In Seattle they have a saying: It's not about the points, it's about the POETRY. And yet poets from around the world flock to the Slams to read, to perform, and to share their work for points. It's a somewhat sadistic thing to do...to get on the mic and in three minutes or less (with a 10 second grace period) read the bloody ink of your soul to a group of strangers who may not get, may not like it, and might even hold up a score card that reads 0. And yet still there are some of us who have this strange compulsion to be heard, to get on stage, put it out there and hold our breath waiting for that first inkling of response, a laugh, a sigh, anything that says there is someone out there listening and understanding. And if we're lucky we'll get it just right and the judges who could be the anyone from Toni Morrison to some douche bag who has never read or written a poem in his or her entire life, will hold up a score card with the perfect 10. It's a high.
So after more than a full year of resisting this compulsion, I slammed tonight, in the city of my birth, Des Moines, Iowa with 16 other poets (because unlike Seattle they don't cap at 8) and I won! Since there were so many of us, we only did two rounds. The top 8 went on to round 2. I read Stupid Break Up Poem #46 and of course as a follow-up The Afro-Petting Zoo Is Closed: A Public Service Announcement In 3 Parts. And my mom was there to see me win. It was a good night.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Sunday, December 12, 2010
An Excerpt From Draft 9 of Ollieland...
It’s official. Summer is dead. I spent the morning digging the hole for the funeral pyre, as Solomon adorned the backyard with tiki torches and Mom prepared the corpse to be tied to a spit. Nothing says Labor Day like a Hawaiian Luau. By 6:00 p.m. I’ve been smelling pig for hours, watching its fat, succulent carcass rotate slowly above the hypnotic flames, its mouth full of blackened fruit.
“Ollie, it’s time to baste again,” Mom calls from an undetermined location within the house. I leave my cleaver stabbed through the heart of a pineapple and find the bucket of sacred pig sauce, a murky concoction made from fresh squeezed Valencia oranges, aged brandy, butter, and a blend of twenty six secret herbs and spices. I paint it on lengthwise from snout to tail, enjoying the tiny gasps and hisses as the juices sizzle against the fire. At least one of us doesn’t have to suffer in silence. The basting is hot work on a ruthlessly sticky day and I am tired and irritable. My only consolation is the pig smell saturating everything within a three block radius. It is a tangible aroma, so thick just inhaling deeply seems to leave a salty tangy meat taste in my mouth.
When it comes to holidays, it doesn’t matter which one, my mother has this incurable form of OCD which makes it physically impossible for her not to throw a party. The thing is, it’s never just a party. It can’t be simple: a few streamers and a Costco cake. No, it has to be some long, drawn out, Martha Stewart worthy extravaganza with enough gourmet food to feed a Haitian refugee camp. And as her faithful minion, bound by the seventeenth year of my indentured servitude, I am obligated to be by her side for all fifty two annual secular and religious celebrations, not to mention personal holidays like birthdays and anniversaries. It’s in my contract.
I remember my sister Jade’s ninth birthday with a shudder. Theme: Under the Sea. Everyone was dressed as their favorite mermaid (I was the dreaded Sea Witch Ursula) and then a band of musicians showed up wearing sea creature costumes. I was five and giant crabs roaming the backyard with portable steel drums was terrifying. I refused to leave the house. Then Dad had to give me the Hymlic because Mom thought it would be neat to freeze Ariel figurines inside the ice cubes floating in the blue punch. Yeah, it was fabulous. Who cares if I only almost died? It is an illness, but instead of getting quarantined or medicated, Mom gets to inflict her insanity on everyone and they love her for it. They show up in droves because my mother is the perfect hostess.
A good hostess is warm, caring, gracious, and welcoming. She gives the impression that the guest is the most important person in the world and that nothing is too much trouble to ensure their comfort and contentment. A good hostess is courteous to her guests, even if they are rude. She is detail oriented and adaptable to the needs of the situation, always ready with a back up plan. On a good day I am none of these things, and today is not a particularly good day, so I must fake it hard or do my best to be invisible or both. Mournful sigh.
Solomon rounds the corner carrying an ice chest.
“Where does this go?”
“Beneath the buffet table,” I point to the lavishly dressed table beside my workstation which is scattered with artistically slaughtered pineapples. I’ll need to clean that up before She comes back outside.
“God that smells amazing,” Solomon moans.
“Of course it does.”
By 7:00 p.m. the pineapple is curried, flambéd, and plated beautifully. It rests on the epic buffet between the lobster poofs and the green potato salad. The yard is already filling up with neighbors and family friends, mostly middle aged lesbians dressed in obnoxious dayglow flowered shirts and hell bent on congratulating me on beginning the last year of adolescence.
