Rep. John Murtha intrigues me. His background is heroic, his idea for pulling troops from Iraq is suicidal but his role in Hilary's future is interesting. After a few months of Cindy Sheehan's shaming of the president, her dingbat idea is catching fire. Even Republican Senators are wondering that three years of a shooting war is too much for a country to bear, even though casualties haven't reached the levels of the morning of D-Day. How, one has to wonder, does the junior senator from New York handle this growing anti-war spasm?
Hillary Clinton, an anti-Saddam hawk, cannot be happy. She has heard the intelligence report since the mid-90s, she has sat on intelligence committees, and met with hindreds if not thousands of soldiers, reservists and airmen in her tour of military bases in New York. How does a neocon - yes, a neocon - convince the anti-war, bring them home, no blood for oil Left that she is their chice for the White House in '08.
Easy: she can't. Expect Hillary to go to the other side to join Sheehan, Murtha and countless other senators and representatives from both the right and left who have lost their stomach for the war. It's over. Expect to see politicians on listening tours so that they can vote to bring the troops home.
Sunday, November 20, 2005
Saturday, November 12, 2005
The O'Hara Factor
English Major Bears His Soul: I've tried to read Appointment in Samarra at least three times and I couldn't make it past the third page. I hate to admit this but I am a font queen -- if the book is ugly, the font too small and the paper too ugly, I usually give up. And because most of John O'Hara's work is out of print and only promoted in a poorly packaged collections, the publishers are practically daring readers to discover this amazing writer. Appt in Sam is well worth the wait and is designed for readers who have lived a little. I've heard and read several critics say it is the true Jazz Age novel instead of The Great Gatsby and they are right. Appt in Sam is about class, drink and desperation while F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote about longing, true love, and limitless wealth -- all things teenage future English majors dream about. Talk about playing to the back row. If there is a list of great American novels, Appointment in Samarra should rank between Couples by John Updike and The Human Stain by Philip Roth.
I'm Famous! (and kidding, if you're humor-impaired)
This is me, on the 'perils' of gay marriage. Enjoy
Monday, October 31, 2005
Syrup Blogging, Baby
Last Friday, co-workers mentioned a terrific smell wafting through our SOHO office while they worked late the night before. Like maple syrup or fresh pancakes, they said. The NY Times even had a short, only-in-New York story the next day but there might be something serious at work here.
All last week, workers at Grand Central Terminal had their smell detectors out and running. These are long, thin aerials that hang from the entrance ways to the lower section of GCT, on the subway platforms and even on small carts in the middle of the main floor. What for? They track a colorless and odorless gas that officials release to test the flow of air where thousands of people walk through each hour. So if Al Queda releases a poison gas, the people in charge can see or predict where the gas will flow.
Why not test the release of a gas outdoors and check the log of phone calls to 911? No need to make it smell like rotten eggs -- which might panic the public -- but something homey and re-assuring.
Me, I like cinnamon.
All last week, workers at Grand Central Terminal had their smell detectors out and running. These are long, thin aerials that hang from the entrance ways to the lower section of GCT, on the subway platforms and even on small carts in the middle of the main floor. What for? They track a colorless and odorless gas that officials release to test the flow of air where thousands of people walk through each hour. So if Al Queda releases a poison gas, the people in charge can see or predict where the gas will flow.
Why not test the release of a gas outdoors and check the log of phone calls to 911? No need to make it smell like rotten eggs -- which might panic the public -- but something homey and re-assuring.
Me, I like cinnamon.
Saturday, October 22, 2005
Un-Savvy Boob
Yesterday was a good day to be a reporter. Instead of writing or editing a story about trading platforms, networking or asset management, I wrote a breaking news item about a strip club. Why? The CEO of networking firm Savvis is disputing a credit card charge at a strip club to the tune of $241K.
The editor of our sister newsletter asked me to write it up so I went to work. I called Savvis three times for comment plus I sent an e-mail to the communications director. No reply.
I then called Scores, the high-end strip club that gets tons of publicity as Howard Stern's favorite place to blow off steam. I interviewed Lonnie Hanover, the club's publicist, and he couldn't have been nicer or more professional.
My favorite reply came when I asked how many dancers entertained the Savvis party of four back in October 2003. He said that he didn't recall but that "there were so many."
