnamon rolls to be made at four in the morning.
McKinley sets her story in a sort of alternate Earth, where things that go bump in the night are very real, and very dangerous. She has a slight tendancy to go off on tangents whose story purpose I never did figure out, but I can ignore that for the atmosphere and the experience of R McK writing. She doesn't pull any punches when it comes to gory details, although she doesn't go overboard with them either. The end is unsettling, and more than a little pessimistic, but I still want to read it again.
Signing off now . . . happy reading!
However, I promised myself that I would blog this book.
Book: Sunshine by Robin McKinley
Genre: Erm. Horror? Except . . . not.
Original Publishing Date: 2003 (fittingly enough, in October!)
I love Robin McKinley. She just writes whatever story comes out, and other people categorize it. She won the Newbery Medal for The Hero and the Crown and an Honor for The Blue Sword. Her Spindle's End is my favorite ever version of Sleeping Beauty. But enough gushing over past books . . . let's have a look at this one.
Rae "Sunshine" Seddon thinks she has a pretty weird life. She gets up at four in the morning, gets home at insane hours, and all her friends come from one place. Don't get weirded out yet--she's no Queen of the Night, just the Queen of the Kitchen at her stepfather's coffee house. It's a life that works for her, though, so she's reasonably content.
Until the night the vampires got her.
No, actually, it wasn't so bad when the vampires got her. It was when she got away that she started to worry about herself. Because, you see, nobody gets away from vampires. And nobody--nobody--helps a vampire to do the same.
All of a sudden, Sunshine is hip-deep in a world of vampire gang wars, Special Other Forces (think demon police, and you won't be too far wrong), and the unsettling realization that magical abilities from her father's side and a possible drop of demon blood from her mother's are gonna make things really interesting for her from now on. Not to mention her strange connection to the vampire she saved, Constantine, who's reminescent of Buffy's Angel, only not as chatty. (Actually, there's a lot about this book that may remind you of Buffy. Heck, Amber Benson, who acted on the show for a couple of seasons, even wrote a rec for the cover!)
And there are still cinnamon rolls to be made at four in the morning.
McKinley sets her story in a sort of alternate Earth, where things that go bump in the night are very real, and very dangerous. She has a slight tendancy to go off on tangents whose story purpose I never did figure out, but I can ignore that for the atmosphere and the experience of R McK writing. She doesn't pull any punches when it comes to gory details, although she doesn't go overboard with them either. The end is unsettling, and more than a little pessimistic, but I still want to read it again.
Signing off now . . . happy reading!
Sunday, August 08, 2004
Hello, all my three readers! Do I even have that many? Ah well.
Just a movie for tonight, folks. It's late.
Movie: Kill Bill, Vol. 1
Genre: Drama? Comedy? Blood-splattering? Martial arts? Can't honestly say. Erm, okay, Action would be my best guess.
Original Release Date: 2003
I watched this last night on DVD, and I really liked it. Yes, 450 gallons of fake blood were used. Yes, there is a scene where she rips out a man’s tongue with her teeth. (Not shown, but implied, thankfully.) However, it’s also morbidly funny, beautiful to look at, and very powerfully written. Also, apparently, it’s jam-packed with homages to kung fu films that I’ve never seen, so that element was lost on me, but I still enjoyed it. Hard to pull off. The anime section especially was really neat.
I’ve seen one other Tarantino film, Pulp Fiction, and I found that I liked the same things in both--the characters, the plotting, and the visual style. So Tarantino has become an admired filmmaker for me.
I especially like the way Tarantino does characters. This could very easily have been just a gore-splatter-fest without any real element to keep us interested. However, he gives even the villains (the main ones she fights in this movie at any rate) a background and a fullness of character that I have to admire. The Bride skates close to the edge of being someone you hate, but there are a couple of moments that save her. Good thing, cuz it’s her story and there are precious few other characters to root for. (Buck who likes to f*ck? Or maybe the sheriff who calls her a c*cksucker as she lies mostly dead and beaten all to hell at his feet. Eh. Maybe we pull for the Bride because she’s the closest thing we have to a hero in the entire movie.)
The purity of her revenge quest reminds me of a Greek tragedy . . . the Oresteia coming to mind. That marvelously intellectual remark being made, I’ll say it wasn’t my idea. I read the liner notes. However, it rings true. The Bride has one aim in life, and one only--to make them pay. Not terribly complex, but powerful enough to pull us through the movie and bring us back to see “Kill Bill Vol. 2.”
Which I haven’t yet. I will.
Just a movie for tonight, folks. It's late.
Movie: Kill Bill, Vol. 1
Genre: Drama? Comedy? Blood-splattering? Martial arts? Can't honestly say. Erm, okay, Action would be my best guess.
Original Release Date: 2003
I watched this last night on DVD, and I really liked it. Yes, 450 gallons of fake blood were used. Yes, there is a scene where she rips out a man’s tongue with her teeth. (Not shown, but implied, thankfully.) However, it’s also morbidly funny, beautiful to look at, and very powerfully written. Also, apparently, it’s jam-packed with homages to kung fu films that I’ve never seen, so that element was lost on me, but I still enjoyed it. Hard to pull off. The anime section especially was really neat.
I’ve seen one other Tarantino film, Pulp Fiction, and I found that I liked the same things in both--the characters, the plotting, and the visual style. So Tarantino has become an admired filmmaker for me.
I especially like the way Tarantino does characters. This could very easily have been just a gore-splatter-fest without any real element to keep us interested. However, he gives even the villains (the main ones she fights in this movie at any rate) a background and a fullness of character that I have to admire. The Bride skates close to the edge of being someone you hate, but there are a couple of moments that save her. Good thing, cuz it’s her story and there are precious few other characters to root for. (Buck who likes to f*ck? Or maybe the sheriff who calls her a c*cksucker as she lies mostly dead and beaten all to hell at his feet. Eh. Maybe we pull for the Bride because she’s the closest thing we have to a hero in the entire movie.)
The purity of her revenge quest reminds me of a Greek tragedy . . . the Oresteia coming to mind. That marvelously intellectual remark being made, I’ll say it wasn’t my idea. I read the liner notes. However, it rings true. The Bride has one aim in life, and one only--to make them pay. Not terribly complex, but powerful enough to pull us through the movie and bring us back to see “Kill Bill Vol. 2.”
Which I haven’t yet. I will.
Monday, August 02, 2004
This blog has been in the Blog Protection Program. Its name has been changed to protect the innocent.
Okay, I'm lying. The truth is, after I got home from England, the original purpose was pretty much hollowed out, and I had other things on my mind, like leaving home and spreading my wings. (Fly, my pretty! FLY!!) So now, my wings being spread wide and not having hit the ground yet (well, a couple of times, but I bounce real good) I decided to start this up again.
One of my favorite parts of the Bloody Yank blog was my Book of the Day. This should surprise no one who knows me; I was an English major and am studying to be a librarian. I just love a good book. Hell, I love a good story, period. So this blog will be a record of everything I read or watch.
My tastes are . . . eclectic. I read kiddie books all the way up to adult, but I'm kinda narrow where genres are concerned. Don't do the horror thing, for one. I watch very little TV, so you won't see much of that on here. I love a good movie, but I also love escapism, so you're probably not gonna see this year's Oscar contenders on here.
If you don't like what I'm reading or watching, bear in mind I'm not saying YOU have to read or watch it. I think you should, especially if you like the sound of it. But don't anybody flame me and say, "Why are you recommending this, it sounds so stupid." I'll smack you with a trout, then tell you to use proper punctuation. We all have different tastes.
That little caveat being noted, I shall proceed.
Book: Taming Natasha Nora Roberts
Genre: Romance
Original Publishing Date: 1990
I love Nora Roberts, and I love this book in particular. Part of it is nostalgia--I very clearly remember buying it at about the age of thirteen from a used-book store. Part of it is because it's just a damn fine story. Spence, a single father and music professor, and Natasha, an ex-dancer who now owns a toy store, feel the sparks from moment one, but the scars on their hearts from disastrous relationships make the trip a little bumpy. This is not a book with high external drama, though. The most hair-raising episode is probably a six-year-old with chicken pox--which is plenty hair-raising for her daddy. Near the end of the book, one character says something that rings true for the entire book. "With you it isn't dreams and knights and princes. With you, it's real and solid. Day-to-day. Ordinary--ordinary in the most beautiful way." Sigh!!
The original is somewhat hard to find, but they're churning out reprints of all Nora's old stuff like crazy. One of the reprints should be easy enough to find, probably packaged together with a related story.
Movie:A Night at the Opera
Genre: Comedy
Premiere Date: 1935
Yeah, buddy, it's the Marx brothers! Woohoo!
If you haven't experienced the random lunacy of the Marx Brothers yet, I'd start with A Night at the Opera. I did, about ten years ago, and I laughed as loudly then as I did last night. Duck Soup may be more famous, but for my money, ANatO is the better movie.
The plot is practically peripheral, but here goes. Rosa, an opera singer, performs opposite a real jerk (whose name is quite frankly not worth remembering), when she would rather be singing with Ricardo. (If she's smart, she's doing more than singing--Allen Jones, who plays Ricardo, is not hard on the eyes.) But how to replace the jerk with the hunk? That's the plot in a nutshell.
Wait, who do the Marx Brothers play? Basically themselves. Groucho is a wheeling, dealing con man who wangles the deal to get Ricardo onstage opposite Rosa, and Chico and Harpo are the two bumbling helpers. Don't worry about the plot holes. They're basically there for the Marx Brothers to drive through.
Favorite bits: the stateroom skit, wherein fifteen people fit in a "stateroom" the approximate size of a flea's studio apartment, "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" in the middle of Verdi, complete with peanut vendor, and the contract scene.