“Oh Olive Jane, look at you. You’re becoming such a woman,” Deborah tells me like I just got my rag and I’m in a fucking Judy Blume novel. Congratulations. You’ve got boobies and acne. The ugly duckling is now the black swan of womanly goodness, even though you’re still short and pudgy and nothing like your sister. Well you still have another year of high school. It could get better? Then she follows up with the million dollar question: “So which colleges are you applying to?”
Not the C word. Double sigh. Inhale, allow pig air to numb the annoyance. Must maintain the appropriate fake pleasant facade. Exhale, perfectly crafted lie: “I’m not going to college right away. I’m planning on taking next year off to find myself.” As if by some miracle I could ever actually lose myself.
“Well then what Olive Jane? What happens after your year off?”
Do I look like a fucking magic eight ball? I hate it when she calls me Olive Jane, like we’re all buddy buddy and it’s our thing that she gave me this stupid pet name. I want to tell her it’s Ollie or Olivia. Pick one. I only get Olivia Jane when I’m in big trouble. And Olive Jane? No one calls me that. It sounds like a dirty martini.
“I’ll keep you posted,” I tell her all sugary sweet, then let the platter of deviled eggs tilt forward just enough so that three creamy eggs slide off the edge and land with a splat on her shoes, egg side down. Hole in one. The fake look of concern masks my radiant snarky smile. I’m much too well house broken to tell Mom’s friends to fuck off, but I’ll egg their Birkenstocks and look sincerely apologetic while fetching a paper towel to wipe their toes with.
7:30 p.m. The pig is served. Solomon and Toni cart the beast to the carving station. My mother is poised, an opulent lae of fuchsia hibiscus around her neck, an oversized fork in one hand, an electric knife in the other. Vrrooom. Vrroooom. Come and get it. Though I’m salivating for a taste, as I watch the dissection my stomach begins to churn. Maybe it’s the realization that I’m not so far up the food chain. I could be that pig, happily minding my own pig business, blissfully oblivious to the impending doom, then whamo, dead and roasted so everyone can have a piece. I really don’t want to go to school tomorrow.
“Psst, Ollie.” Toni motions. “Light the torches.”
10:00 p.m. When it’s finally over and I’m alone again, I can still I feel the eyes pressing in on me from all sides. Stop looking at me. I quell the urge to break something, knowing I’ll just have to clean it up and it’s not worth it. I’ve got my manic hostess grin plastered to my face, but inside I’m seething, screaming at the top of my lungs with the volume on mute. LEAVE ME ALONE. This happens sometimes. If I can retreat fast enough, I can prevent the explosion. It hurts to breathe, even the luscious pig air feels stifling now, like a pig flavored blanket smothering me.
I move through the quiet darkness of the house, as far away from Mom and Toni as I can get. Up the stairs, past straight rows of framed family portraits: Mom, Dad, Jade, Malcolm, me. Smiling. Always smiling. Malcolm in his football uniform. Malcolm with his basketball team winning the State Championship. Jade in a midair split performing with the drill team. Jade crossing the finish line at a track meet. She is a winner too. Jade being crowned Homecoming Queen: a crowned and certified winner. I keep moving, past the ghost of family past, around the corner, through the spare room and up the last flight of stairs into the attic. I lock the door behind me; let the fake smile disintegrate, but the party induced panic remains.
She has to know how much I hate it: all the chatting, the cheek pinching, fielding nosy questions from people who haven’t been teenagers in so long they’ve actually tricked themselves into remembering high school as something fun. Haven’t they been reading the paper? Nothing is fun when you’re a casualty of war. I know they know, or at least they think they know all about it. It’s obvious by the furtive whispers and the sad faced pitying glances. I hear it in their voices as they tell me: “Your mom is so brave. You must be so proud.” But I am not proud. I’m exhausted. I’m covered in mosquito bites, spilled barbecue sauce, and lipstick prints from the really old women intent on kissing my cheeks and forehead because unlike everyone else my age, I’m still short enough for them to reach. I’m angry. I’m embarrassed and worst of all doomed to repeat the never ending story of my humiliation once more, again. I really, really don’t want to go to school tomorrow.
I need Al Green and a fresh canvas, badly. The floorboards creak beneath my bare feet. I inhale the warm inedible scent of cedar and sandalwood that clings to the attic asserting ownership of the space, a welcome relief from the siren song of pig. Lights. Cue the music. That’s better. The attic is my sanctuary. With my brother gone to college, my sister gone to New York and my dad just gone, there’s a whole lot of house and not a lot of people. I like it better this way, just me and Mom and now Toni. Mom finally agreed to let me convert the attic into an artist studio. It didn’t take much. I only had to get rid of some old junk and clean up the floors. I kept the tacky green seventies wall paper though, not that it’s very visible. The built in bookshelves are fully stocked with every art supply imaginable and almost every inch of wall is covered by paintings and collages and more paintings of various sizes and subject matters. The ceiling beams are strung with fairylights, tissue paper kites, homemade piñatas, and mobiles constructed from Christmas ribbon and the heads of decapitated Barbie dolls dipped in glitter.
