Tuesday, August 31, 2004


Blog threat as Schrock quits seat=The Hill.com=

unfounded? cruel? gossip?
who knows?

(yeah, it's a slow morning at the office...Madame is on a conference call and i look really busy typing furiously...)
the Literary Saloon at the complete review - 21 - 31 August 2004 Archive

i shall declare september and october to be Books I Never Would Have Read Otherwise months. let's hope i can learn something from it.

(this led me to the thought: i miss reading lists - those groan-inducing lists professors hand out before the quarter starts. you skim it, find the books you've heard of, squint at the books haven't, and calculate which ones you'll use for your end of seminar paper. i miss that. reading for a goal.)

dewey darko

this is the Librarian's new name. it combines his love of information sciences with his distinctly different side.

he arrives thursday night. A-- has made plans to spend one of these nights at a friend's house. i feel badly. dewey is going to inflict catastrophic carnality on my person and it's going to force A-- to flee our newly painted home.

he knows the book TRILBY.
how can i not like him?

Monday, August 30, 2004

top 10

The Top Ten Conservative Idiots, No. 168 - Democratic Underground


truthout, Republican Convention Coverage

inside the convention, Truthout.com style.
(it won't make your head pop off the way Faux News will...)

when men flip out

and who says that women are irrational and hysterical?

(the video takes a little time to load but the visual of keyes going over the deep end with walter jacobsen is priceless. heh heh heh)

Let the heartburn begin.

The Republican convention kicks off tonight and already the pre-coverage has burned a hole in my chest.

Taking a break from painting yesterday, I caught some GOP congresswomen from the south (including a rep from Kentucky) talking about why the GOP is so bad with single women. The Kentucky rep’s comments came down to this:
Single women don’t have a man to discuss these matters with, so they’re vulnerable to the Democrats’ fear tactics. Married women, on the other hand (their numbers are much better with this demographic), care a lot about safety and discuss these things with their husbands and look to the party that will keep them safer.

I almost had a stroke. Those statements, paraphrased as they are, exemplify all that is wrong with the Republican party. They don’t get it. They don’t get me, they don’t get my friends, they don’t get any of us.

AND they couldn't respond to the questions from Chris Matthews or the cute black chick on CNN about what the GOP had to offer women like me. They just said safety. That's what their policy is about. Safety.

Like we care.

Friday, August 27, 2004

'fro-lette: follow up

oh my gosh - my hair!

not so swift

so how much did the swift boat whatever really mess up our candidate?
is it true that our Fearless Leader (cough) pulled ahead in the polls??!

the gadflyer breaks it down here.

Thursday, August 26, 2004

so jp really liked the 'fro-lette thing. he passed it on to his friends. i joked that he and i could put together a rambling little collection of our ramblings and it would be a small, break out, weird hit.

he responded (and this is why he's my friend - he's nuts):

Our book will be the sleeper hit of the summer; international travelers will cherish it as THE it-book for homesickness. Stateside, it will create a renaissance of micro-stories. Copycats will be hot on our heels. You and me will have a very public falling out over the promotion obligations. After a few years, we'll become rivals; we'll begrudgingly attend each other's dinner parties at our exaggeratedly luxurious beach homes. I will not like your spouse. In the end, you'll get a movie deal and become reclusive and anorexic in your asmatic middle-age; I will invest poorly and end up hosting Evening Magazine in Portland, Oregon. Before I die, our fans will organize a reunion concert gala for the two of us, no one will attend, but the dvd will continue to sell modestly due to infomercials. I will die quietly in a non-airconditioned room flanked by an ex-wife and a male nurse from El Salvador who was just trying to take my blood pressure. Workers cleaning out my high-rise condo will find my secret suitcase full of unpublished symphonies, masses, and musical scores. You will write a book about my life, which will be your biggest success; my sons will publicly denounce you, but you will find passion in non-fiction. You'll marry your publisher in a small ceremony at the Getty Museum; it will be your fifth marriage, but you'll wear white.