Otis B. Driftwood (Groucho): It's all right, that's in every contract. that's what they call a sanity clause.
Firoello (Chico): Ha ha ha ha ha ha... you can't fool me. There ain't no Sanity Clause.
That's it for tonight, chickies!
Okay, I'm lying. The truth is, after I got home from England, the original purpose was pretty much hollowed out, and I had other things on my mind, like leaving home and spreading my wings. (Fly, my pretty! FLY!!) So now, my wings being spread wide and not having hit the ground yet (well, a couple of times, but I bounce real good) I decided to start this up again.
One of my favorite parts of the Bloody Yank blog was my Book of the Day. This should surprise no one who knows me; I was an English major and am studying to be a librarian. I just love a good book. Hell, I love a good story, period. So this blog will be a record of everything I read or watch.
My tastes are . . . eclectic. I read kiddie books all the way up to adult, but I'm kinda narrow where genres are concerned. Don't do the horror thing, for one. I watch very little TV, so you won't see much of that on here. I love a good movie, but I also love escapism, so you're probably not gonna see this year's Oscar contenders on here.
If you don't like what I'm reading or watching, bear in mind I'm not saying YOU have to read or watch it. I think you should, especially if you like the sound of it. But don't anybody flame me and say, "Why are you recommending this, it sounds so stupid." I'll smack you with a trout, then tell you to use proper punctuation. We all have different tastes.
That little caveat being noted, I shall proceed.
Book: Taming Natasha Nora Roberts
Genre: Romance
Original Publishing Date: 1990
I love Nora Roberts, and I love this book in particular. Part of it is nostalgia--I very clearly remember buying it at about the age of thirteen from a used-book store. Part of it is because it's just a damn fine story. Spence, a single father and music professor, and Natasha, an ex-dancer who now owns a toy store, feel the sparks from moment one, but the scars on their hearts from disastrous relationships make the trip a little bumpy. This is not a book with high external drama, though. The most hair-raising episode is probably a six-year-old with chicken pox--which is plenty hair-raising for her daddy. Near the end of the book, one character says something that rings true for the entire book. "With you it isn't dreams and knights and princes. With you, it's real and solid. Day-to-day. Ordinary--ordinary in the most beautiful way." Sigh!!
The original is somewhat hard to find, but they're churning out reprints of all Nora's old stuff like crazy. One of the reprints should be easy enough to find, probably packaged together with a related story.
Movie:A Night at the Opera
Genre: Comedy
Premiere Date: 1935
Yeah, buddy, it's the Marx brothers! Woohoo!
If you haven't experienced the random lunacy of the Marx Brothers yet, I'd start with A Night at the Opera. I did, about ten years ago, and I laughed as loudly then as I did last night. Duck Soup may be more famous, but for my money, ANatO is the better movie.
The plot is practically peripheral, but here goes. Rosa, an opera singer, performs opposite a real jerk (whose name is quite frankly not worth remembering), when she would rather be singing with Ricardo. (If she's smart, she's doing more than singing--Allen Jones, who plays Ricardo, is not hard on the eyes.) But how to replace the jerk with the hunk? That's the plot in a nutshell.
Wait, who do the Marx Brothers play? Basically themselves. Groucho is a wheeling, dealing con man who wangles the deal to get Ricardo onstage opposite Rosa, and Chico and Harpo are the two bumbling helpers. Don't worry about the plot holes. They're basically there for the Marx Brothers to drive through.
Favorite bits: the stateroom skit, wherein fifteen people fit in a "stateroom" the approximate size of a flea's studio apartment, "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" in the middle of Verdi, complete with peanut vendor, and the contract scene.
Otis B. Driftwood (Groucho): It's all right, that's in every contract. that's what they call a sanity clause.
Firoello (Chico): Ha ha ha ha ha ha... you can't fool me. There ain't no Sanity Clause.
That's it for tonight, chickies!
Wednesday, May 07, 2003
So I was lying around yesterday, going, “Oh, gee. No class tomorrow. How boring. What am I going to do with myself?”
Then I hit myself in the head and said, “Girl, you are half an hour from LONDON. Possibly the kewlest city in the world. Definitely the one with the most history, not counting Rome and Athens and okay, Jerusalem, and . . . never mind that. It’s famous, okay? Furthermore, you will only be in this favored position for another month, half of which will be taken up with insane exams and huge papers that you should have started already but you’re too lazy. WHAT ARE YOU WHINING ABOUT?”
So I decided to go to the Tower of London, which I haven’t seen yet. It was a lovely day, and I say that in both senses of the term. It was clear and blue-skied and sunny, without being broil-your-skin-off hot. (In fact, this whole spring has been extraordinarily dry for London. The natives must be getting antsy. “Rain!” they say. “We need rain! Grey skies! Mizzling! Cold wind off the Thames! This way we can mutter about the weather and make our mates jealous by going to Spain, where it is after all supposed to be sunny!”) For me personally, it was also a fun, non-stressful day.
First off, the Tower of London is a bit of a misnomer. I was expecting a tower . . . one. Sticking straight up out of the ground like, you know, a tower. I always wondered how they could fit all that stuff into one little tower. Well, now I know. The Tower of London was originally built by William I (yep, that William) as a living quarters, and he’s not going to live in one little tower. It was this way up until one of the Henries, Hank I, possibly. The reason it’s also a prison is because the medievals were damn efficient. “Hell!” they said. “It’s already got a big freakin’ wall and great defenses and some semblence of plumbing. Just dig another room and you got yourself a place for the criminals! Why build another great honkin’ building? What, are we made of money?”
Over the years, the single castle has evolved into a massive complex with seperate living quarters and incredibly expensive gift shops. People actually still live there today, although nobody’s imprisoned. Even when people were imprisoned, by the way, they were never in jail as we think of it. They had a full set of rooms with all the modern conveniences, like chamber pots and servents to throw the chamber pots at. Sometimes they were even allowed to go hunting. The only thing they didn’t have was permission to just stroll out the front gate and continue their lives as usual.
Naturally, I saw the Crown Jewels, which were . . . glittery. And . . . yeah, glittery. They don’t actually belong to the Queen herself, by the way. They belong to the Kingdom of England, which is an important distinction that I hope no royal forgets after a bad day at the races. It was beautiful jewelry, but there were some ceremonial things included that just made me blink. Things like the Sword of Offering (which sounds like something from a Dungeons and Dragons game) are fairly logical in their origin. The Orb is kind of mysterious, but it’s a pretty kingly (queenly) thing, so okay. But . . . the Ceremonial Spoon? What, in case the Queen suddenly has the urge to eat some Ceremonial Porridge? I’m still mystified as to the origin of this part of the coronation ceremony.
Interestingly, a lot of recent royals have had their own coronation crowns made for them, starting with George IV. Ah, yes, you can always count on good ol’ George IV to spend lots of money for absolutely no reason at all. However, I believe Queen E just used Queen V’s crown. Good for her.
As you can see in the photos here, I managed to get a few shots of the Tower Bridge, but it was so sunny that my camera had problems. But the Tower of London was really pretty neat, and worth the trip. Word of advice: if you can, do what I did, and go on a weekday morning. If you go on a Saturday afternoon, the lines will be insane.
Book for today: Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens. “Please, sir, can I have some more?” is the famous line from Dickens’ second major book. This is actually a very small episode that takes place quite early, but it’s an example of Dickens’ withering scorn for the treatment of paupers in Victorian England. If you’ve only seen “The Muppet Christmas Carol” and you never realized what a social satirist the man was, Oliver Twist features a scathing indictment of workhouses and smug middle-class morality. Don’t get me wrong, he shows us a picture of the criminal underworld that’s tabloid-sensational. But he also understands the forces that drive his characters. The only complaint I have about this book is that while it is called Oliver Twist, the little main character has very little to do with the determination of his own fate. He virtually disappears in the last quarter. Still, it’s Dickens, and it’s worth reading if you have time.
Then I hit myself in the head and said, “Girl, you are half an hour from LONDON. Possibly the kewlest city in the world. Definitely the one with the most history, not counting Rome and Athens and okay, Jerusalem, and . . . never mind that. It’s famous, okay? Furthermore, you will only be in this favored position for another month, half of which will be taken up with insane exams and huge papers that you should have started already but you’re too lazy. WHAT ARE YOU WHINING ABOUT?”
So I decided to go to the Tower of London, which I haven’t seen yet. It was a lovely day, and I say that in both senses of the term. It was clear and blue-skied and sunny, without being broil-your-skin-off hot. (In fact, this whole spring has been extraordinarily dry for London. The natives must be getting antsy. “Rain!” they say. “We need rain! Grey skies! Mizzling! Cold wind off the Thames! This way we can mutter about the weather and make our mates jealous by going to Spain, where it is after all supposed to be sunny!”) For me personally, it was also a fun, non-stressful day.
First off, the Tower of London is a bit of a misnomer. I was expecting a tower . . . one. Sticking straight up out of the ground like, you know, a tower. I always wondered how they could fit all that stuff into one little tower. Well, now I know. The Tower of London was originally built by William I (yep, that William) as a living quarters, and he’s not going to live in one little tower. It was this way up until one of the Henries, Hank I, possibly. The reason it’s also a prison is because the medievals were damn efficient. “Hell!” they said. “It’s already got a big freakin’ wall and great defenses and some semblence of plumbing. Just dig another room and you got yourself a place for the criminals! Why build another great honkin’ building? What, are we made of money?”
Over the years, the single castle has evolved into a massive complex with seperate living quarters and incredibly expensive gift shops. People actually still live there today, although nobody’s imprisoned. Even when people were imprisoned, by the way, they were never in jail as we think of it. They had a full set of rooms with all the modern conveniences, like chamber pots and servents to throw the chamber pots at. Sometimes they were even allowed to go hunting. The only thing they didn’t have was permission to just stroll out the front gate and continue their lives as usual.