Sadly, my fellow editor removed one from my story, which went like this:
"On the morning the story broke, Savvis had yet to add a link to the NY Daily News story on the firm's In the News section on the company Web site."
Here's the Yahoo News story. Waters should cover it in our December issue.
The editor of our sister newsletter asked me to write it up so I went to work. I called Savvis three times for comment plus I sent an e-mail to the communications director. No reply.
I then called Scores, the high-end strip club that gets tons of publicity as Howard Stern's favorite place to blow off steam. I interviewed Lonnie Hanover, the club's publicist, and he couldn't have been nicer or more professional.
My favorite reply came when I asked how many dancers entertained the Savvis party of four back in October 2003. He said that he didn't recall but that "there were so many."
Sadly, my fellow editor removed one from my story, which went like this:
"On the morning the story broke, Savvis had yet to add a link to the NY Daily News story on the firm's In the News section on the company Web site."
Here's the Yahoo News story. Waters should cover it in our December issue.
Monday, October 17, 2005
Miller's Crossing
Yesterday's four-page autopsy of the Judith Miller affair was odd. It felt like a hit piece from the very beginning with an anecdote about one of the Times star reporters getting her facts wrong. The first paragraph has Miller misspelling Joe Wilson's wife's name as Valerie Flame. Nice anecdote but it subtly shows that some in the Times newsroom would like Miller gone, thank you very much.
The piece seems thorough in nailing Dick Cheney's chief of staff as the official leaker of Plame's identity but that Miller and others were told she was an analyst and not an operative. If that's true, then no crime was committed. Just DC gossip.
But what of Miller -- does she leave the Times? They certainly cannot fire her even though her reporting on WMD was erroneous and boosterish. She went to jail for 87 days, for goodness sakes. As much as they'd like to dump her, that's no way to treat a lady.
The piece seems thorough in nailing Dick Cheney's chief of staff as the official leaker of Plame's identity but that Miller and others were told she was an analyst and not an operative. If that's true, then no crime was committed. Just DC gossip.
But what of Miller -- does she leave the Times? They certainly cannot fire her even though her reporting on WMD was erroneous and boosterish. She went to jail for 87 days, for goodness sakes. As much as they'd like to dump her, that's no way to treat a lady.
Network News
Okay, I bought a home networking kit at the height of summer and after three, maybe four attempts, it is now finally working. I'll spare you the gory details but I am now typing this from my kid's PC. Wireless, baby! After the Motorola techie helped me set-up the network and set-up some security, I asked the wrong question.
"So, I can share files between the two PCs, right?"
"Well, no sir. You'll have to call Microsoft for that."
"But it's a home network. You should be able to share files, right?"
"This unit is only for sharing Internet access. Microsoft will help you with file sharing."
Great, now they tell me. Still, it is pretty neat.
"So, I can share files between the two PCs, right?"
"Well, no sir. You'll have to call Microsoft for that."
"But it's a home network. You should be able to share files, right?"
"This unit is only for sharing Internet access. Microsoft will help you with file sharing."
Great, now they tell me. Still, it is pretty neat.
Saturday, October 08, 2005
Somebody Stop Me
I am in the Ft Lauderdale Airport waiting for my flight and I have no book with me. A book dilemma this profound should be making my hands shake. Actually the book I finished -- The Other Hollywood: An Oral History of the Porn Film Industry -- is in my garment bag in the hull of some 757 and I have nothing to read. Nothing. I was going to bring a paperback but nothing appealed to me. Gods and Generals? The kid is a decent writer compared to his dad, who wrote The Killer Angels but this sequel is just leaden. Junior's book on the Mexican-American war was much better but the name escapes me.
So do I buy a book? The selection is awful, all Grisham, Grifton, Steele and Patterson. I feel my brain shrinking just looking at the covers. The bookstore does have the new Zadie Smith but I doubt I can justify $25 for a new book. I loved her White Teeth -- just amazing even if it was a touch over-praised -- and this one has received glowing reviews as well. If it were in paperback, I'd scoop it up.