I am home. I let my body rock to the baseline, nod my head. There is something so soothing about Al Green. The music salves my anger, reweaves my fraying edges. I gather up what I need: a green pale filled with paint brushes, a wicker basket over loaded with tubes of acrylic, a 20 x 20 canvas stretched and stapled to a wood frame and a mirror.
After this year I’m taking off. I have a little money and by June I’ll have some more. I’ll flip a coin and pick a coast, buy a train ticket and just go. That’s all I’ve got as far as plans. Away sounds like heaven. Inhale. Exhale. If I can just make it through this year then I can go away, but the sad reality is I could barely make it through the luau. “Lay it down, lay it down, lay it down, put your head on the floor…” Al Green implores. I am listening.
Tomorrow will be infinitely worse. It is what it is and I can’t change it, but I can do something...one thing. I can take this blank canvas and make something beautiful. I plop down onto a purple cushion and lay today down beside me. I upend the basket of paint tubes,letting them clatter onto the rug as I fish for a metallic teal. No thinking now, just the magic of fat brush strokes moving in concentric circles until the canvas is bathed in waves of turquoise and gold, sea greens and blues and more gold. “Lay it down, let it go, fall in love…”
I pull the mirror toward me. I want to see myself through my own myopic eyes: burnt sienna skin, cinnamon eyes framed with angular glasses. I am round faced with pixie ears ringed from lobe to cuff in tiny silver hoops, a round soft black afro squiggling out from my head. Eyes like my mom, nose like my dad but punctuated with a silver stud, full dark lips, and a trace of a scar down my jaw line from when I fell ice skating a million years ago. I stare at my reflection until I can see my face for what it is, not stories or scars or genetic happenstance, just shapes and angles, a collection of slopes and planes, the hard jut of my chin, the tension in my mouth, the shadows in my irises. Focus. Mr. Wu says the first step is to capture what’s there, start with the obvious.
I etch the framework in purple, blot in bitter chocolate, flecks of jade, tangerine, a dash of silver. I drag blue gray shadows across my cheeks and shape angular magenta eyelids. A soft burgundy rounds the ridges of my wide African nose. Pearl essence makes it all melt together until I start to appear, my oversized eyes magnified by copper rimmed fifties glasses, my chipmunk cheeks. I don’t smile, because no one is around to require it of me. I sneer. I bare my teeth like a warning. I paint the warrior I wish I could be; streak my cheekbones with thin crimson stripes and draw white circles across my forehead. My hair is a chunky halo of indigo violet. I paint it rough like sea waves, the unscalable cliffs of nappy mountains that jut off the canvas in rippling layers. Then I add my arms and hands, palms up like I’m trying to bang my way out of my own picture. Wu says every good work of art holds a kernel of truth, an emotion, an expression that tells a little secret about the artist. And there it is, my truth. I’m desperate to claw my way out of my life.
“Ollie, it’s time to baste again,” Mom calls from an undetermined location within the house. I leave my cleaver stabbed through the heart of a pineapple and find the bucket of sacred pig sauce, a murky concoction made from fresh squeezed Valencia oranges, aged brandy, butter, and a blend of twenty six secret herbs and spices. I paint it on lengthwise from snout to tail, enjoying the tiny gasps and hisses as the juices sizzle against the fire. At least one of us doesn’t have to suffer in silence. The basting is hot work on a ruthlessly sticky day and I am tired and irritable. My only consolation is the pig smell saturating everything within a three block radius. It is a tangible aroma, so thick just inhaling deeply seems to leave a salty tangy meat taste in my mouth.
When it comes to holidays, it doesn’t matter which one, my mother has this incurable form of OCD which makes it physically impossible for her not to throw a party. The thing is, it’s never just a party. It can’t be simple: a few streamers and a Costco cake. No, it has to be some long, drawn out, Martha Stewart worthy extravaganza with enough gourmet food to feed a Haitian refugee camp. And as her faithful minion, bound by the seventeenth year of my indentured servitude, I am obligated to be by her side for all fifty two annual secular and religious celebrations, not to mention personal holidays like birthdays and anniversaries. It’s in my contract.