Naturally, I saw the Crown Jewels, which were . . . glittery. And . . . yeah, glittery. They don’t actually belong to the Queen herself, by the way. They belong to the Kingdom of England, which is an important distinction that I hope no royal forgets after a bad day at the races. It was beautiful jewelry, but there were some ceremonial things included that just made me blink. Things like the Sword of Offering (which sounds like something from a Dungeons and Dragons game) are fairly logical in their origin. The Orb is kind of mysterious, but it’s a pretty kingly (queenly) thing, so okay. But . . . the Ceremonial Spoon? What, in case the Queen suddenly has the urge to eat some Ceremonial Porridge? I’m still mystified as to the origin of this part of the coronation ceremony.
Interestingly, a lot of recent royals have had their own coronation crowns made for them, starting with George IV. Ah, yes, you can always count on good ol’ George IV to spend lots of money for absolutely no reason at all. However, I believe Queen E just used Queen V’s crown. Good for her.
As you can see in the photos here, I managed to get a few shots of the Tower Bridge, but it was so sunny that my camera had problems. But the Tower of London was really pretty neat, and worth the trip. Word of advice: if you can, do what I did, and go on a weekday morning. If you go on a Saturday afternoon, the lines will be insane.
Book for today: Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens. “Please, sir, can I have some more?” is the famous line from Dickens’ second major book. This is actually a very small episode that takes place quite early, but it’s an example of Dickens’ withering scorn for the treatment of paupers in Victorian England. If you’ve only seen “The Muppet Christmas Carol” and you never realized what a social satirist the man was, Oliver Twist features a scathing indictment of workhouses and smug middle-class morality. Don’t get me wrong, he shows us a picture of the criminal underworld that’s tabloid-sensational. But he also understands the forces that drive his characters. The only complaint I have about this book is that while it is called Oliver Twist, the little main character has very little to do with the determination of his own fate. He virtually disappears in the last quarter. Still, it’s Dickens, and it’s worth reading if you have time.
Monday, May 05, 2003
Okay, quick quick post just to let y'all know that my pictures are FINALLY up! Hooray! Cue the Funky Chicken Dance! Pop on over to my account at Yahoo Photos and give them a quick peruse. There's a lot of stupid ones in the Spain section, because I didn't feel like culling it down. Lots of palm trees and flowers.
Oh--and the rude American story I promised . . . okay, here goes.
So I'm in the hostel in Madrid, wonderful but thin-walled. Thursday night, my friend and I walk in to see the hostel owner (Spanish-speaking only, remember) talking to some American kids in the room next to ours. The guy at the door was looking at her with this totally "Dur?" look. You know the kind I mean. In frustration, she turns to us and asks Jen to translate her request for them to keep it down. Jen did so, and the kid got all offended: "I knew what she was saying!" Doubtful, but if he did, he could have at least nodded or something.
That's not the end of it. Flash forward now: it's about 10:00 on Friday night. I'm hopping an 8 am bus for Sevilla the next morning, and I know I'm not going to get much sleep on Saturday night because I'll be on the bus back to Madrid in order to catch my Sunday flight. Monday I start classes again, bright and early. Right. So I need sleep. Plus I really am tired from my day. BUT the same kids from next door start talking really loudly. I mean, it's one thing when it's a soft background mutter--you expect that in hostels. But this was LOUD. Things like, "Oh yeah, in seventh grade I was like really tubby" and so forth. I could honestly hear every word, crystal clear. After about an hour of praying for them to shut up, I gave up and knocked on their door. Following is a transcript of the conversation.
Me (trying to be nice about it): Hi. I realize it's not that late, but I've got an early bus to catch and the walls are pretty thin here, so could you just be a little quieter?
Kid (overflowing with attitude): Well, we're not going to stop talking.
Me (taken somewhat aback): Um--okay, but I just want you to know I can hear every word.
Kid (even more belligerently): What are we supposed to do, talk in a whisper?
Me (thoroughly exasperated): Fine. I'll wear headphones or something. I just wanted you to know that I can hear you talking. (I leave.)
And they CONTINUE talking, without any effort whatsoever to lower their voices. Around 1 am, exhaustion overcomes me and I pass out. About 5ish, I wake up to hear noise still coming from the room, but it sounds more like a TV or radio. I've become convinced that they left it on to spite me.
I realize that the condition of being an ass is not limited to Americans alone, but there seems to be a special brand of it that only we posess, this kind of the-world-is-my-McDonald's-Play-Area-and-screw-you-if-you-have-feelings-about-that. It was flabbergasting. I mean, did you ever once notice an apology in there? Anything that even hinted of it? No. Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. No wonder most of the world hates us. I hate us, and I am us.
Okay, this was a lot less quick and somewhat more bitter than I meant it to be. I'll recommend a good book so as not to end it on a sour note.
The Story of Tracy Beaker Jacqueline Wilson. I'm actually not sure if she's available in the States, but I hope so, because she's a major bestseller over here. Anyway, this is not your normal sunshiney perfect-world children's book. Tracy Beaker's mum has left her in state care for the past several years. Tracy ain't no Oliver Twist, though. She gets in fights with the other kids, lobbies unashamedly for her favorite adult to adopt her, and generally looks out for Number One. But there's real sweetness under her shell. The other big thumbs-up to this book is the ending, which is not saccharine-sweet, everything-gets-fixed, happily-ever-after. Jacqueline Wilson isn't afraid to show us the way that some kids' lives really are, and how they really deal with it. Go see if you can find her.
Oh--and the rude American story I promised . . . okay, here goes.
So I'm in the hostel in Madrid, wonderful but thin-walled. Thursday night, my friend and I walk in to see the hostel owner (Spanish-speaking only, remember) talking to some American kids in the room next to ours. The guy at the door was looking at her with this totally "Dur?" look. You know the kind I mean. In frustration, she turns to us and asks Jen to translate her request for them to keep it down. Jen did so, and the kid got all offended: "I knew what she was saying!" Doubtful, but if he did, he could have at least nodded or something.
That's not the end of it. Flash forward now: it's about 10:00 on Friday night. I'm hopping an 8 am bus for Sevilla the next morning, and I know I'm not going to get much sleep on Saturday night because I'll be on the bus back to Madrid in order to catch my Sunday flight. Monday I start classes again, bright and early. Right. So I need sleep. Plus I really am tired from my day. BUT the same kids from next door start talking really loudly. I mean, it's one thing when it's a soft background mutter--you expect that in hostels. But this was LOUD. Things like, "Oh yeah, in seventh grade I was like really tubby" and so forth. I could honestly hear every word, crystal clear. After about an hour of praying for them to shut up, I gave up and knocked on their door. Following is a transcript of the conversation.
Me (trying to be nice about it): Hi. I realize it's not that late, but I've got an early bus to catch and the walls are pretty thin here, so could you just be a little quieter?
Kid (overflowing with attitude): Well, we're not going to stop talking.
Me (taken somewhat aback): Um--okay, but I just want you to know I can hear every word.
Kid (even more belligerently): What are we supposed to do, talk in a whisper?
Me (thoroughly exasperated): Fine. I'll wear headphones or something. I just wanted you to know that I can hear you talking. (I leave.)
And they CONTINUE talking, without any effort whatsoever to lower their voices. Around 1 am, exhaustion overcomes me and I pass out. About 5ish, I wake up to hear noise still coming from the room, but it sounds more like a TV or radio. I've become convinced that they left it on to spite me.
I realize that the condition of being an ass is not limited to Americans alone, but there seems to be a special brand of it that only we posess, this kind of the-world-is-my-McDonald's-Play-Area-and-screw-you-if-you-have-feelings-about-that. It was flabbergasting. I mean, did you ever once notice an apology in there? Anything that even hinted of it? No. Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. No wonder most of the world hates us. I hate us, and I am us.
Okay, this was a lot less quick and somewhat more bitter than I meant it to be. I'll recommend a good book so as not to end it on a sour note.
The Story of Tracy Beaker Jacqueline Wilson. I'm actually not sure if she's available in the States, but I hope so, because she's a major bestseller over here. Anyway, this is not your normal sunshiney perfect-world children's book. Tracy Beaker's mum has left her in state care for the past several years. Tracy ain't no Oliver Twist, though. She gets in fights with the other kids, lobbies unashamedly for her favorite adult to adopt her, and generally looks out for Number One. But there's real sweetness under her shell. The other big thumbs-up to this book is the ending, which is not saccharine-sweet, everything-gets-fixed, happily-ever-after. Jacqueline Wilson isn't afraid to show us the way that some kids' lives really are, and how they really deal with it. Go see if you can find her.
Thursday, May 01, 2003
I'm back! I'm alive! Okay, yes, it's been four days since my plane landed, but they've been busy days.
Spain was FANTASTIC. I loved the country, even when people were giving me the fishy eyeball because I couldn't halfway speak their language. (My great-grandmother is rolling in her grave. Twirling, actually.) It was warm, if overcast most days, and just lovely. Unlike my last trip, I didn't go haring all over the country. A little bit of haring, but much more relaxing.
Our base of operations was Madrid. We stayed in a lovely little hostel called Hostal la Luz, on Calle Fuentes. Just a recommendation for y'all. I don't know if they have a website, but they're listed in the Let's Go guidebooks for Spain and Madrid. It was nice and clean, and for the money, the room was great. A quick word of warning: the hostel owner spoke no English, so make sure you have a Spanish-speaker in your group if you ever end up there.
We saw lots of things around the city, like the Prado, the Palacio Real, and lots of resturants. Mmmm. Tapas (a light dinner consisting of nibblies and alcohol), chocolate y churros (a dessert that is beyond description and really just has to be experienced), paella (puh-leez tell me you know what this is), and, to my shame, McDonald's. Hey! I was hungry!