it's like a vincent gallo movie (without the oral sex).

conservative academics & gas

combined with time's article on the upswing of campus conservatives (a story they retell every year) this is going to give me heartburn.

conservative academics puzzle me: what's so interesting about rehashing the same questions and arguments about literature, history and science? isn't knowledge supposed to be progressive (as in, forward moving)? i guess a conservative reading of jane eyre would celebrate jane's domestication; it's a valid reading but an incredibly shallow one, considering the book's social context.

but i suppose that's the difference between conservative academics and those who aren't: context and the willingness to see it.

Wednesday, August 25, 2004



it's not as biting as the guerilla art i remember from the 80s and the Reagan administration but at least it's visible.


i can't fight it anymore.

my hair has officially evolved into a big, untameable 'fro-like entity. it lacks the symmetry and firmness of a traditional 'fro, true. instead, it's just a big curly mess. emphasis on big.

because my mother was deeply afraid of 'bad' hair (she was asian - what did she know of nappy hair!) she was obsessed with conquering my hair's curl. her battle had the fierceness of a colonizing force bent on crushing indigenous insurgents and converting them all to christianity.

my hair was heathen and she was its savior. she relaxed it, cut it, set it, wrestled with it, braided it, cried over it, wrenched it, curled it, blow dried it and cursed over it until she finally had to give up in defeat. algerian freedom fighters had nothing on my unruly hair.

for a while, even i wanted to conquer my hair. it was too big. it had too much wildness to it. it cast its own shadow. it didn't lay down, it was frizzy, it misbehaved. it got in the way during sex. in fact, my hair was downright unromantic. instead of artful tousledness after a bout of amour, my hair was electrified, bushy, splayed, aggressively present. it didn't glide silkily over my lovers; it attacked and interfered with them. they had to push it out the way. it annoyed the hell out of me.

but after the expense of blow drying my hair straight became too much, i just let it go. i got tired of the disapproving stares the other stylists would give as my faithful hair wench sweated and toiled with a round brush and red-hot blowdryer in hand over my head. besides, curiosity was high. what was my mom afraid of? was my hair really unmanagable? was it really so out of control?


it is utterly unmanagable. it defies taming. i cannot make it behave and it will not fit under a hat.

my niece has hair like this. when i visit, i can't help but giggle at her curly black/filipino/mexican head of hair. it's a wild fuzzy little black dandelion. i know that hair, i know that halo of frizz; i know the hair band's stinging snap when it can't go around a ponytail. i know what it's like to want to look cool and demure instead of like you've been pulled through the underbrush backward. i want to tell her that there's no such thing as 'good' hair, that it'll never be straight, that it makes her interesting to have hair that invites comment.

i want to tell her there's something imminently freeing about standing on a street corner in chicago, the wind whipping at your body, and your hair undulating around your head, waving to passersby, announcing itself while everything else stands still.

Tuesday, August 24, 2004

the brits are better

The Guardian has The Digested Read.
We have the Readers Digest.


lying lying lying

this is, what, the 3rd major paper to come out and say it?

a decision

i've just come out the shower and i've decided to enter a contest.
a national chapbook competition.
the deadline is between oct 1 and dec 22.

20 poems. it could happen.

Monday, August 23, 2004

Yesterday J—and I went to Schuba’s and listened to the lamest debate on foreign policy ever, sponsored by Chicago Council of Foreign Relations/GOAT (Globally Occupy the Attention of young Chicagoans). It wasn’t as tedious as listening to a bunch of undergrads debate free speech, but it was close. It’s gag-worthy when the first question (albeit from a very pretty African American fiddler girl) is “What is democracy?”

And it gets even worse when the exchange is so polite we may as well be watching a tranquilized version of Meet the Press.