Maybe I'll just tap out some notes for my novel. I have an idea about a guy who gets a vasectomy and it launches the mother of all mid-life crises. Not based on personal experience but I see a slim, comedic novel about a happily married man with three different girlfriends. Who has the time for this much madness? Me, I hope to have the time to write the damned thing. How's this for a title: Snip.
Snip by Phil Albinus. I like that.
So do I buy a book? The selection is awful, all Grisham, Grifton, Steele and Patterson. I feel my brain shrinking just looking at the covers. The bookstore does have the new Zadie Smith but I doubt I can justify $25 for a new book. I loved her White Teeth -- just amazing even if it was a touch over-praised -- and this one has received glowing reviews as well. If it were in paperback, I'd scoop it up.
Maybe I'll just tap out some notes for my novel. I have an idea about a guy who gets a vasectomy and it launches the mother of all mid-life crises. Not based on personal experience but I see a slim, comedic novel about a happily married man with three different girlfriends. Who has the time for this much madness? Me, I hope to have the time to write the damned thing. How's this for a title: Snip.
Snip by Phil Albinus. I like that.
Friday, September 23, 2005
Henry Frickin' James
As an English major, I had no guilt about skipping over the works of Henry James. I tried to read The Bostonians and settled on the movie for an exam back in he late 80s, and more than a few critics write that James was an acquired taste.
So it's odd to report that I have read Daisy Miller and Washington Square and have my sites set on The Wings of the Dove. To bone up on my James -- you said bone up -- I have been reading Colm Toibin's The Master, the recent novel about James living in Europe around 1896. It's a fine novel once you realize there is absolutely no action. Zilch. Instead, you get to see an artist search for his stories and attempt to live his cloistered, stuffy life.
I only wish it came with hyperlinks. Toibin goes through James' life and offers episodes where real life inspires novels and stories. Thank to the Barnes & Noble introduction to Daisy Miller and Wings, I have a decent sense of his life and literary output but it would be great if I could click on a word, a name or a passage and be able to read where this fits in the writer's life and cannon. That would be neat.
One enterprising editor/publisher should release an annotated copy of this novel with information on James and his works. Think of it like the director's commentary on a DVD.
The Wings of the Dove, on deck after The Master.
So it's odd to report that I have read Daisy Miller and Washington Square and have my sites set on The Wings of the Dove. To bone up on my James -- you said bone up -- I have been reading Colm Toibin's The Master, the recent novel about James living in Europe around 1896. It's a fine novel once you realize there is absolutely no action. Zilch. Instead, you get to see an artist search for his stories and attempt to live his cloistered, stuffy life.
I only wish it came with hyperlinks. Toibin goes through James' life and offers episodes where real life inspires novels and stories. Thank to the Barnes & Noble introduction to Daisy Miller and Wings, I have a decent sense of his life and literary output but it would be great if I could click on a word, a name or a passage and be able to read where this fits in the writer's life and cannon. That would be neat.
One enterprising editor/publisher should release an annotated copy of this novel with information on James and his works. Think of it like the director's commentary on a DVD.
The Wings of the Dove, on deck after The Master.
Sunday, September 18, 2005
Raunch Dressing, Not on the Side
The review of Ariel Levy's Female Chauvinist Pigs in today's NY Times Book Review triggered some thoughts. Levy expands her New York Magazine article on the rise of Girls Gone Wild, magazines like Maxim and Stuff, and porn stars appearing everywhere outside their movies on regular shows and music videos as if it were normal. Well, according to Levy, it is normal: America has been pornified.
Jennifer Egans' review mentions one omission of the book's argument and might have missed another. Egan says Levy spends scant time on Madonna, who turned sex into self-empowerment ever since 1984. That's sad. Because the singer/video star has done a lot to move the ball down to the end-zone. No one exploits me but me, was her mantra. (Or is that womantra?) Also, I wonder if the young's acceptance of this lite porn stems from the shrill, humor-free days of the late 80s and 90s when people were politically correct to a fault.
I took three feminist courses at SUNY New Paltz in 1988-89, and these were deadly serious areas unless you were mocking men. So far, so shrill. After the Anita Hill hearings, lawyers and human resource consultants entered the fray. Telling a woman she looked nice in a sweater could be a litigious offence and the days of humor were over. I sat in on my share of HR seminars on how to be a sensitive co-worker and managers. Thank goodness the Internet boom rolled around so we could concentrate on making money.