On Thursday we went to Toledo, which is between an hour and two hours south of Madrid by bus, so you can do it as a day trip. It's an incredible city, just unspeakably gorgeous. It looks very very old, and that's because it is. (Huh. Who would'a thought.) Ancient Moorish architecture is side-by-side very modern buses and cars, and strangely enough it all seems to work. I took over forty pictures on my camera because it is just that gorgeous. It's on a hill, and in the middle of the hills, and it all just keeps rising and rising until it starts falling. I can tell you, it's great for your eyes but not so hot for your legs. Ouch. We visited the el Greco Museum. He was an interesting painter--painting in the early Renaissance, but his paintings actually look almost Impressionistic, because the brushstrokes are very loose and soft. The el Greco "look" is very famous, that pale, bony face that evokes an impression of holiness, but nobody ever talks about how strange he is for a Renaissance painter. At least not that I've heard, but then again, I'm an English major.
On Saturday, we hopped an extremely early bus and went to Sevilla. Since I didn't get very much time in the city, I don't have a very strong impression of it. We got to see a cathedral, not terribly different from the one in Toledo (aside from the Moorish tower that the Christians just kept around because it was useful), and then the Palacio Real in Sevilla. Apparently, a long time ago, kings didn't have capital cities, but traveled around to all the major ones throughout the year. In each city, naturally, there was a royal palace for them. The one in Sevilla is modeled on the Alhambra--very Moorish in design, even though it was built by a Christian king. I liked it a lot better than the Palacio Real in Madrid, which was coldly grand and very intimidating. The Sevilla one was cosier, warmer, and to my eyes, more beautiful. Eventually, you'll see the pictures.
Update on the photos: I am in the process of uploading them now. But I've got a LOT of pictures, so it's a long project, and it'll be spread out over some days. I also have a limited amount of space on my yahoo account, so if you see a picture there one day and it's not there the next, that's because I'm in a constant state of culling them down. Sorry . . . blame Yahoo. Yes, blame Yahoo for all your troubles, including the ones that are totally unrelated to me. You may also notice that there are no pictures of actual people, not even me. This is because I'm not comfortable with having my picture up for all to see, and for all I know, my friends might be the same way. So just shut up and enjoy the scenery, at this link. I've reorganized them into photo albums of where I've gone, so if you have no interest in, say, Greenwich, you don't have to click. I can't put up a little blurb about each one, though--there's just too many, and we'd all get bored.
That's enough for this blog entry, I think. I won't spoil it by ranting about rude Americans, although I've got a doozy of a story to tell. Next time.
Books for today: Two For the Lions by Lindsay Davis. This is one of that quietly huge subgenres, Roman murder mysteries. Ancient Rome, which is you know me, is right up my alley. Wooohoo! I have to say, the best part is the detective, a middle-class Roman called Marcus Didius Falco. He's been described as Columbo in a toga, and I can definitely trace a resemblence. He's definitely in this business for the money, although there's not much of it, and he has an unexpected chivalrous streak. Watch out for his gal, Helena Justina, who's as sharp as a javelin and definitely no clinging Roman maiden. The mystery is kind of hard to follow, and the ending is . . . strange. But if you're a fan of Ancient Rome and great characters, pick this or any of the other ones up.
Spain was FANTASTIC. I loved the country, even when people were giving me the fishy eyeball because I couldn't halfway speak their language. (My great-grandmother is rolling in her grave. Twirling, actually.) It was warm, if overcast most days, and just lovely. Unlike my last trip, I didn't go haring all over the country. A little bit of haring, but much more relaxing.
Our base of operations was Madrid. We stayed in a lovely little hostel called Hostal la Luz, on Calle Fuentes. Just a recommendation for y'all. I don't know if they have a website, but they're listed in the Let's Go guidebooks for Spain and Madrid. It was nice and clean, and for the money, the room was great. A quick word of warning: the hostel owner spoke no English, so make sure you have a Spanish-speaker in your group if you ever end up there.
We saw lots of things around the city, like the Prado, the Palacio Real, and lots of resturants. Mmmm. Tapas (a light dinner consisting of nibblies and alcohol), chocolate y churros (a dessert that is beyond description and really just has to be experienced), paella (puh-leez tell me you know what this is), and, to my shame, McDonald's. Hey! I was hungry!
On Thursday we went to Toledo, which is between an hour and two hours south of Madrid by bus, so you can do it as a day trip. It's an incredible city, just unspeakably gorgeous. It looks very very old, and that's because it is. (Huh. Who would'a thought.) Ancient Moorish architecture is side-by-side very modern buses and cars, and strangely enough it all seems to work. I took over forty pictures on my camera because it is just that gorgeous. It's on a hill, and in the middle of the hills, and it all just keeps rising and rising until it starts falling. I can tell you, it's great for your eyes but not so hot for your legs. Ouch. We visited the el Greco Museum. He was an interesting painter--painting in the early Renaissance, but his paintings actually look almost Impressionistic, because the brushstrokes are very loose and soft. The el Greco "look" is very famous, that pale, bony face that evokes an impression of holiness, but nobody ever talks about how strange he is for a Renaissance painter. At least not that I've heard, but then again, I'm an English major.
On Saturday, we hopped an extremely early bus and went to Sevilla. Since I didn't get very much time in the city, I don't have a very strong impression of it. We got to see a cathedral, not terribly different from the one in Toledo (aside from the Moorish tower that the Christians just kept around because it was useful), and then the Palacio Real in Sevilla. Apparently, a long time ago, kings didn't have capital cities, but traveled around to all the major ones throughout the year. In each city, naturally, there was a royal palace for them. The one in Sevilla is modeled on the Alhambra--very Moorish in design, even though it was built by a Christian king. I liked it a lot better than the Palacio Real in Madrid, which was coldly grand and very intimidating. The Sevilla one was cosier, warmer, and to my eyes, more beautiful. Eventually, you'll see the pictures.
Update on the photos: I am in the process of uploading them now. But I've got a LOT of pictures, so it's a long project, and it'll be spread out over some days. I also have a limited amount of space on my yahoo account, so if you see a picture there one day and it's not there the next, that's because I'm in a constant state of culling them down. Sorry . . . blame Yahoo. Yes, blame Yahoo for all your troubles, including the ones that are totally unrelated to me. You may also notice that there are no pictures of actual people, not even me. This is because I'm not comfortable with having my picture up for all to see, and for all I know, my friends might be the same way. So just shut up and enjoy the scenery, at this link. I've reorganized them into photo albums of where I've gone, so if you have no interest in, say, Greenwich, you don't have to click. I can't put up a little blurb about each one, though--there's just too many, and we'd all get bored.
That's enough for this blog entry, I think. I won't spoil it by ranting about rude Americans, although I've got a doozy of a story to tell. Next time.
Books for today: Two For the Lions by Lindsay Davis. This is one of that quietly huge subgenres, Roman murder mysteries. Ancient Rome, which is you know me, is right up my alley. Wooohoo! I have to say, the best part is the detective, a middle-class Roman called Marcus Didius Falco. He's been described as Columbo in a toga, and I can definitely trace a resemblence. He's definitely in this business for the money, although there's not much of it, and he has an unexpected chivalrous streak. Watch out for his gal, Helena Justina, who's as sharp as a javelin and definitely no clinging Roman maiden. The mystery is kind of hard to follow, and the ending is . . . strange. But if you're a fan of Ancient Rome and great characters, pick this or any of the other ones up.
Thursday, April 17, 2003
So here I am, back from Belgium and the Netherlands. Phew, what a trip! Fascinating, but exhausting. Four cities in seven days--I don't recommend it for everyone, but it was certainly an experience.
Okay, so the first city was Brussels. It's a lovely city, and it has the funky bonus of having random scenes from random comics painted on random walls. Comics are considered an art form in Belgium, which I give a hearty cheer for. I love me my funnies, and America underappreciates them. However, there wasn't much in Brussels after I exhausted the Gran-Place and the Manneken-Pis. The former is a large square with gorgeous gothic architecture on town halls and musuems. The latter is a fountain featuring a little naked boy. Guess where the water comes out. It's good for one juvenile laugh--what's funnier is the attention lavished upon it by Brussels itself. The stores are full of Manneken-Pis tourist junk, like corkscrews (really. And guess where the corkscrew part is) and statuettes, some of which are bigger than the actual fountain. One museum has an entire room full of outfits that the Manneken-Pis has worn over the years, which include an Elvis outfit and am American Cub Scout uniform, complete with official Wolf and Bear insignia.
Onward to Bruges. Or Brugge. Or Brugges. Or however the heck it's spelled. The part of Belgium that we visited is Flemish, and they speak both Flemish and French, plus English for the tourists, with the result that everything has about three different spellings. Anyway, Bruges is a smaller place than Brussels, and there's a LOT less tourism. It's a gorgeous town--people just don't know about it. On one hand, it's a shame, because it really is nice. On the other hand, it was great not to have to duck all the tourist crap all the time. We stayed at a hostel called Charlie Rocket's, which is worth a look if you're poor and in the neighborhood.
Bruges is a beautiful, comfortable little city. My friend Katie enjoyed it so much that she shelled out the euro for a hotel room and stayed an extra night. In addition to some beautiful art at the Groenling Museum, I saw the Basilica of the Holy Blood, which is an itty-bitty lil' church whose claim to fame is that it has a few drops of Christ's blood in a vial. You can't actually see it--the vial lives in an enormous silver . . . thingie off to one side of the altar. However, you can donate money and light candles and pray there. I'm sure the place is rockin' on Easter, and I'm kind of sorry I wasn't there for Palm Sunday, either, but I was in . . . .