It’s all well and good to educate us masses about foreign policy in a neighborhood bar while drinking beer and smoking cigarettes. I think we all should get politicized in bars. But come one, lobbing softballs to an ex-ambassador and a journalist from The Economist is lame. I didn’t learn a single thing.

In another, less critical vein, I was struck by how well-dressed the crowd was, considering it was Sunday afternoon in a bar – bright red lipstick, pointy flats, pencil skirts, clutch bags and artfully tousled pony-tails on the women and carefully worn jeans, flowy B&R cabana shirts and sandals on the men. (Not for my friend J—, who dug out his hiking athletic shoes, sweater and shorts combo.)

Sunday, August 22, 2004

today was gorgeous - a balmy, powder blue sky and military planes and choppers roaring off the lake. H-- came over for lunch after i taped a baseboard and light plates and we sat on the patio under a tree eating mexican food, sharing boy stories. we coined the phrase 'wet nacho.' we ate guava soda and i had flan.

she wanted to look for apartments so we strolled down streets i'd only seen through the passenger window of A--'s car.

our neighborhood likes its privacy; our houses tuck themselves away from the streets. i discovered three gardens, a hidden sherlock holmes alley and several cozy condos covered with violets and ivy. the sun was lowering and the air hardly moved. a few fat bees it was perfect to walk slowly around hubbard and may, noticing the gargoyles leaning off the garages, the queer entrance off the hidden alley covered with tin cans and license plates. and we even have a cobbled street!

i need to get out more.

Saturday, August 21, 2004

guilty late night pleasure

orca, killer whale. the richard harris/charlotte rampling movie about an ahab-y fisherman who kills a whale accidentally, her mate goes bezerk and terrorizes the town then kills harris on an ice cap as revenge.

i saw this movie when i was a kid and i love it.

Friday, August 20, 2004

story time

read a story. it's good for you.

Thursday, August 19, 2004

vacation over...

Iraq problem just keeps festering

and the holiday from reality comes to an end.
(thanks dc)

Wednesday, August 18, 2004


In a department as small as the English dept at UM, any rumor of a good looking guy with a soft accent spreads quickly. And so for weeks I hunted for a glimpse of this person who could reduce hard-bitten feminist theorizing women to gushy swooning. For weeks I was denied – until the morning, running late to teach on the first day of class, I helped a guy figure out the copier in our grad student mailroom.

I stood behind him, looking at the clock on the wall, watching him purse his lips as he turned his book this way and that, watching as he pushed button after button and nothing happened. One after another, blank pages slid out the paper tray. This went on for nearly five minutes until, bursting with contempt and impatience, I stepped around him, punched the correct combination of buttons and glared at him in his tweed jacket and khakis. He smiled blandly, held out his hand and said, “I’m Kelvin. It’s my first day.”

Yes, he was cute (floppy brown hair, milk-like skin, big brown eyes) but I also thought he was a total incompetent for not knowing how to use a copy machine.

Then - one brisk gray November afternoon he wore a kilt, walked into Caribou Café during my office hours and time stopped. I was in the middle of a sentence and I swear I went deaf. Then I went clinically insane. I switched my office hours to Espresso Royale instead of Caribou; I discovered he had an office around the corner from mine; I figured out his teaching schedule; friends spotted him around campus, reported back to me and I slowly began to fill in the little black diary in my head. C—, a fabulously gay friend of mine, lived in his same apartment building and we both swooned over my abject of affection’s shabby preppiness.

(ha ha, I mean to write ‘object’ and wrote ‘abject’ instead. I think I’ll let it stick.)

We adored his kilt. We giggled at his floppy hair, his fisherman’s coat (blue wool with a hood, plaid lining and wooden frogs), his accent (that turned out not to be an accent). I filled two journals filled with KS miscellany – the quality of his voice, his clothes, his care of his students (he was a rather innovative teacher), his favorite beer, his favorite pen, his violin case, his hair. He had divine hair.