I remember my sister Jade’s ninth birthday with a shudder. Theme: Under the Sea. Everyone was dressed as their favorite mermaid (I was the dreaded Sea Witch Ursula) and then a band of musicians showed up wearing sea creature costumes. I was five and giant crabs roaming the backyard with portable steel drums was terrifying. I refused to leave the house. Then Dad had to give me the Hymlic because Mom thought it would be neat to freeze Ariel figurines inside the ice cubes floating in the blue punch. Yeah, it was fabulous. Who cares if I only almost died? It is an illness, but instead of getting quarantined or medicated, Mom gets to inflict her insanity on everyone and they love her for it. They show up in droves because my mother is the perfect hostess.
A good hostess is warm, caring, gracious, and welcoming. She gives the impression that the guest is the most important person in the world and that nothing is too much trouble to ensure their comfort and contentment. A good hostess is courteous to her guests, even if they are rude. She is detail oriented and adaptable to the needs of the situation, always ready with a back up plan. On a good day I am none of these things, and today is not a particularly good day, so I must fake it hard or do my best to be invisible or both. Mournful sigh.
Solomon rounds the corner carrying an ice chest.
“Where does this go?”
“Beneath the buffet table,” I point to the lavishly dressed table beside my workstation which is scattered with artistically slaughtered pineapples. I’ll need to clean that up before She comes back outside.
“God that smells amazing,” Solomon moans.
“Of course it does.”
By 7:00 p.m. the pineapple is curried, flambéd, and plated beautifully. It rests on the epic buffet between the lobster poofs and the green potato salad. The yard is already filling up with neighbors and family friends, mostly middle aged lesbians dressed in obnoxious dayglow flowered shirts and hell bent on congratulating me on beginning the last year of adolescence.
“Oh Olive Jane, look at you. You’re becoming such a woman,” Deborah tells me like I just got my rag and I’m in a fucking Judy Blume novel. Congratulations. You’ve got boobies and acne. The ugly duckling is now the black swan of womanly goodness, even though you’re still short and pudgy and nothing like your sister. Well you still have another year of high school. It could get better? Then she follows up with the million dollar question: “So which colleges are you applying to?”
Not the C word. Double sigh. Inhale, allow pig air to numb the annoyance. Must maintain the appropriate fake pleasant facade. Exhale, perfectly crafted lie: “I’m not going to college right away. I’m planning on taking next year off to find myself.” As if by some miracle I could ever actually lose myself.
“Well then what Olive Jane? What happens after your year off?”
Do I look like a fucking magic eight ball? I hate it when she calls me Olive Jane, like we’re all buddy buddy and it’s our thing that she gave me this stupid pet name. I want to tell her it’s Ollie or Olivia. Pick one. I only get Olivia Jane when I’m in big trouble. And Olive Jane? No one calls me that. It sounds like a dirty martini.
“I’ll keep you posted,” I tell her all sugary sweet, then let the platter of deviled eggs tilt forward just enough so that three creamy eggs slide off the edge and land with a splat on her shoes, egg side down. Hole in one. The fake look of concern masks my radiant snarky smile. I’m much too well house broken to tell Mom’s friends to fuck off, but I’ll egg their Birkenstocks and look sincerely apologetic while fetching a paper towel to wipe their toes with.
7:30 p.m. The pig is served. Solomon and Toni cart the beast to the carving station. My mother is poised, an opulent lae of fuchsia hibiscus around her neck, an oversized fork in one hand, an electric knife in the other. Vrrooom. Vrroooom. Come and get it. Though I’m salivating for a taste, as I watch the dissection my stomach begins to churn. Maybe it’s the realization that I’m not so far up the food chain. I could be that pig, happily minding my own pig business, blissfully oblivious to the impending doom, then whamo, dead and roasted so everyone can have a piece. I really don’t want to go to school tomorrow.
“Psst, Ollie.” Toni motions. “Light the torches.”
10:00 p.m. When it’s finally over and I’m alone again, I can still I feel the eyes pressing in on me from all sides. Stop looking at me. I quell the urge to break something, knowing I’ll just have to clean it up and it’s not worth it. I’ve got my manic hostess grin plastered to my face, but inside I’m seething, screaming at the top of my lungs with the volume on mute. LEAVE ME ALONE. This happens sometimes. If I can retreat fast enough, I can prevent the explosion. It hurts to breathe, even the luscious pig air feels stifling now, like a pig flavored blanket smothering me.
I move through the quiet darkness of the house, as far away from Mom and Toni as I can get. Up the stairs, past straight rows of framed family portraits: Mom, Dad, Jade, Malcolm, me. Smiling. Always smiling. Malcolm in his football uniform. Malcolm with his basketball team winning the State Championship. Jade in a midair split performing with the drill team. Jade crossing the finish line at a track meet. She is a winner too. Jade being crowned Homecoming Queen: a crowned and certified winner. I keep moving, past the ghost of family past, around the corner, through the spare room and up the last flight of stairs into the attic. I lock the door behind me; let the fake smile disintegrate, but the party induced panic remains.