Egan's review does not mention the feminist left's melding with the Christian right in its views on pornography. Even though both sides have different views on modern women -- kitchen vs. the board room -- they could both easily hate Hugh Hefner, Howard Stern, and even Victoria's Secret. Like the flimsy bras in the pages of those monthly catalog, something had to give.
The so-called third wave of feminists hated Christian prudes and the smelly feminists of yore. Howard Stern was a free-speech liberator, Hugh Hefner made sure his Playmates were treated well, and a whole raft of magazines from London came in with bad jokes and pics of models and actresses in bra and panties. Where was the victimization? Jenna Jamison looked healthy, drug-free and all-American to most people.
The Man Show debutted and rose in the ratings around the time that America read The Starr Report and expressed shock and acceptance. Bill Clinton looked like a serial humper from Day One and besides, the economy was roaring. Why jinx it? The Man Show was fighting against the notion that being a guy had been a bad thing for more than a decade. Pictures of cleavage, bodily function jokes and reviews of beer seemed almost elevating back then. It was.
There is a downside, though. I like my subscription to Stuff and one day would like to write captions for those magazines, but why is it so hard to find clothes for my daughter that doesn't like the laundry pile from a Vietnamese brothel? Does my listening to Stern and Opie and Anthony's antics mean that my daughter has to dress like a hooker?
Jennifer Egans' review mentions one omission of the book's argument and might have missed another. Egan says Levy spends scant time on Madonna, who turned sex into self-empowerment ever since 1984. That's sad. Because the singer/video star has done a lot to move the ball down to the end-zone. No one exploits me but me, was her mantra. (Or is that womantra?) Also, I wonder if the young's acceptance of this lite porn stems from the shrill, humor-free days of the late 80s and 90s when people were politically correct to a fault.
I took three feminist courses at SUNY New Paltz in 1988-89, and these were deadly serious areas unless you were mocking men. So far, so shrill. After the Anita Hill hearings, lawyers and human resource consultants entered the fray. Telling a woman she looked nice in a sweater could be a litigious offence and the days of humor were over. I sat in on my share of HR seminars on how to be a sensitive co-worker and managers. Thank goodness the Internet boom rolled around so we could concentrate on making money.
Egan's review does not mention the feminist left's melding with the Christian right in its views on pornography. Even though both sides have different views on modern women -- kitchen vs. the board room -- they could both easily hate Hugh Hefner, Howard Stern, and even Victoria's Secret. Like the flimsy bras in the pages of those monthly catalog, something had to give.
The so-called third wave of feminists hated Christian prudes and the smelly feminists of yore. Howard Stern was a free-speech liberator, Hugh Hefner made sure his Playmates were treated well, and a whole raft of magazines from London came in with bad jokes and pics of models and actresses in bra and panties. Where was the victimization? Jenna Jamison looked healthy, drug-free and all-American to most people.
The Man Show debutted and rose in the ratings around the time that America read The Starr Report and expressed shock and acceptance. Bill Clinton looked like a serial humper from Day One and besides, the economy was roaring. Why jinx it? The Man Show was fighting against the notion that being a guy had been a bad thing for more than a decade. Pictures of cleavage, bodily function jokes and reviews of beer seemed almost elevating back then. It was.
There is a downside, though. I like my subscription to Stuff and one day would like to write captions for those magazines, but why is it so hard to find clothes for my daughter that doesn't like the laundry pile from a Vietnamese brothel? Does my listening to Stern and Opie and Anthony's antics mean that my daughter has to dress like a hooker?
Parenting Chronicles - Volume XII Chapter XXXVII
Driving back from my nephew's party on Long Island, Nora complained that she had to go the bathroom. She was whining and in deep distress that she might wet her pajamas and car seat. We were on the Sprain Book parkway, probably the darkest busy road in lower New York - no lights but the full moon. Again she said she had to go and bad. It was going to be a disaster.
I spotted some lights behind some black trees and got off. Couldn't name the town but there was a gas station nearby. We ran in and asked for the bathroom key.
We have no key, the attendant said. "I asked the owner four times and he won't drive the key over."
We left for McDonalds, which was down the road from the gas station. I backed into the guard rail that protects the pump and made sure I didn't hit a Lexus or that gas was puring out of the stall.