I was totally gone. Crushed out. Enamored. Irrational. Crazy. I could be surrounded by friends in the café and he’d come in and I’d feel it. My neck would tingle and it was as if all the air in the room had been sucked out. I felt demolished by him. After a year, a girl friend Jessica arranged my first conversation with him. He told a story about his family’s croft and I … can’t remember anything else except how the light of the café bounced off his glasses and hid his eyes. A runaway train could have crashed through the café and I would have died happily underneath the wreckage.

(have I mentioned I was a virgin at the time?)

My friends were willing to be my eyes, but they wondered why I was so dazzled. L—was exasperated with my willingness to be a passive rag; J—was puzzled because he was so bland. J—once described him as a cardigan wearing bird with a broken wing. Eventually, 2 years later actually, my crush turned into disdain, I got rid of my nagging virginity, and I moved to Chicago.

Today, after my companionably silent lunch, immediately after my last post, I googled him. For some reason his name was in my head after being absent for years and I googled him.

And there he was. It was like a kick in the head.

companionable silence

i found myself eating lunch at brehon's today with our receptionist and general office boy, R--. we sat at the bar, shared cigarettes and ate lunch while he did the crossword puzzle in the sun-times and i greedily wolfed down the last chapters of REVENGE by stephen fry.

(modern revenge tales are wonderful; this one is so well-done and delicious and wicked and cruel. i love it and wonder if there are some people upon whom i would like to inflict a swift and harsh punishment.

oh, carry lalabro...if only i knew where you lived, i'd make your life a bizarre hell.)

it's nice to sit at a bar with a person you know and not feel the need to chat. it's just me, the book, the extra bacon in my salad, and the scratchy curls of cigarette smoke.

jp tells a story

this is my friend jp's blog. the jade story is cool.

jp and i met in michigan. we were taking a german class together for the summer. both of us were going to be first years in our grad programs that september. and both of us were horrified by ann arbor (he's from seattle and i'm from los angeles) - no spanish, no good music, no brown people, these huge pats of butter, these accents that just grated on the ear, and no good ethnic food anywhere. horrified, i tell you. it was like living in a big bland vanilla bubble.

so we were joined by our mutual horror but stuck together because he was the funniest fucking guy in the summer program and was so laid back, it made our german teacher hubert (who i thought was totally cute, with his little bavarian afro) shake his head and laugh. jp would saunter in to class 45 minutes late wearing soccer shorts and a t-shirt and carrying only his german book. for an excuse, he'd say something like "i have to walk uphill to get here!"

we also stuck together because jp could cook like an old filipino woman. you don't get rid of friends who cook like old filipino women.

you also don't get rid of friends who go rollerblading with you at 2 am, who will go with you to find the coolest pieces of metal to sit on because it's so fucking hot outside and you just wanna cool your butt, who will make fun of latin declensions, can sing the woman's part from 'les miserables' or break spontaneously into dance on a street corner because he can.

so go read his story about jade in guatemala.

Tuesday, August 17, 2004


a little sad that interracial friendships are such a low percentage.
but how cool that A-- and i are on the cutting edge of race relations?
so the worst romance novel ever is going along very slowly. i suspect i have the wrong girl and so far the guy doesn't have a face. she drinks too much and i think she may end up marrying the gay guy.

which would be typical.
olympic musing: last night, i noticed that behind the silky mysteries of their shorts, gymnastics guys have very teeny tiny penises. and i missed the synchronized diving. dammit.
more olympic musing: remember how the olympic coverage would do little featurettes of the town they were in? what happened to that? the only thing of athens i've seen is the stupid stadium! what's the city like? where are the people? what about the shots of the crowds? hey, where are the crowds? and who's covering the games? i remember when they'd actually show the talking heads before the events. that's how we got to know those guys - we could see them.

like, what do greeks drive? how's the train? where's the map of the city? you're in the cradle of civilization - show me a temple or ruin or two! what about little interviews with greeks on the street, what about food, how many condoms have been sent to the olympic village? where's the fun stuff?

the only good thing about this olympics is the website for nbcolympics.com. it's a trivia buff's wet dream. (for instance, did you know the philippines has NEVER won an olympic medal? ever??)