She has to know how much I hate it: all the chatting, the cheek pinching, fielding nosy questions from people who haven’t been teenagers in so long they’ve actually tricked themselves into remembering high school as something fun. Haven’t they been reading the paper? Nothing is fun when you’re a casualty of war. I know they know, or at least they think they know all about it. It’s obvious by the furtive whispers and the sad faced pitying glances. I hear it in their voices as they tell me: “Your mom is so brave. You must be so proud.” But I am not proud. I’m exhausted. I’m covered in mosquito bites, spilled barbecue sauce, and lipstick prints from the really old women intent on kissing my cheeks and forehead because unlike everyone else my age, I’m still short enough for them to reach. I’m angry. I’m embarrassed and worst of all doomed to repeat the never ending story of my humiliation once more, again. I really, really don’t want to go to school tomorrow.
I need Al Green and a fresh canvas, badly. The floorboards creak beneath my bare feet. I inhale the warm inedible scent of cedar and sandalwood that clings to the attic asserting ownership of the space, a welcome relief from the siren song of pig. Lights. Cue the music. That’s better. The attic is my sanctuary. With my brother gone to college, my sister gone to New York and my dad just gone, there’s a whole lot of house and not a lot of people. I like it better this way, just me and Mom and now Toni. Mom finally agreed to let me convert the attic into an artist studio. It didn’t take much. I only had to get rid of some old junk and clean up the floors. I kept the tacky green seventies wall paper though, not that it’s very visible. The built in bookshelves are fully stocked with every art supply imaginable and almost every inch of wall is covered by paintings and collages and more paintings of various sizes and subject matters. The ceiling beams are strung with fairylights, tissue paper kites, homemade piñatas, and mobiles constructed from Christmas ribbon and the heads of decapitated Barbie dolls dipped in glitter.
I am home. I let my body rock to the baseline, nod my head. There is something so soothing about Al Green. The music salves my anger, reweaves my fraying edges. I gather up what I need: a green pale filled with paint brushes, a wicker basket over loaded with tubes of acrylic, a 20 x 20 canvas stretched and stapled to a wood frame and a mirror.
After this year I’m taking off. I have a little money and by June I’ll have some more. I’ll flip a coin and pick a coast, buy a train ticket and just go. That’s all I’ve got as far as plans. Away sounds like heaven. Inhale. Exhale. If I can just make it through this year then I can go away, but the sad reality is I could barely make it through the luau. “Lay it down, lay it down, lay it down, put your head on the floor…” Al Green implores. I am listening.
Tomorrow will be infinitely worse. It is what it is and I can’t change it, but I can do something...one thing. I can take this blank canvas and make something beautiful. I plop down onto a purple cushion and lay today down beside me. I upend the basket of paint tubes,letting them clatter onto the rug as I fish for a metallic teal. No thinking now, just the magic of fat brush strokes moving in concentric circles until the canvas is bathed in waves of turquoise and gold, sea greens and blues and more gold. “Lay it down, let it go, fall in love…”
I pull the mirror toward me. I want to see myself through my own myopic eyes: burnt sienna skin, cinnamon eyes framed with angular glasses. I am round faced with pixie ears ringed from lobe to cuff in tiny silver hoops, a round soft black afro squiggling out from my head. Eyes like my mom, nose like my dad but punctuated with a silver stud, full dark lips, and a trace of a scar down my jaw line from when I fell ice skating a million years ago. I stare at my reflection until I can see my face for what it is, not stories or scars or genetic happenstance, just shapes and angles, a collection of slopes and planes, the hard jut of my chin, the tension in my mouth, the shadows in my irises. Focus. Mr. Wu says the first step is to capture what’s there, start with the obvious.
I etch the framework in purple, blot in bitter chocolate, flecks of jade, tangerine, a dash of silver. I drag blue gray shadows across my cheeks and shape angular magenta eyelids. A soft burgundy rounds the ridges of my wide African nose. Pearl essence makes it all melt together until I start to appear, my oversized eyes magnified by copper rimmed fifties glasses, my chipmunk cheeks. I don’t smile, because no one is around to require it of me. I sneer. I bare my teeth like a warning. I paint the warrior I wish I could be; streak my cheekbones with thin crimson stripes and draw white circles across my forehead. My hair is a chunky halo of indigo violet. I paint it rough like sea waves, the unscalable cliffs of nappy mountains that jut off the canvas in rippling layers. Then I add my arms and hands, palms up like I’m trying to bang my way out of my own picture. Wu says every good work of art holds a kernel of truth, an emotion, an expression that tells a little secret about the artist. And there it is, my truth. I’m desperate to claw my way out of my life.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
Will Grayson, Will Grayson
The character flaw I can most readily admit to is that I am a book-aholic and YA fiction is my vice of choice. If I have a shitty day, I don't reach for a bottle. I don't search for drugs. I buy myself a vanilla vanilla cupcake and go spend some time is the most conveniently located bookstore. Libraries are okay, but really I would rather just buy a book because 1: then not everyone is touching (read sneezing on or in general contaminating my book) and 2: if I fall in love with it I can read it until the pages start falling out.