Nora was crying and moaning.
But when we pulled into the McDonalds' parking lot, she started to giggle. "I have to tell you guys something," she said between laughs.
Regina knew the answer but I was already unbuckling my seat belt.
"I PEED my car seat!" she squealed and out came peals of laughter.
I got out to check the back of the minivan -- perfectly fine in the parking lot light.
Back in the car, the two boys are asleep and Regina and Nora are laughing at her accident.
We drove home and she relieved herself like a racehorse outside the car door. More giggles.
Good times.
I spotted some lights behind some black trees and got off. Couldn't name the town but there was a gas station nearby. We ran in and asked for the bathroom key.
We have no key, the attendant said. "I asked the owner four times and he won't drive the key over."
We left for McDonalds, which was down the road from the gas station. I backed into the guard rail that protects the pump and made sure I didn't hit a Lexus or that gas was puring out of the stall.
Nora was crying and moaning.
But when we pulled into the McDonalds' parking lot, she started to giggle. "I have to tell you guys something," she said between laughs.
Regina knew the answer but I was already unbuckling my seat belt.
"I PEED my car seat!" she squealed and out came peals of laughter.
I got out to check the back of the minivan -- perfectly fine in the parking lot light.
Back in the car, the two boys are asleep and Regina and Nora are laughing at her accident.
We drove home and she relieved herself like a racehorse outside the car door. More giggles.
Good times.
Saturday, September 17, 2005
Falconer
Before leaving for Lake George, I looked for a book to take with me. It had to be slim, smart and I didn't mind if it was something I had already read. I brought John Cheever's Falconer, which is supposed to be his great novel. That's not much of a stretch because he will always be known as a short story writer thanks to his epsiodic novels. All in all, Falconer was good, if strange. It definitely probably read better when it came out in the mid-70s and if I remember the glowing reviews, it might have been over-praised for two reasons: Cheever had finally quit the sauce and delivered a full-length novel that didn't read like a collection of short stories. It was compelling and it was always nice to be in the hands of a writer who knows what they're doing. The scene where Farrugt realizes that he has beaten his drug habit without even realizing it -- the prison medical team had been feeding him a placebo -- was wonderful and quiet in this loud rambunctious novel.
Saturday, September 03, 2005
Lake George, Late Summer
After two weeks of humid weather, high temps and some awful news from New Orleans and Mississippi, it's great to be back at Lake George with the family and Regina's sister, her two nephews and one girlfriend. The weather has been amazing and we spent the day switching between the pool and then to the lake and then back to the pool again.
This morning, Regina took Nora and Timmy to the local pancake house while I watched Matthew swim in the pool. While he was wading in the whirlpool, a plane flew overhead at around 150 feet. Then a helicopter flew along the lake at seagull altitude. If that weren't entertaining enough, I saw an Indian with full headgear and war paint in a canoe by the motel's dock. He lifted his musket and BOOM fired into the air. The ducks in the water didn't seem to like the entertainment. The Indian then chatted with a few people on the dock before paddling off.
Tonight we played miniature golf. Nora and I both had a hole in one -- the triumph of luck over skill!
Speaking of skill, both Nora and Matthew can doggy paddle like champs. It's been a good summer.
This morning, Regina took Nora and Timmy to the local pancake house while I watched Matthew swim in the pool. While he was wading in the whirlpool, a plane flew overhead at around 150 feet. Then a helicopter flew along the lake at seagull altitude. If that weren't entertaining enough, I saw an Indian with full headgear and war paint in a canoe by the motel's dock. He lifted his musket and BOOM fired into the air. The ducks in the water didn't seem to like the entertainment. The Indian then chatted with a few people on the dock before paddling off.
Tonight we played miniature golf. Nora and I both had a hole in one -- the triumph of luck over skill!
Speaking of skill, both Nora and Matthew can doggy paddle like champs. It's been a good summer.
Saturday, August 27, 2005
Hillary -- Too Conservative?
Cindy Sheehan's main target just might be Hillary Clinton and not W. The grieving mother of a fallen Iraqi soldier has stepped to the head of the line of the anti-war movement and she could be the face for this growing and passionate crowd. And the people behind her -- Michael Moore, MoveOn.org, Air America, et al -- realize that for every person who agrees with them, three people are repelled. Cindy is the face of this movement, which could break big.