Monday, August 16, 2004

if someone could tell me how to catch the synchronized diving on tv, that would be great.
a note to future criminals: avoid my roommate A--. she has a temper. and if you try to steal her wallet again, she'll kick your ass.

yes. A-- was a semi-victim of petty crime yesterday. she's fine, they gave her the wallet back and she reported it but it made her feel icky and i felt guilty because i didn't have my phone when she called after it happened.

(not to mention the fact the guys who did it were black and it just made me get all 'no! come on! can we NOT be stereotypes, please!!')

so, in a paltry move to make up for it, i treated us to a bbq dinner (which hit the spot, but the collard greens were all wrong). yes, we will drown our trauma in food.

Saturday, August 14, 2004


that's the score i give the opening ceremonies...call me nuts but i thought the cirque du soleil diorama-ness of it all was pretty cool. and no one booed us. (i was really worried about this.)

the glowing belly was creepy, thank god for the internet because i didn't recognize 1/3 of those tiny countries, there was way too much beige, and erki (the decathlete from estonia) was totally hot; yay, the filipinos, i like the messed up greek alphabet order, our hats were cute, the poor children singing in drab gray sacks made me think 'star trek' but at least it wasn't as weird as that philip glass-like ceremony in albertville, and yes, there was a lump in my throat when the big olympic cigar slanted down, caught fire and the games officially began.

the befuddled surprise of the IOC president at the crowd's roar of approval every time he said something in greek was good, too.

Friday, August 13, 2004

ignoring the work on my desk i wonder: what makes an olympic sport?

i've come up with rough categories:

Can YOU Do That? (aka, The Wheatties Box Sports): Track & Field, Gymnastics, Weightlifting

Tough n Grunty (it's like extreme PE): Tennis, Wrestling, Boxing, Swimming/Diving, Soccer, Rowing, that biking thing, speedwalking, Canoe/Kayak, Beach/Volleyball, Field Hockey, Tae Kwan Do, Judo (basically anything involving kicking and punching), Basketball, Softball

AristoLame (things you can do at a tea party - or people did at estates in the 19th century): Fencing, Badminton, Synchronized Swimming, Equestrian, Ping Pong (that's what it's called, people!), Shooting & Archery (it's target practice) ...

I'm forgetting others but I think that category 1, half of category 2 and only 1 of category 3 should be in the Games.
Flak Magazine: The Decade in Books, piece by piece: Blurbs, 1-11-01

and i think i'll get this one, too. just for the blurbs.
(i'm so easily led, i could be in a cult.)

synapse finally fires

Bad sex makes me angry. For days after having bad sex I will feel like I can't fit into my skin and I will lay awake nights wondering what went wrong. Then, because of the insomnia, I will be short-tempered at work - or worse, I will be lethargic at work and I will stare at my boss like she's a cow chewing her cud in a wet field and I will wonder, again, why I went to grad school in the first place if I will end up dying as someone's executive assistant. Bad sex will prolong the hormonal itch I need to scratch but will make me wary of the attempt- and this cowardice will make me even more angry. To be a scared woman is to be a weak woman and for sex to make me weak is to make me angry.

My anger will build when I begin to plot the next time I can have sex and plan the ways I can avoid the badness of it. I will read manuals, advice columns; I will squint at diagrams and will increase my Kegels. It is a sex workout and this will make me even angrier since I haven't been to the real gym in weeks and the pudgy softness around my middle will be another cause of worry - worry that will make my anger grow.

And then I will think about who made me angry, who inflicted the bad sex on me and I will be even angrier. That lax, lazy, flaccid, derelict, casual, indifferent, neglectful, slack and vague lover.