Antwerp!!! In Antwerp, we stayed in a B&B called De 2 Kiekens, which means The Two Chickens. It's a little confusing to find (at least it was for me) and it's not the shiniest part of Antwerp, but the place is really comfortable, and the eggs are good. Don't just wander into town and hope it's open, though. There's only one room.
Aside from the B&B, Antwerp itself was surprisingly neat. The plan had been to sleep there and be off the next morning, but my friend Michael discovered that it is a gorgeous city. They had an Ethnographic Museum, which had artifacts from cultures in Africa, Oceania, Australia, Asia, and the Americas. Anthropologists and dorks like me would find it fascinating. The entrance was 2 euro with student discount, and all I had was a 50 euro note! The guy looked at me like I was Kali the bringer of death. I think I totally cleaned him out of change.
Also in Antwerp, I visited the Royal Museum of the Arts, for twenty-five minutes. Not nearly enough, but we got there shortly before closing and we were leaving the next day. Sigh. Half a loaf and all that. I don't know why I suddenly started doing the museum thang on this trip. It used to be that I'd wander through at top speed until I found the classical statuary. Hmm. Anyway, art buffs should definitely visit. Lastly, I saw the Cathedral of Our Lady Whats-Her-Face. Okay, it's not really called that, but it has some really really really long name in Flemish, which I have no hope of either pronouncing or spelling, or for that matter remembering. Even the natives just call it The Cathedral. It had some fantastic art, including a Rubens showing the Ascension of the Cross. I went to Palm Sunday Mass there. I didn't understand a word of the service, but I just sat there and looked at all the art, and that was holy enough for me.
Our last stop was Amsterdam, in the Netherlands. On the train trip there, I sat behind two American girls, and got a quick dose of why I'm sometimes embarassed to have a U.S. passport. This was a full train, okay? Fuuuuuuuuull. And between them, they were taking up four seats, what with their luggage (in spite of the handy-dandy luggage racks) and their assorted junk. When someone finally asked if they could have the seat, one of the girls heaved an oh-my-Gawd sigh, chomped bovinely on her gum, and got up with all the alacrity of a glacier to move her things. Then when the poor man got impatient (because the train was, y'know, moving) and put her fourth bag up on the rack himself, she rolled her eyes so far back she must have been able to see her brain. I made sure not to talk, so nobody would think I was with them. Eurgh.
Once in Amsterdam, we stayed at a place called Camping Zeeburg. Note how I'm not linking. That's because I don't want you blaming me for your stay. Five of us stayed in a cabin the approximate size of an outhouse, (at the low, low price of 70 euro a night), they charged a euro for each shower, and it was the work of at least half an hour to get into Amsterdam. Sheesh.
Amsterdam itself was not what I expected. You hear about the red-light district and the legalized pot all the time. What they fail to mention is the gorgeous canals, which basically run all over the city, the art museums like the Rijks and the Van Gogh, the way that the red-light district is really only about four streets, and fairly safe compared to other cities' red-light districts (for the women and for tourists), and the fact that pot is only decriminalized (splitting hairs, yes, I know) and it's still illegal to go around soliciting, you have to initiate the deal yourself. Amsterdam is not the sinkhole of depravity that a lot of tourists hope for.
Phoo. Okay. You're safe now, the rant's done.
That being said, I did actually visit the red-light district, although not a "coffee shop". It was more depressing and sordid than exciting. Maybe because I'm a female, but the women in the windows just made me sad. I don't know why they got into that life, but I have a hard time understanding why you would choose it.
I also took a ride in a paddleboat around the canals. Both days we were there were bright and sunny and springy, and all along the canals, the trees were in young leaf and people's windows were open. A lot of people live in houseboats along the canal banks, which must be really fun. Some were bright and shiny, and others were . . . individual.
To get my dose of culture, I went to the Van Gogh museum and the next day to the Rijks museum. I don't know much about painting or Van Gogh himself (except for the ear thing, and the suicide thing), and it surprised me to learn that he was passionately fond of literature alongside art, had close friendships with other artists, and was interested in Japanese art, which is definitely something you don't expect. However, once you know it, you can see the influence. The Van Gogh was about mid-size, but the Rijks museum was enormous. I was in there for 2.5 hours, and I know I didn't see all of it. Just all sorts of stuff.
Our last night in Amsterdam was eventful. We saw a comedy/improv show called "Boom Chicago!", which was hysterical but a little raw if you're thinking of taking kidlets. We ended up sleeping at the Amsterdam train station that night, which is something I would not recommend to anyone. We'd left our luggage there, meaning to collect it when our perambulations were done, but the locker area closed at 11:00. Huh?? Explain that to me . . . There weren't too many weirdos there (although some), but it was COLD, and the benches were a frankly sadistic wire design, and there wasn't much to wander around and look at.
However, we made it through, got our luggage at 7 when the locker area opened up, and got to our plane perfectly on time, and got home, very very very tired puppies. I'm still recovering. I've babbled long enough, so I think it's time for bed, and I commend you for having made it all the way through!
Book for today: Northern Lights by Phillip Pullman. This is the first in a fantasy series called "His Dark Materials" about another world, linking universes, and stuff too complex to explain. It's an excellent book, very imaginative, and an interesting main character. There's a lot of things that are puzzling, and it's not as compulsively readable as, say, Harry Potter, but keep at it, because there's good stuff. In the U.S. this first book is called The Golden Compass.
Okay, so the first city was Brussels. It's a lovely city, and it has the funky bonus of having random scenes from random comics painted on random walls. Comics are considered an art form in Belgium, which I give a hearty cheer for. I love me my funnies, and America underappreciates them. However, there wasn't much in Brussels after I exhausted the Gran-Place and the Manneken-Pis. The former is a large square with gorgeous gothic architecture on town halls and musuems. The latter is a fountain featuring a little naked boy. Guess where the water comes out. It's good for one juvenile laugh--what's funnier is the attention lavished upon it by Brussels itself. The stores are full of Manneken-Pis tourist junk, like corkscrews (really. And guess where the corkscrew part is) and statuettes, some of which are bigger than the actual fountain. One museum has an entire room full of outfits that the Manneken-Pis has worn over the years, which include an Elvis outfit and am American Cub Scout uniform, complete with official Wolf and Bear insignia.
Onward to Bruges. Or Brugge. Or Brugges. Or however the heck it's spelled. The part of Belgium that we visited is Flemish, and they speak both Flemish and French, plus English for the tourists, with the result that everything has about three different spellings. Anyway, Bruges is a smaller place than Brussels, and there's a LOT less tourism. It's a gorgeous town--people just don't know about it. On one hand, it's a shame, because it really is nice. On the other hand, it was great not to have to duck all the tourist crap all the time. We stayed at a hostel called Charlie Rocket's, which is worth a look if you're poor and in the neighborhood.
Bruges is a beautiful, comfortable little city. My friend Katie enjoyed it so much that she shelled out the euro for a hotel room and stayed an extra night. In addition to some beautiful art at the Groenling Museum, I saw the Basilica of the Holy Blood, which is an itty-bitty lil' church whose claim to fame is that it has a few drops of Christ's blood in a vial. You can't actually see it--the vial lives in an enormous silver . . . thingie off to one side of the altar. However, you can donate money and light candles and pray there. I'm sure the place is rockin' on Easter, and I'm kind of sorry I wasn't there for Palm Sunday, either, but I was in . . . .
Antwerp!!! In Antwerp, we stayed in a B&B called De 2 Kiekens, which means The Two Chickens. It's a little confusing to find (at least it was for me) and it's not the shiniest part of Antwerp, but the place is really comfortable, and the eggs are good. Don't just wander into town and hope it's open, though. There's only one room.
Aside from the B&B, Antwerp itself was surprisingly neat. The plan had been to sleep there and be off the next morning, but my friend Michael discovered that it is a gorgeous city. They had an Ethnographic Museum, which had artifacts from cultures in Africa, Oceania, Australia, Asia, and the Americas. Anthropologists and dorks like me would find it fascinating. The entrance was 2 euro with student discount, and all I had was a 50 euro note! The guy looked at me like I was Kali the bringer of death. I think I totally cleaned him out of change.
Also in Antwerp, I visited the Royal Museum of the Arts, for twenty-five minutes. Not nearly enough, but we got there shortly before closing and we were leaving the next day. Sigh. Half a loaf and all that. I don't know why I suddenly started doing the museum thang on this trip. It used to be that I'd wander through at top speed until I found the classical statuary. Hmm. Anyway, art buffs should definitely visit. Lastly, I saw the Cathedral of Our Lady Whats-Her-Face. Okay, it's not really called that, but it has some really really really long name in Flemish, which I have no hope of either pronouncing or spelling, or for that matter remembering. Even the natives just call it The Cathedral. It had some fantastic art, including a Rubens showing the Ascension of the Cross. I went to Palm Sunday Mass there. I didn't understand a word of the service, but I just sat there and looked at all the art, and that was holy enough for me.
Our last stop was Amsterdam, in the Netherlands. On the train trip there, I sat behind two American girls, and got a quick dose of why I'm sometimes embarassed to have a U.S. passport. This was a full train, okay? Fuuuuuuuuull. And between them, they were taking up four seats, what with their luggage (in spite of the handy-dandy luggage racks) and their assorted junk. When someone finally asked if they could have the seat, one of the girls heaved an oh-my-Gawd sigh, chomped bovinely on her gum, and got up with all the alacrity of a glacier to move her things. Then when the poor man got impatient (because the train was, y'know, moving) and put her fourth bag up on the rack himself, she rolled her eyes so far back she must have been able to see her brain. I made sure not to talk, so nobody would think I was with them. Eurgh.