"How many times are you going to read Harry Potter 7?" was a familiar refrain during my time living with Mz. Blu. "Until it stops being good," I'd answer. But it never stops being good. I think reading a book once is like buying a CD you like and listening to it only once. Why? Sure you know what it's going to sound like, you know the ending, but that doesn't mean you won't get something new out of it. Though there is a certain pleasure in reading a book for the first time, not knowing where the story is going to go. It's like a first kiss, unexpected, uncharted territory.
Having finished the majority of my travel collection...meaning the 10 books I brought with me from my last trip to Powell's, I found myself back at the bookstore. I was looking for something by K.L. Going who wrote Fat Kid Rules the World (if you haven't read it, you should), but ended up stumbling across Will Grayson, Will Grayson by John Green (author of Looking for Alaska, An Abundance of Katherines, and Paper Towns-three geniusly crafted YA books) and David Levithan (co-author of equally brilliant Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist and Ely and Naomi's No Kiss List and also author of several books I haven't gotten to yet and will clearly be buying next week).
Set in two suburbs of Chicago, Naperville and Evanston, the book is written in alternating chapters, narrated by two characters both named Will Grayson. One Will is gay. One Will is straight. And both Wills have issues with love and life and the whole caboodle. Straight Will is best friends with the real show stopping character of the book, Tiny Cooper, the 300lb gay football player/ writer, director, star actor, and producer of his own GSA sponsored musical Tiny Dancer. Through a series of hilariously and harsh circumstances that I won't spoil, the two Will Graysons and Tiny Cooper converge in a kick ass story of love, heartbreak, friendship, and randomness. In short, this book rocked my world. Okay, more than that, this book reminded me of what books should be like.
As I am slogging my way through draft 8 of my own first novel and wondering 1: Am I ever going to find an agent and 2:Is the book ever going to be all the way done and 3: when it's done is the book ever going to be good??? Will Grayson, Will Grayson, in addition to just being a fabulous read reminded me that what makes a book great is one's ability to connect with it and to get something out of it. The characters are so relate-able and Tiny's musical should be a real musical. I would definitely pay money to see it on stage. But more than just being entertaining, it is those brief moments of truth hidden in the jokes that make the book worth reading. I never know how to review a book without giving away too much, so I will shut up now and just say thanks John and David. You inspire me! Just wish Jodi Reamer would fall in love with my book too...maybe next week.
"How many times are you going to read Harry Potter 7?" was a familiar refrain during my time living with Mz. Blu. "Until it stops being good," I'd answer. But it never stops being good. I think reading a book once is like buying a CD you like and listening to it only once. Why? Sure you know what it's going to sound like, you know the ending, but that doesn't mean you won't get something new out of it. Though there is a certain pleasure in reading a book for the first time, not knowing where the story is going to go. It's like a first kiss, unexpected, uncharted territory.
Having finished the majority of my travel collection...meaning the 10 books I brought with me from my last trip to Powell's, I found myself back at the bookstore. I was looking for something by K.L. Going who wrote Fat Kid Rules the World (if you haven't read it, you should), but ended up stumbling across Will Grayson, Will Grayson by John Green (author of Looking for Alaska, An Abundance of Katherines, and Paper Towns-three geniusly crafted YA books) and David Levithan (co-author of equally brilliant Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist and Ely and Naomi's No Kiss List and also author of several books I haven't gotten to yet and will clearly be buying next week).
Set in two suburbs of Chicago, Naperville and Evanston, the book is written in alternating chapters, narrated by two characters both named Will Grayson. One Will is gay. One Will is straight. And both Wills have issues with love and life and the whole caboodle. Straight Will is best friends with the real show stopping character of the book, Tiny Cooper, the 300lb gay football player/ writer, director, star actor, and producer of his own GSA sponsored musical Tiny Dancer. Through a series of hilariously and harsh circumstances that I won't spoil, the two Will Graysons and Tiny Cooper converge in a kick ass story of love, heartbreak, friendship, and randomness. In short, this book rocked my world. Okay, more than that, this book reminded me of what books should be like.