'No more!' I determine and quietly acknowledge that I wouldn't have to be this angry if only I was patient about being with the person I like being with. Even though he lives almost 800 miles away. Which just makes me angry all over again.
Flak Magazine: The Decade in Books, piece by piece: Typography, 1-11-01

this is a beautiful cover. i should read this book.

(and where would i be without bookslut to point these things out to me?)

Thursday, August 12, 2004

hold me

CNN.com - Cuddling new craze for New York's singles - Aug 9, 2004

am i premenstrual if this appeals to me?
or really desperate?

you know you wanna

NCW--Ted Kooser

say hello to your new poet laureate.

After Years

Today, from a distance, I saw you
walking away, and without a sound
the glittering face of a glacier
slid into the sea. An ancient oak
fell in the Cumberlands, holding only
a handful of leaves, and an old woman
scattering corn to her chickens looked up
for an instant. At the other side
of the galaxy, a star thirty-five times
the size of our own sun exploded
and vanished, leaving a small green spot
on the astronomer's retina
as he stood on the great open dome
of my heart with no one to tell.

Ted Kooser


once upon a time i was young and fresh. then i moved to chicago. still young - sort of fresh-like. then i partied my ass off. less fresh. then i discovered online dating. bloom totally gone and now wilting around the edges.

i will be 35 next month. dang.

it's a yay/boo situation.
yay - i have reached the biological point of no return: i can officially reject the idea of having kids, i'm 35! too old!
yay - i am officially WOMAN - mere girls can go fuck off.
yay - i can shop at Saks and not feel matronly! i have entered the maturity age. yay - i have officially reached my sexual peak.

but then there's the boo.
boo - my back hurts when i bend over.
boo - is that a hair on my chin?? is that TWO?
boo - wow, i have momma hips.
boo - my circuit days are over.
boo - i'll be 40 soon.

Wednesday, August 11, 2004


so for the past two weeks work has been...ass clenchingly exhausting. one partner in the firm bought out the other and now the media blitz has begun. we're a small firm and the professional community we're in is large but chatty (i.e, word travels fast) and now that our news release hit the papers, things have been blasting forward.

since i work with the ceo, i've been blasting forward, too.

in fact, i'm blasting so fast i think i popped a blood vessel in my brain.
and i think i only had one pee today.

Tuesday, August 10, 2004


Oddly Enough News Article | Reuters.com

sometimes there are no words.
BBC NEWS | Entertainment | Haul of rare Larkin poems found

my scottish pastor spits in rage when he hears larkin's name, but i don't care: what an incredible find.

Monday, August 09, 2004

rabbit monday

huddled, quivering, twitching in my hole, i'm waiting for this day to end. the pink slides on my feet cannot compensate for the way today has ravished the utter calm of my weekend.

and i'm no closer to finding fabulous books today than i was last week.
i'm going to have to start choosing books the way i choose wines - the label. for a while i did this when i was in college (and how awful that midnight special closed! i only mention that because it was my favorite bookstore when i was at ucla.)

anyway, picking books based on cover art wasn't so bad. yes, there were disappointments (How Proust Can Save Your Life) but then there were the good ones: The Virgin Suicides (in hardcover, long before Sofia Coppola got her hands on it), Pagan Babies, The Lost Art of the Love Affair, The Pillow Book of Lady Onogoro. it meant i paid more for hardcover but book buying should be an investment; it should make you hurt, somehow.

perhaps i'm taking such a long time because i haven't found a book to bruise me.

Saturday, August 07, 2004

lost weekend, pt 2

...and then i cried on the couch while watching the gina davis baseball movie...

lost weekend

it's really sad how much bad porn is on cable.

Friday, August 06, 2004

the moratorium i've declared on anything political over the next few weeks is harder than i expected. it's everywhere. all the sites on my favorites list are political: newspapers, public policy sites, political blogs...

i'm going through withdrawal and at each tiny glimpse i have of speeches, appearances, news, commercials, or rumors of the campaign my heart leaps and a little tingle hits my knees. (that's where my political jones is, apparently. my knees.)

i've also made the rude discovery that the GOP mail i've been studiously and stealthily destroying doesn't belong to my boss but to her husband.