Once in Amsterdam, we stayed at a place called Camping Zeeburg. Note how I'm not linking. That's because I don't want you blaming me for your stay. Five of us stayed in a cabin the approximate size of an outhouse, (at the low, low price of 70 euro a night), they charged a euro for each shower, and it was the work of at least half an hour to get into Amsterdam. Sheesh.
Amsterdam itself was not what I expected. You hear about the red-light district and the legalized pot all the time. What they fail to mention is the gorgeous canals, which basically run all over the city, the art museums like the Rijks and the Van Gogh, the way that the red-light district is really only about four streets, and fairly safe compared to other cities' red-light districts (for the women and for tourists), and the fact that pot is only decriminalized (splitting hairs, yes, I know) and it's still illegal to go around soliciting, you have to initiate the deal yourself. Amsterdam is not the sinkhole of depravity that a lot of tourists hope for.
Phoo. Okay. You're safe now, the rant's done.
That being said, I did actually visit the red-light district, although not a "coffee shop". It was more depressing and sordid than exciting. Maybe because I'm a female, but the women in the windows just made me sad. I don't know why they got into that life, but I have a hard time understanding why you would choose it.
I also took a ride in a paddleboat around the canals. Both days we were there were bright and sunny and springy, and all along the canals, the trees were in young leaf and people's windows were open. A lot of people live in houseboats along the canal banks, which must be really fun. Some were bright and shiny, and others were . . . individual.
To get my dose of culture, I went to the Van Gogh museum and the next day to the Rijks museum. I don't know much about painting or Van Gogh himself (except for the ear thing, and the suicide thing), and it surprised me to learn that he was passionately fond of literature alongside art, had close friendships with other artists, and was interested in Japanese art, which is definitely something you don't expect. However, once you know it, you can see the influence. The Van Gogh was about mid-size, but the Rijks museum was enormous. I was in there for 2.5 hours, and I know I didn't see all of it. Just all sorts of stuff.
Our last night in Amsterdam was eventful. We saw a comedy/improv show called "Boom Chicago!", which was hysterical but a little raw if you're thinking of taking kidlets. We ended up sleeping at the Amsterdam train station that night, which is something I would not recommend to anyone. We'd left our luggage there, meaning to collect it when our perambulations were done, but the locker area closed at 11:00. Huh?? Explain that to me . . . There weren't too many weirdos there (although some), but it was COLD, and the benches were a frankly sadistic wire design, and there wasn't much to wander around and look at.
However, we made it through, got our luggage at 7 when the locker area opened up, and got to our plane perfectly on time, and got home, very very very tired puppies. I'm still recovering. I've babbled long enough, so I think it's time for bed, and I commend you for having made it all the way through!
Book for today: Northern Lights by Phillip Pullman. This is the first in a fantasy series called "His Dark Materials" about another world, linking universes, and stuff too complex to explain. It's an excellent book, very imaginative, and an interesting main character. There's a lot of things that are puzzling, and it's not as compulsively readable as, say, Harry Potter, but keep at it, because there's good stuff. In the U.S. this first book is called The Golden Compass.
Friday, April 04, 2003
I have a lot of things to talk about. Sorry about the total lack of updates in the past few weeks--it’s That Time round this university. No, not final exams, not just yet. I’m talking about (eurgh) mid-terms. You would not believe the amount of work I had due yesterday. Actually, some of you might. At any rate, the only thing I have left to do is a take-home test, due next Thursday, that should be easy enough. Famous last words, right? And I have THREE WEEKS without any classes! WOOOOHOOO!
I still haven’t uploaded pictures yet. They’ve grown to an incredible volume. It could be an all-day project.
To get y’all up to speed on the events of the past few weeks:
Two weeks ago, I went to Winchester, home of the Cathedral. It was a nice little day trip--I was going to spend the night there, but my friend didn’t really want to, and I decided to come home with her. Good thing, too, as there’s not terribly much in Winchester. The Cathedral is nice, yes, and there’s some really great charity shops (woohoo charity shops!), but other than that not much. I had a mini-adventure in Winchester Cathedral. I was walking along, glancing down every so often to read the tombstones I was tromping over, when I saw “JANE AUSTEN”. My mouth fell right open. I’d completely forgotten that she was buried in Winchester Cathedral!! I had to get photos. Only one came out--my fault, I guess, for taking pictures when I wasn’t supposed to. Tsk tsk!
The following Friday, I went back to Winchester and took a bus out to Chawton to see JA’s cottage. The bus dropped me off at a roundabout, and I dodged through the cars to the other side of the road, and followed the brown signs. Chawton is not at all touristy. The only evidence they have of their famous connection is the cottage itself, which is now a museum with as much original stuff preserved as possible, plus a little resturantlet called “Cassandra’s Cup”. Other than that, it’s your typical small English village, probably not that much changed from when she lived there. The houses even have thatched roofs. REAL thatch, made from real straw.
The cottage was very nice, but I was bowled over by how small it was. There really wasn’t that much to it, and JA’s bedroom was the smallest family bedroom in the place, with a tiny little window that looked out on the granary in the backyard. She wrote on a tiny table, about a foot to a foot and a half across, that sat in the parlour. The table sat underneath a window, probably so she could get the most light possible and not waste candles, and it wobbled. The door squeaked and she refused to let it be oiled so she would have warning when someone was about to intrude on her, so she could hide her writing away. Nobody but her brother and her sister knew about it, even after she was published.
And yet . . . think what she wrote there.
Wow.
I now have three weeks all to myself, as I’ve said. I’m not going to spend them sitting around, though! Tomorrow, I’m going to Stratford-upon-Avon for two days. Then on Tuesday, I’m going to the Netherlands and Belgium with friends for a week. Then I have a few days to putz around here before some friends visit me here. Then I’m going to Madrid for three days, then Sevilla. It’s going to be a whirlwind few weeks for me! I’ll try to blog, but my internet access will probably be sporadic at best.
Book for Today: Bridget Jones’ Diary by Helen Fielding. You may have seen the movie. That was a good movie, but the book is way better. Bridget is the most scatterbrained, crazy, goofy Everywoman you could ever come across. I don’t think she’s supposed to be real--the scrapes she gets into are the kind of things that everyone does from time to time, but blown up huge and hilarious. Also it’s based, very loosely, on Pride and Prejudice. Well! Now you know why I like it, don’t you? Go read it! What are you waiting for?
I still haven’t uploaded pictures yet. They’ve grown to an incredible volume. It could be an all-day project.
To get y’all up to speed on the events of the past few weeks:
Two weeks ago, I went to Winchester, home of the Cathedral. It was a nice little day trip--I was going to spend the night there, but my friend didn’t really want to, and I decided to come home with her. Good thing, too, as there’s not terribly much in Winchester. The Cathedral is nice, yes, and there’s some really great charity shops (woohoo charity shops!), but other than that not much. I had a mini-adventure in Winchester Cathedral. I was walking along, glancing down every so often to read the tombstones I was tromping over, when I saw “JANE AUSTEN”. My mouth fell right open. I’d completely forgotten that she was buried in Winchester Cathedral!! I had to get photos. Only one came out--my fault, I guess, for taking pictures when I wasn’t supposed to. Tsk tsk!
The following Friday, I went back to Winchester and took a bus out to Chawton to see JA’s cottage. The bus dropped me off at a roundabout, and I dodged through the cars to the other side of the road, and followed the brown signs. Chawton is not at all touristy. The only evidence they have of their famous connection is the cottage itself, which is now a museum with as much original stuff preserved as possible, plus a little resturantlet called “Cassandra’s Cup”. Other than that, it’s your typical small English village, probably not that much changed from when she lived there. The houses even have thatched roofs. REAL thatch, made from real straw.
The cottage was very nice, but I was bowled over by how small it was. There really wasn’t that much to it, and JA’s bedroom was the smallest family bedroom in the place, with a tiny little window that looked out on the granary in the backyard. She wrote on a tiny table, about a foot to a foot and a half across, that sat in the parlour. The table sat underneath a window, probably so she could get the most light possible and not waste candles, and it wobbled. The door squeaked and she refused to let it be oiled so she would have warning when someone was about to intrude on her, so she could hide her writing away. Nobody but her brother and her sister knew about it, even after she was published.
And yet . . . think what she wrote there.
Wow.
I now have three weeks all to myself, as I’ve said. I’m not going to spend them sitting around, though! Tomorrow, I’m going to Stratford-upon-Avon for two days. Then on Tuesday, I’m going to the Netherlands and Belgium with friends for a week. Then I have a few days to putz around here before some friends visit me here. Then I’m going to Madrid for three days, then Sevilla. It’s going to be a whirlwind few weeks for me! I’ll try to blog, but my internet access will probably be sporadic at best.
Book for Today: Bridget Jones’ Diary by Helen Fielding. You may have seen the movie. That was a good movie, but the book is way better. Bridget is the most scatterbrained, crazy, goofy Everywoman you could ever come across. I don’t think she’s supposed to be real--the scrapes she gets into are the kind of things that everyone does from time to time, but blown up huge and hilarious. Also it’s based, very loosely, on Pride and Prejudice. Well! Now you know why I like it, don’t you? Go read it! What are you waiting for?
Tuesday, March 18, 2003
So it was borne in on me that I hadn't posted an update to this thing in quite awhile. And I said "This must not be!!"
I'm still in the process of uploading pictures. I finally got all my beautiful Canterbury and Oxford and Hampton Court Palace pictures off my camera, but it's a slow process to transfer them to disk and take them to an internet computer. They'll be up eventually. I'm also trying to rearrange my photo album to make it slightly more logical. Ha. Good luck to me.
I went to Bath two weekends ago, home of various Regency Romance novels and also the place where Jane Austen (ah, peerless Jane!) lived for five years. It doesn't say much for Bath that she didn't, apparently, write a word the entire time she was there. Guess she was a country girl at heart. She did portay Bath in her first novel, Northanger Abbey and her last, Persuasion. Two very different views of Bath that are interesting to compare and contrast, although you have to keep in mind that she wrote the two novels at wildly different times in her life.