Why is this bad for Hil? Easy: the anti-war left won't vote for another Washington candidate who supports the war. Liberating 25 million citizens from a brutal dictator and building a democracy in a region that only knows theocrats and dictators isn't worth the lives of US soldiers to these people. If this movement gains momentum, the next Democratic candidate had better be against the war from the beginning. Paging Dr. Dean.
Sheehan has incredible stamina. She has turned her grief into a megaphone against this president, but so far, the mainstream media's coverage has been fawning. She will have to either stand by or explain her remarks that her son died for Israel, OBL is an alleged terrorist, and the war in Afghanistan was a mistake too. If she loses the loony left-speak -- seriously, can anyone stand next to Michael Moore and not spout this paranoid nonsense? -- she could be the Martin Luther King Jr of the antiwar crowd. With a book tour, a glowing documentary, honorary Ivy League degrees and the money of Lefties, she could win the Nobel Peace Prize.
Instead of the man who liberated the Iraqis and tried to bring democracy to the oppressed.
Why is this bad for Hil? Easy: the anti-war left won't vote for another Washington candidate who supports the war. Liberating 25 million citizens from a brutal dictator and building a democracy in a region that only knows theocrats and dictators isn't worth the lives of US soldiers to these people. If this movement gains momentum, the next Democratic candidate had better be against the war from the beginning. Paging Dr. Dean.
Sheehan has incredible stamina. She has turned her grief into a megaphone against this president, but so far, the mainstream media's coverage has been fawning. She will have to either stand by or explain her remarks that her son died for Israel, OBL is an alleged terrorist, and the war in Afghanistan was a mistake too. If she loses the loony left-speak -- seriously, can anyone stand next to Michael Moore and not spout this paranoid nonsense? -- she could be the Martin Luther King Jr of the antiwar crowd. With a book tour, a glowing documentary, honorary Ivy League degrees and the money of Lefties, she could win the Nobel Peace Prize.
Instead of the man who liberated the Iraqis and tried to bring democracy to the oppressed.
Sunday, August 21, 2005
Not Very Christian
It's been a pretty bookish summer, so far. I've knocked off John Updike's Marry Me, Alana Feurst's The Polish Officer, Elmore Leonard's Toshamingo Blues, as well as Gore Vidal's Julian and Henry James' Daisy Miller. The last two were startling. Julian was terrific though not nearly as great as I, Claudius but as the young emperor who tried to bring back Hellenism while his nation was in the throes of Christianity, he made some strong arguments for his faith. I've made a point of not reading James and I don't feel bad about my decision at all. After finishing Daisy Miller, however, I can't wait to go onto Washington Square and then onto Portrait of a Lady. I also have my sights on The Wings of a Dove because I loved the film version with a rather nekkid and racktacular Helena Bonham Carter. Man, I am so deep.
Saturday, August 20, 2005
For the Birds
Nora and I checked out March of the Penguins and had a nice time yesterday. Didn't love it but liked it enough. Some of the shots were gorgeous and I kept seeing the closeups of the emperor penguins in my dreams last night. It's amazing that this movie is the sleeper hit of the summer and is beating out flops like The Island, Bewitched and the Jessica Simpson Daisy Dukes film. Although the music and photography are fine enough, Penguins feels like a well-made documentary that would play in the multimedia room of a big city aquarium. You can imagine it playing on monitors while kids run from bench to bench and tired mothers change diapers and nurse their newborns.
After the movie I bought Nora a $4 slurpee and asked her what she thought of the movie.
"Short," she said.
That's my girl.
After the movie I bought Nora a $4 slurpee and asked her what she thought of the movie.
"Short," she said.
That's my girl.