Thursday, August 05, 2004

august minutiae

in the words of my friend K-- this should be the most ghetto, dangerous and chaotic olympics ever.

let us thank the technology god (teknos) for tivo.

oh, and ralph fiennes is voldemort. we are pleased.

and look, a new bushism:
WASHINGTON Aug. 5, 2004 - President Bush offered up a new entry for his catalog of "Bushisms" on Thursday, declaring that his administration will "never stop thinking about new ways to harm our country and our people."
Bush misspoke as he delivered a speech at the signing ceremony for a
$417 billion defense spending bill.

i'm so glad he's my president.


it's official:
the Librarian will arrive the first weekend in sept and will stay for a long time - 5 days.

is 5 days long? that seems long to me. very long. but since he's driving, i guess, that's two days on the road and 3 days with me. A-- asked if he was cheap. he's not cheap - he's a librarian. (he purchased a car for the whopping price tag of $150, however. so he's thrifty. extremely thrifty.)

also official:
i'm not calling the Ex this weekend. i think i need some Me-time. some time where i don't have to suffer the deleterious effects of pot-phallus.
perhaps desire based on mutual indifference is hotter than desire built on stability and good mental health.

in other words, the Ex and i were clearly better together when i didn't like him as much.

there is no triangle. just an angle that's leaning slightly to the left.

Tuesday, August 03, 2004

my friend H-- went to a screening of brown bunny and vincent gallo made a point of making googly eyes at her.

he's sort of creepy.


CNN.com - Girl testifies Disney's Tigger molested her - Aug 3, 2004

key quote: "This defendant knew where his paws were..."

give me books or give me death

so since i'm taking a break from politics (and boys can only take up so much time) i need books. books that have nothing to do with politics. books that can make me feel like i'm on vacation (even a very bad vacation.)

when i go to bookstores i just shuffle like a lady of bag. so i need book ideas. any. email me titles.

anything - poetry, history, literary theory (god that would be great), cookbooks, travel, fiction. i need to read or my head will melt.
current titles:
the polished hoe (colonialism and a murder in the caribbean)
the fencing master (intrigue and more fencing terms you could shake a foil at)

comic obssession


a wordy piece on bendis' powers series. (thanks, bookslut.)

but the last book of volume 1 is coming out soon and i can't wait (totally tired of trying to track down vol 1: 27, 30).
the convention has exhausted me so i'm taking a couple weeks off from even paying attention to political news. my outrage-meter stays in the red so, for the health of everyone involved, i'm ignoring the president, the candidates and the awful news from iraq.

instead, i'm concentrating on boys. politics/boys: i think it's a fair trade.

saw the village over the weekend and i think i'm the only person who liked it. everyone's caught up in the 'i figured it out' contest that i think they miss the point. a movie isn't a puzzle. it's not a game of clue. a good movie is supposed to be about narrative - about story, not tricks.

it's a good story. is it the most complex story? no. is it a timeless story? no - it's a fable, people. it's robinson crusoe or any dystopic tale. the marketing of the movie harmed it, i think. it set up expectations of a horror fest that's not there. the structure could have been better. it peaked too soon and so the rest of the film you sort of feel cheated. as for the trick, or the twist - i think it's a victim of the structure of the movie. the reveal could have been more powerful if it had been staved off.

but i liked the story. the story's moral center is a little wobbly but the whole thing was rather clever and sweet. it's a familiar story, but it's a hell of a lot more intelligent than Bourne Supremacy (which doesn't even resemble the book in the slightest.)

Monday, August 02, 2004

the Ex has dug himself out of teaching the summer session; he's free, frisky and wants to start all over again.
the Librarian has confirmed that he's on his way on Labor Day.

is this a triangle?
i don't know.

i'm feeling guilty like it is...