As I am slogging my way through draft 8 of my own first novel and wondering 1: Am I ever going to find an agent and 2:Is the book ever going to be all the way done and 3: when it's done is the book ever going to be good??? Will Grayson, Will Grayson, in addition to just being a fabulous read reminded me that what makes a book great is one's ability to connect with it and to get something out of it. The characters are so relate-able and Tiny's musical should be a real musical. I would definitely pay money to see it on stage. But more than just being entertaining, it is those brief moments of truth hidden in the jokes that make the book worth reading. I never know how to review a book without giving away too much, so I will shut up now and just say thanks John and David. You inspire me! Just wish Jodi Reamer would fall in love with my book too...maybe next week.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Molestation or Homeland Security?
For those of you who missed the headline of USA Today, Today in the Sky, it reads: "Most OK with TSA full-body scanners", but what they don't say is that getting scanned is rapidly becoming the only alternative to getting molested. TSA chooses to use the term "pat-down", but let's call it what it is. If anyone is touching my private parts and they're not a licensed gynecologist or a very very lucky consensual partner, I think it's generally referred to as molestation, sexual assault, or the precursor to getting wheel kicked in the head.
So choose: get groped or allow the government to put you in an x-ray machine that is so detailed they can actually see your tampon. Hmm? Why is it that TSA just keeps coming up with more and more ways to strip of us of our civil liberties all the while preying on our fear of terrorism. I don't feel safer knowing I can't have a bottle of water on a plane. I am also not harboring any huge fears of getting stabbed by nail clippers or attacked by 4oz of cocoa butter. And I certainly don't feel safer knowing that now some neanderthal in a uniform will now be legally allowed to touch my genitals whenever I travel. And if you protest like John Tyner, a software engineer traveling through San Diego, you might be the one to get arrested and detained. Tyner was reported to have said: "If you touch my junk, I'm gonna have you arrested", shortly before his day went from not so great to shitty as he was denied access to his gate. I have to agree with Mr. Tyner.
Do I want to be able to travel safely? Yes, I am in no way an advocate for terrorism, but at what cost? I don't give a shit what Janet Napolitano says, I AM NOT BLOWING THIS OUT OF PROPORTION. This is very serious and very offensive. Ask yourself: How much are you willing to sacrifice to be held hostage by your fears? How many rights are you willing to relinquish to gain the illusion of safety? Because that's what it is, an illusion. You might go through the scan and the pat-down and still end up in a plane crash. Will your loved ones feel better to know you were groped before you died? If this is the next generation of security measure what comes after that? We're on a slippery slope America. We're living in scary times and I for one am saying NO. I'm not comfortable with it. I don't agree with it. Go back to the drawing board TSA and don't even think about touching "my junk".
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Saluting the Dream Catchers
Shoshana likes to take photos. It's been a part time obsession of hers for a million years. Every time I go visit her, it's like photo shoot central. So finally this year she decided to do something about it. She enrolled in photography class. During our last visit she spent hours searching for good light and taking pictures of everything and anything, even me. Guess what, she's actually pretty awesome at it...so awesome in fact that she just got to show two of her photos in an art walk in DC. So while those aren't up on facebook yet, here are some that were. I salute you Shoshana for having the guts and the drive to follow your passion! Your awesomeness is an inspiration to us all.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
The Prodigal Daughter
It's another sunny 70 degree day in Des Moines and I have Internet! I'm hanging out in the back room while the physical therapist works my grandma. My little room is filled with angels. Grandma collects them. They are the first thing I see when I wake up and the last thing I see before I go to bed. It's been a long time since I've thought of angels and church and the bible. I used to love to read the bible, especially the old testament where all the juicy, telenovela stuff goes down. David stories are my favorite. The boy who beat the Giant, the man who became a warrior and the king who disgraced himself for love.
But if there is one biblical story that I identify with the most it's the tale of the Prodigal Son. That's me. Prodigal. Wasteful. The kid who ran off an squandered her inheritance at juke joints and tapas bars (and a leather tannery), then came back broke and bashful to beg for a job at the stables. Except instead of getting table scraps he's greeted with a banquet and embraced into the fold. Today I am reminded how lucky I am...how blessed I've been to do the things I've done and to be able to come home after it all to a family that loves and supports me, even if they think I'm kind of crazy. It's a good day.
But if there is one biblical story that I identify with the most it's the tale of the Prodigal Son. That's me. Prodigal. Wasteful. The kid who ran off an squandered her inheritance at juke joints and tapas bars (and a leather tannery), then came back broke and bashful to beg for a job at the stables. Except instead of getting table scraps he's greeted with a banquet and embraced into the fold. Today I am reminded how lucky I am...how blessed I've been to do the things I've done and to be able to come home after it all to a family that loves and supports me, even if they think I'm kind of crazy. It's a good day.