In addition to paying homage at the Jane Austen Centre, I also went to the Roman Baths and the Museum of Costume. All three places were really neat (although I didn't personally learn anything new at the JA Centre) and the Roman Baths in particular were fascinating for the amount of stuff that they've recovered there. In fact, something like 2/3 or 3/4 of the original Roman complex is still underground, having not been excavated because most of Bath is on top of it. Yeah, that'll hold back the ol' funding.
If you're interested in fashion and the history of fashion, the M of C is pretty cool too. It has vintage clothing and explanations of what they were made of, how politics and social attitudes informed fashion, and other stuff like that.
Bath itself is a beautiful city. It's a city ordinance that all new buildings must be made of a particular kind of white masonry called Bath stone, so when the train (or bus) comes up on Bath, all you see is this froth of white stone, spilling up and down the hillsides, shining in the sun. In its own way, it's breathtaking.
I stayed at the Bath Backpacker's Hostel which was a fun and funky place if you are ever in the area.
I didn't do anything so fun last weekend, although I did go into London to have a visit with my uncle and his family, who were in town for the weekend, and I wound up seeing "Grease" with them. That was a lot of fun, especially since it was last-minute and I didn't have time to build it up in my head. It was fun and cute, if terribly terribly loud (my seat was close to the speakers) and whoa! a lot more raunchy than I remembered either the movie or my high-school's production being. Still a grand evening.
Welp, it's late for me. Time to share my Book of the Day and get on home.
Book for Today: Wyrd Sisters by Terry Pratchett. A merciless send-up of Macbeth, set in Pratchett's Discworld and amongst the usual lunacy that this ensues. Just to give you an idea of the total nonserious parodic fun, the first page features this exchange: (in appropriate witch voice) "When shall we three meet again?" (normal voice) "Well, I can do next Tuesday." Pratchett and Discworld are always good for a story that's unpredictable, somewhat loony, and surprisingly thoughtful.
I'm still in the process of uploading pictures. I finally got all my beautiful Canterbury and Oxford and Hampton Court Palace pictures off my camera, but it's a slow process to transfer them to disk and take them to an internet computer. They'll be up eventually. I'm also trying to rearrange my photo album to make it slightly more logical. Ha. Good luck to me.
I went to Bath two weekends ago, home of various Regency Romance novels and also the place where Jane Austen (ah, peerless Jane!) lived for five years. It doesn't say much for Bath that she didn't, apparently, write a word the entire time she was there. Guess she was a country girl at heart. She did portay Bath in her first novel, Northanger Abbey and her last, Persuasion. Two very different views of Bath that are interesting to compare and contrast, although you have to keep in mind that she wrote the two novels at wildly different times in her life.
In addition to paying homage at the Jane Austen Centre, I also went to the Roman Baths and the Museum of Costume. All three places were really neat (although I didn't personally learn anything new at the JA Centre) and the Roman Baths in particular were fascinating for the amount of stuff that they've recovered there. In fact, something like 2/3 or 3/4 of the original Roman complex is still underground, having not been excavated because most of Bath is on top of it. Yeah, that'll hold back the ol' funding.
If you're interested in fashion and the history of fashion, the M of C is pretty cool too. It has vintage clothing and explanations of what they were made of, how politics and social attitudes informed fashion, and other stuff like that.
Bath itself is a beautiful city. It's a city ordinance that all new buildings must be made of a particular kind of white masonry called Bath stone, so when the train (or bus) comes up on Bath, all you see is this froth of white stone, spilling up and down the hillsides, shining in the sun. In its own way, it's breathtaking.
I stayed at the Bath Backpacker's Hostel which was a fun and funky place if you are ever in the area.
I didn't do anything so fun last weekend, although I did go into London to have a visit with my uncle and his family, who were in town for the weekend, and I wound up seeing "Grease" with them. That was a lot of fun, especially since it was last-minute and I didn't have time to build it up in my head. It was fun and cute, if terribly terribly loud (my seat was close to the speakers) and whoa! a lot more raunchy than I remembered either the movie or my high-school's production being. Still a grand evening.
Welp, it's late for me. Time to share my Book of the Day and get on home.
Book for Today: Wyrd Sisters by Terry Pratchett. A merciless send-up of Macbeth, set in Pratchett's Discworld and amongst the usual lunacy that this ensues. Just to give you an idea of the total nonserious parodic fun, the first page features this exchange: (in appropriate witch voice) "When shall we three meet again?" (normal voice) "Well, I can do next Tuesday." Pratchett and Discworld are always good for a story that's unpredictable, somewhat loony, and surprisingly thoughtful.
Sunday, March 02, 2003
For the first time since I got here, I'm crabby about the public transport system. (You can stop laughing any time now, Flint.) I was at a friend's last night, and realized that it was late, but I still had ample time to catch the last bus. Well, we went out there . . . and waited. And waited. We waited the 20 minutes between buses on a Saturday night, then 20 more just in case. No bus. GRRRRRRRRR!! The thought of the night bus filled me with fear, so we ended up staying the night at this friend's, sleeping on his couch. Sigh. I woke up at some ungodly hour this morning, caught the second bus of the day, and went to sleep in my own bed about half an hour later. Anyway . . . that was my adventure for last night . . .
Yesterday was nice, though. My friend Katy called me up to go see Hampton Court Palace, which is (and I didn't know this) quite handy to where we are, just one bus change. The palace is nice and interesting and historical, but for me, I really loved the grounds. They're HUGE and filled with plants and flowers and growing things and statues and fountains. The kewl thing is, it's free to just wander around the gardens. You only pay to see the palace itself. Here's some pictures for y'all. Most of them are of the palace proper, because the millions that I took of the grounds are either on my film camera, which will be developed this week sometime, or on the big digital card that my computer isn't reading because it's being a brat.
Click! A random corridor, inside Hampton Court palace. I liked the look of it though. Apparently there is a corridor that's supposed to be haunted by one of Henry's wives who got beheaded. After her trial, but obviously before her beheading, she escaped from her guards and rocketed down the corridor toward the royal chapel, pounding on the doors and screaming to be let in. If she got inside, she would get asylum (being in a place of worship) and also, Henry VIII was worshipping at the time, and she believed that she could beg him to spare her life. However, he ignored her and kept praying (isn't that just sick and wrong?) and the guards caught up with her, and off with her head. So now Catherine runs up and down the corridor, screaming to be let into the chapel, on dark nights. Brrrrr. This isn't that corridor though.
Click! The fountain in the inner courtyard. Can't you imagine some ladies in huge wigs and dresses sweeping around that walkway?
Click! Ooo . . . that's a little dark. Sorry about that. It was overcast yesterday . . . well, it is England! It's the front view of the Palace as you're walking up the drive. It's one heck of a sight. Must have been even more flabbergasting to the court, knowing how rich Cardinal Wolsey and later on good old Hal 8 must have been to not only build it, but afford the upkeep. It's like a city all by itself.
Click! Here's a better one, taken just inside the front entrance of the first courtyard you pass through. There's about three.
Click! Here is a funky little inner garden that I discovered by goingthrough the wrong door. If I were a lady in waiting, I'd sneak off there to be away from all the noise and heat and hypocrisy of the court--wouldn't you?
Click! Okay, remember how I said the place was like a city all by itself? This view is part of the kitchens. That's right, the kitchens. They were so huge that they got subdivided all over the place.
Click!After the king stopped living at Hampton Court Palace regularly, and such huge kitchens weren't needed anymore, the kitchens were actually converted into tiny flats for royal servents who had done their duty well and deserved a reward for putting up with royalty all those years. Even today, some people still live on Fish Court, pictured here.
So that's Hampton Court Palace, or some of it anyway. Katy and I only did half the tours available, and you weren't allowed to take pictures in a lot of the rooms. Sigh. It's a very neat place, and the gardens really are amazing if you don't want to pay the admission charge.
No book for today. Sorry. I already told you about The Secret Garden and the other stuff I'm reading now is all boring Victorian literature that I wouldn't recommend to anybody.
Yesterday was nice, though. My friend Katy called me up to go see Hampton Court Palace, which is (and I didn't know this) quite handy to where we are, just one bus change. The palace is nice and interesting and historical, but for me, I really loved the grounds. They're HUGE and filled with plants and flowers and growing things and statues and fountains. The kewl thing is, it's free to just wander around the gardens. You only pay to see the palace itself. Here's some pictures for y'all. Most of them are of the palace proper, because the millions that I took of the grounds are either on my film camera, which will be developed this week sometime, or on the big digital card that my computer isn't reading because it's being a brat.
Click! A random corridor, inside Hampton Court palace. I liked the look of it though. Apparently there is a corridor that's supposed to be haunted by one of Henry's wives who got beheaded. After her trial, but obviously before her beheading, she escaped from her guards and rocketed down the corridor toward the royal chapel, pounding on the doors and screaming to be let in. If she got inside, she would get asylum (being in a place of worship) and also, Henry VIII was worshipping at the time, and she believed that she could beg him to spare her life. However, he ignored her and kept praying (isn't that just sick and wrong?) and the guards caught up with her, and off with her head. So now Catherine runs up and down the corridor, screaming to be let into the chapel, on dark nights. Brrrrr. This isn't that corridor though.
Click! The fountain in the inner courtyard. Can't you imagine some ladies in huge wigs and dresses sweeping around that walkway?
Click! Ooo . . . that's a little dark. Sorry about that. It was overcast yesterday . . . well, it is England! It's the front view of the Palace as you're walking up the drive. It's one heck of a sight. Must have been even more flabbergasting to the court, knowing how rich Cardinal Wolsey and later on good old Hal 8 must have been to not only build it, but afford the upkeep. It's like a city all by itself.