Monday, August 01, 2005
The Updike Summer Book: Marry Me
Every summer I read a novel or short story collection from John Updike. A new work usually appears in the fall so it's always nice to have a novel I haven't read for a decade back in my hands. I chose Marry Me, his romance from 1976, the year he married his second wife, I believe. This is a virtual companion piece to Couples, his sprawling book about affairs in tiny Tarbox. While Couples needed a scorecard to keep track of the, well, couples, Marry Me has only four people, Jerry sleeping with Sally while married to Ruth who has a brittle affair with Sally's Richard. Got that? It's set in 1962 but the people seem oddly ahead of our generation of adults. They sat down, hashed out the affair over drinks, went to partiesm etc. Today, there would be slashed tires, threatening emails and "no she didn'ts" yelled at the top of their lungs.
I've reread Couples, A Month of Sundays, The Centaur and the novel that actually improved the second time, the brilliant Rabbit Is Rich. Like that installment, Marry Me held up even better than the first time I read it.
On deck: Gore Vidal's Julian, Anne Tyler's When We Were Married, and James Salter's Light Years.
I've reread Couples, A Month of Sundays, The Centaur and the novel that actually improved the second time, the brilliant Rabbit Is Rich. Like that installment, Marry Me held up even better than the first time I read it.
On deck: Gore Vidal's Julian, Anne Tyler's When We Were Married, and James Salter's Light Years.
Friday, July 29, 2005
Matthew, On a Tear
It's been a good few weeks with Matthew, the four-year old master of his universe. His therapies are going nicely and he is responding more and more lately. He categorized some cards in a different colors and he is repeating more words. This morning he called me Dada to my face -- this might be the first time in more than a year that I heard this. Words cannot describe how much I missed that. Yesterday, he called Regina 'Mommy' when she asked him if he wanted to play downstairs. I may be supersitious but I woneder if this has to do with his diet. Getting an autistic child to eat anything substantial is a chore and he only likes chicken in the form of Wendy's chicken nuggets and from the local Chinese place. Everytime we have one of these boosts in word skills, it seems to coincide when he is enjoying protein. I'll never forget the week he ate scrambled eggs for an entire week -- it felt like he added a dozen new words to his language list.
Tim the one year-old is happy to prove that he is more like his older sister Nora than the Mighty Matthew. He can say dada, mama, baba for bottle and hi, which he does with a wave. Oh, and he clearly knows the meaning of the word No, especially when he hits he offswtich on the power strip for the TV. So far, he big trouble in a little package.
Tim the one year-old is happy to prove that he is more like his older sister Nora than the Mighty Matthew. He can say dada, mama, baba for bottle and hi, which he does with a wave. Oh, and he clearly knows the meaning of the word No, especially when he hits he offswtich on the power strip for the TV. So far, he big trouble in a little package.
More Chainsaw Guitars, Please
Bob Mould is back with a new album Body of Song and he brought his guitars with him. I haven't bought a Mould record in ages and I always meant to pick up his electronica album although friends warned me off. Even in his so-so records, there's still some great fret work and plenty of painful lyrics for the morbid English major in me. Body of Song marries his buzzsaw guitar with some tasteful bloops and beeps and the result is quite warm. If I had a convertible, I'd blast this entire record while driving up Route 9 and over the Bear Mountain Bridge with a kid in the baby seat.
And for such a notorious sourpuss, Mould sounds happy these days. The titles aren't as dour as those from Beaster or Hubcap, and he has done a ton of radio interviews where he sounds like he's in a good space: out, happy, creative, and at peace with his place in rock history. Get Body of Song, play it loud.
And checkout his Boblog and also this killer interview on Minnesota Public Radio. Your computer's sub-woofers will appreciate the workout.
And for such a notorious sourpuss, Mould sounds happy these days. The titles aren't as dour as those from Beaster or Hubcap, and he has done a ton of radio interviews where he sounds like he's in a good space: out, happy, creative, and at peace with his place in rock history. Get Body of Song, play it loud.
And checkout his Boblog and also this killer interview on Minnesota Public Radio. Your computer's sub-woofers will appreciate the workout.
Monday, July 25, 2005
Growing On Me
The Will Farrell epic Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy is all over HBO and it is growing on me. We rented it last fall and it was stupid and immediately forgettable. Now that I've seen it three times this weekend, it's becoming a better movie. Nora caught the anchorman rumble with cameos from Vince Vaughn, Luke Wilson, Ben Stiller and a surprisingly un-annoying Tim Robbins. Wilson gets his arm lopped off in a fight and now Nora says, "Man, I didn't see that coming." It's good for a goof.
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