Monday, November 8, 2010
November in Des Moines
It is a beautiful day in Des Moines, Iowa, proof that global warming is no bullshit. It should be snowy and nasty or at least dark and rainy right? The sky is blue, the grass is still green and though the trees have mostly lost their leaves, not even they seem overly stark against the backdrop of warm and sunny. But I am in a piss poor mood. It's November again. It always sneaks up on me. I never see it coming and then here it is and I am thinking about Robin and wondering when I will wake up and just get over it. Do you ever really get over it when your best friend dies? Do you ever stop wondering what she would be like now? Where she would live? Would she be married and have kids? Would she have ever made it to Australia? I don't stop wondering and all these years later I still feel that lump in my throat.
I ran yesterday and my whole body is telling me in no uncertain expletives that you can't just eat your way across several continents thinking that long walks and the occasional night of dancing counts as exercise. I am sore and bored and I want to go home, which is dumb because I don't have a home anymore. It's like wanting to go to Atlantis. You can want to go all you want, but it's not there.
Grandma is fine, kind of. Sometimes she seems good. She toasts her own bagels and is up and dressed before I can even start to think about getting up. But at other times she is just exhausted and can barely make it from one room to the next. The problem is the exhaustion is completely unpredictable. It's a bit scary, like the body she has lived in for the last 80 something years suddenly has it's own agenda and can break down at will. It makes me want to move, just to remember not to take it for granted that I can predictably get up and walk or dance or even run, as ill advised as it may be. I can't imagine waking up and suddenly not being able to do the everyday things I always do, but I guess now I don't have to imagine it. I'm seeing it and it is some kind of terrifying. What's it gonna be like when that happens to me? Will that happen to my parents? I'm an only child. Who the hell is going to help me out? I need to marry wealthy. I think that would help. Yeah, that's the solution. I'll get to work on that soon.
Grandma and I spent the weekend with my aunt running errands and getting me adjusted. Both of them took me out driving and I felt a bit like I was in Driver's Ed again. "The speed limit is 60 here. Take a right. No, not there, at the light...no the next light." I have now discovered the Dahls, the HiVee, the brand new Trader Joes, the Barnes and Nobles, the Borders (which is where I am now until my wifi situation gets sorted out) and even the Dress Barn. Now I just need to unpack my suitcase and figure out what the hell I'm doing with my life. In the meantime I am drowning myself in books in between watching Dr. Phil and cooking up nutritious and delicious dinners. Last night was ginger pork chops with granny smith apples and red onions, a side of garlic mashed yams, and french cut green beans. This evening it's rosemary chicken with carrots and potatoes, a nice green salad, and some sweet red grapes. If only life were like dinner, I could just reach into the fridge and whip up something elegant.
I ran yesterday and my whole body is telling me in no uncertain expletives that you can't just eat your way across several continents thinking that long walks and the occasional night of dancing counts as exercise. I am sore and bored and I want to go home, which is dumb because I don't have a home anymore. It's like wanting to go to Atlantis. You can want to go all you want, but it's not there.
Grandma is fine, kind of. Sometimes she seems good. She toasts her own bagels and is up and dressed before I can even start to think about getting up. But at other times she is just exhausted and can barely make it from one room to the next. The problem is the exhaustion is completely unpredictable. It's a bit scary, like the body she has lived in for the last 80 something years suddenly has it's own agenda and can break down at will. It makes me want to move, just to remember not to take it for granted that I can predictably get up and walk or dance or even run, as ill advised as it may be. I can't imagine waking up and suddenly not being able to do the everyday things I always do, but I guess now I don't have to imagine it. I'm seeing it and it is some kind of terrifying. What's it gonna be like when that happens to me? Will that happen to my parents? I'm an only child. Who the hell is going to help me out? I need to marry wealthy. I think that would help. Yeah, that's the solution. I'll get to work on that soon.
Grandma and I spent the weekend with my aunt running errands and getting me adjusted. Both of them took me out driving and I felt a bit like I was in Driver's Ed again. "The speed limit is 60 here. Take a right. No, not there, at the light...no the next light." I have now discovered the Dahls, the HiVee, the brand new Trader Joes, the Barnes and Nobles, the Borders (which is where I am now until my wifi situation gets sorted out) and even the Dress Barn. Now I just need to unpack my suitcase and figure out what the hell I'm doing with my life. In the meantime I am drowning myself in books in between watching Dr. Phil and cooking up nutritious and delicious dinners. Last night was ginger pork chops with granny smith apples and red onions, a side of garlic mashed yams, and french cut green beans. This evening it's rosemary chicken with carrots and potatoes, a nice green salad, and some sweet red grapes. If only life were like dinner, I could just reach into the fridge and whip up something elegant.
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