Click! Here's a better one, taken just inside the front entrance of the first courtyard you pass through. There's about three.
Click! Here is a funky little inner garden that I discovered by goingthrough the wrong door. If I were a lady in waiting, I'd sneak off there to be away from all the noise and heat and hypocrisy of the court--wouldn't you?
Click! Okay, remember how I said the place was like a city all by itself? This view is part of the kitchens. That's right, the kitchens. They were so huge that they got subdivided all over the place.
Click!After the king stopped living at Hampton Court Palace regularly, and such huge kitchens weren't needed anymore, the kitchens were actually converted into tiny flats for royal servents who had done their duty well and deserved a reward for putting up with royalty all those years. Even today, some people still live on Fish Court, pictured here.
So that's Hampton Court Palace, or some of it anyway. Katy and I only did half the tours available, and you weren't allowed to take pictures in a lot of the rooms. Sigh. It's a very neat place, and the gardens really are amazing if you don't want to pay the admission charge.
No book for today. Sorry. I already told you about The Secret Garden and the other stuff I'm reading now is all boring Victorian literature that I wouldn't recommend to anybody.
Friday, February 28, 2003
Okay, so I realized today that I've been in this country a WHOLE MONTH. My plane landed on the 28th of January, and today is, duh, the 28th of February. Wow. It feels a lot longer than a month, but a lot shorter too. Don't ask me to explain. I don't know.
One thing I've noticed is that the American accent sounds really ugly over here. It's all flat and twangy and nasally. Unless I'm around other icky-sounding Americans, I try to talk as little as possible, because I feel like an aural sore thumb. On the other hand, I don't want to try my hand, or tongue, at an English accent because I have the haunting feeling that I'd be beaten to death by scones and teapots. I also can't seem to compromise and use Englishisms ("Cheers", "Ta") in my icky American accent, because somehow that would be wrongest of all. I still have some trouble understanding the thicker English accents, too. I went to a play on Wednesday night and it was a good thing I knew the plot because I missed some of the long speeches, just trying to figure out what they were saying. I've also annoyed people on the phone by asking them over and over what the hey they're saying. You wouldn't think we speak two different languages . . . well, we do.
I'm still lovin' the public transport system, as much as Flint likes to laugh at me. (You know who you are, Flint.) I love that there is one. America doesn't seem to have the same concept of public transport. Either they get the public part or the transport part wrong.
I went again to the British Museum on Wednesday, and after that the Globe Theatre. Want pictures? Of course you do. And if you don't, all you have to do is not click. Concept!
Click! Little girl feeding pigeons outside the British Museum
Click! Another attempt to capture the Tennyson quote on the floor of the Great Court. Can you read it this time?
Click! A Greek statue of a maiden. She would have served as a support pillar for a temple. This time all the rooms were open. Wooohoo!
Click! Three Greek statues who lost their heads at some point or another.
Click! It's the Globe Theatre! No, of course it's not the real Globe Theatre. That burned down when they fired a cannon during a performance. They rebuilt, of course, but then good ol' Ollie Cromwell tore it down when he declared that Plays Were Bad in 1642. This is the reconstruction, built in the late 90's. It's the only building in London with a thatched roof since the Great Fire. Everything is as accurate as research can discover and current laws will allow.
Click! Another view of the Globe. Not that big, is it? It used to fit 3000 people. Yoiks! It only holds 1500 now, but 500 fit in the groundling area. Tickets for the groundling area, by the way, are only 5 quid. That's pretty darn good.
Anyway, that's my pictures for today. Not really planning on going anywhere this weekend, but you never know. My camera might finally give me the billions and billions I took in Oxford.
Book for today: The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgeson Burnett. I'm right now re-reading this for my Children's Lit class, but I must have read it 10 or 20 times already. I got it for a birthday present the year I turned nine, and I remember being absolutely delighted by Mary. She was the first child character who was bratty and nasty without being the Big Villain. In fact, she's the main character. Anyway, go read this book. Not only for Mary, who you'll love, but also for Colin, who matches Mary tantrum for tantrum and brat for brat, and for the Secret Garden, which is almost mystical in its power to bring these two self-absorbed children to life.
One thing I've noticed is that the American accent sounds really ugly over here. It's all flat and twangy and nasally. Unless I'm around other icky-sounding Americans, I try to talk as little as possible, because I feel like an aural sore thumb. On the other hand, I don't want to try my hand, or tongue, at an English accent because I have the haunting feeling that I'd be beaten to death by scones and teapots. I also can't seem to compromise and use Englishisms ("Cheers", "Ta") in my icky American accent, because somehow that would be wrongest of all. I still have some trouble understanding the thicker English accents, too. I went to a play on Wednesday night and it was a good thing I knew the plot because I missed some of the long speeches, just trying to figure out what they were saying. I've also annoyed people on the phone by asking them over and over what the hey they're saying. You wouldn't think we speak two different languages . . . well, we do.
I'm still lovin' the public transport system, as much as Flint likes to laugh at me. (You know who you are, Flint.) I love that there is one. America doesn't seem to have the same concept of public transport. Either they get the public part or the transport part wrong.
I went again to the British Museum on Wednesday, and after that the Globe Theatre. Want pictures? Of course you do. And if you don't, all you have to do is not click. Concept!
Click! Little girl feeding pigeons outside the British Museum
Click! Another attempt to capture the Tennyson quote on the floor of the Great Court. Can you read it this time?
Click! A Greek statue of a maiden. She would have served as a support pillar for a temple. This time all the rooms were open. Wooohoo!
Click! Three Greek statues who lost their heads at some point or another.
Click! It's the Globe Theatre! No, of course it's not the real Globe Theatre. That burned down when they fired a cannon during a performance. They rebuilt, of course, but then good ol' Ollie Cromwell tore it down when he declared that Plays Were Bad in 1642. This is the reconstruction, built in the late 90's. It's the only building in London with a thatched roof since the Great Fire. Everything is as accurate as research can discover and current laws will allow.
Click! Another view of the Globe. Not that big, is it? It used to fit 3000 people. Yoiks! It only holds 1500 now, but 500 fit in the groundling area. Tickets for the groundling area, by the way, are only 5 quid. That's pretty darn good.
Anyway, that's my pictures for today. Not really planning on going anywhere this weekend, but you never know. My camera might finally give me the billions and billions I took in Oxford.
Book for today: The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgeson Burnett. I'm right now re-reading this for my Children's Lit class, but I must have read it 10 or 20 times already. I got it for a birthday present the year I turned nine, and I remember being absolutely delighted by Mary. She was the first child character who was bratty and nasty without being the Big Villain. In fact, she's the main character. Anyway, go read this book. Not only for Mary, who you'll love, but also for Colin, who matches Mary tantrum for tantrum and brat for brat, and for the Secret Garden, which is almost mystical in its power to bring these two self-absorbed children to life.
Tuesday, February 25, 2003
Monday, February 24, 2003
Thursday, February 20, 2003
Okaaaaaaaaaaaaaay . . . I wrote this whole long post earlier about Yahoo and cream teas and Venetia . . . where is it? Wherrrrrrrrrrre??? Curses. The evil yahoo curse is spreading.
Anyway, here's the gist:
Go here to see my photo album. I don't know why it won't work to link directly, but oh well. I'm not even askiing Yahoo to display pix on this page, just to let you guys click a blue link to go from this page to a yahoo page. But noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo . . . Sigh. If even that photo album link doesn't work, shout out and I'll gnash my hair and tear my teeth. Wait a minute . . . strike that . . . reverse it. Good.
In other news, I have finally had a cream tea, which was highly recommended to me before I left the States. My friend was not lying . . . this is good stuff! For all y'all who do not know the wonders of cream tea (you poor saps), it consists of a pot of tea (natch) that is accompanied by scones and (reverent hush) clotted cream. Ooooooooooo. Clotted cream is wonderful stuff, especially when combined with strawberry preserves. Mmmmmmmmmmm. If you ever get the chance, try it. You won't be disappointed. Your diet, should you be on one, will be blown all to pieces, but who cares about diets?
Book for today: Venetia by Georgette Heyer. Venetia is a clever, sensible spinster that everyone thinks is going to marry boring Edward Yardley. But then the scandalous Lord Damerel moves in next door, and Venetia unexpectedly finds the best friend she's ever had . . . This is going up there with These Old Shades and Devil's Cub as one of my all-time favorite GH novels.
Anyway, here's the gist:
Go here to see my photo album. I don't know why it won't work to link directly, but oh well. I'm not even askiing Yahoo to display pix on this page, just to let you guys click a blue link to go from this page to a yahoo page. But noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo . . . Sigh. If even that photo album link doesn't work, shout out and I'll gnash my hair and tear my teeth. Wait a minute . . . strike that . . . reverse it. Good.
In other news, I have finally had a cream tea, which was highly recommended to me before I left the States. My friend was not lying . . . this is good stuff! For all y'all who do not know the wonders of cream tea (you poor saps), it consists of a pot of tea (natch) that is accompanied by scones and (reverent hush) clotted cream. Ooooooooooo. Clotted cream is wonderful stuff, especially when combined with strawberry preserves. Mmmmmmmmmmm. If you ever get the chance, try it. You won't be disappointed. Your diet, should you be on one, will be blown all to pieces, but who cares about diets?
Book for today: Venetia by Georgette Heyer. Venetia is a clever, sensible spinster that everyone thinks is going to marry boring Edward Yardley. But then the scandalous Lord Damerel moves in next door, and Venetia unexpectedly finds the best friend she's ever had . . . This is going up there with These Old Shades and Devil's Cub as one of my all-time favorite GH novels.
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