Who's asking: The trivia board at the Starbucks in Davis Square, Cambridge, MA
Of course I had to go look this up: the answer is a 10-pack of Wrigley's Juicy Fruit gum, in 1974.
Bar coding may be soulless and dehumanizing, but it's made retail so much simpler than it used to be. It took a while to catch on, though; when I first worked for The Mystery Bookstore in 2000, one of my first projects was helping to automate our sales system, which included entering the bar codes of every book that had one into a database, using a hand-held scanner.
Kate's Mystery Books still does things the old-fashioned way, with Kate writing up tickets by hand. It's time-consuming, but part of the store's charm; it feels less like a retail outlet than like a crime fiction clubhouse.
Last night's clubhouse included John Connolly, there to sign The Unquiet; William Landay; Chris Mooney; Joe Finder; and my dear friend Tom Ehrenfeld. Good to see everyone, and worth the 300-mile round trip.
I'll be glad to be home for a while, though. After this afternoon, I don't leave town again for at least six weeks, I think. Thank goodness.
On the other hand, all this travel's given me lots of time to read...
What I Read This Week
Megan Abbott, Queenpin. No one today is writing noir better than Megan Abbott. A young woman apprentices herself to Gloria, a legendary mob operative -- not a moll, but a player in her own right -- but a fast-talking gambler challenges her loyalties, with deadly results. Queenpin is like a shot of rye: short, quick and bone-shaking.
Richard Aleas, Songs of Innocence. "It's dark," said Charles Ardai (a.k.a. Richard Aleas) as he signed the advance copy of this book for me. "I should warn you." No kidding. This sequel to Little Girl Lost is as dark as it gets. Former PI John Blake investigates the apparent suicide of his friend and writing classmate Dorrie, who supported herself as a sex worker, and the investigation reveals things Blake never wanted to know. Devastating.
Sherman Alexie, The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian. One big trend at BEA was the continued growth of young adult fiction as its own genre, with many established authors hopping on the bandwagon. I have misgivings about this trend, which I'll discuss in another post, and it seems to me that many authors assume anyone can write for kids, which isn't true. This book tells a pretty compelling story about a charming protagonist -- Junior, a Spokane Indian who challenges expectations by going off the reservation for high school -- but the point of view is not consistent and the voice is not believable. It's supposed to be a diary -- sort of -- but it's told at a remove, though we don't know whether it's from the adult Junior's point of view or the end-of-the-school-year Junior's point of view. A more rigorous edit could have turned this book into something really good; as it is, it's just okay.
Ken Bruen and Jason Starr, Slide. This sequel to Bust is just as gleefully nasty, as the Irish-Greek-American Angela returns to the United States with a new boyfriend -- who, unbeknownst to her, has ambitions to become the world's greatest serial killer.
Mark Bowden, ed. The Best American Crime Writing 2006. This collection of magazine and newspaper pieces is perfect travel reading. It includes, among other pieces, a Texas Monthly article about a sweet middle-aged lady who was the state's most successful bank robber; a New Yorker piece about an over-aggressive prosecutor who may have put the wrong man on death row; and Deanne Stillman's Rolling Stone article about the death of a sheriff's deputy and an outlaw hermit in the Mojave Desert. Fascinating.
Tom Perrotta, The Abstinence Teacher. The problem with reading books about people like me, I told Joe Finder yesterday, is that it makes me uncomfortably aware of aspects of my life I'd rather ignore. Maybe that's a good thing, but all things considered, I'd rather read about monsters. No monsters here, in this compassionate, bitterly funny book about Ruth Ramsey, a sex education teacher being forced to teach a new abstinence curriculum, and Tim Mason, a recovering addict who's wrestling with the demands his new born-again faith makes on his daily life. The characters get a happy ending -- sort of -- but the book's message is just how hard-won and transient those happy endings are. I read an advance copy; the book will be out in October.
Friday, June 08, 2007
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
Why are so many novels being written in the present tense these days?
Who's asking: Peter Johnson, London
Elvis Costello sings it in "Brilliant Mistake": "I wish that I could write a book/And talk in the past and not the present tense..." but more and more novels these days are being written in the present tense.
I've mentioned before that I have trouble with this. Present tense works for short stories and magazine articles, but it's very difficult to pull off over an extended narrative. It's probably the single biggest piece of advice I give to my first-novel clients who bring me present-tense novels: don't.
The problem with present-tense narration is how you convey information that happened in the past, particularly if you're writing from something broader than a narrow first or third-person point of view. Past tense? Past perfect? Pluperfect conditional?
I can't point to a single reason we're seeing so much more of this, but I have a few theories. First, present-tense narration feels immediate and emotionally engaging, which is why it does work well for short stories -- action's moving, the reader's with the narrator from the beginning, experiencing what the narrator experiences in the literary equivalent of real time.
Second, people read more magazines than books these days, and magazine articles are often written in the present tense. When people who don't read many books sit down to write books themselves, they model their prose on what they read or watch -- which, all too often, are magazine articles and intrusive voiceovers from cheesy movies.
In rare cases where an author's a good enough writer to sustain present-tense narration over the length of an entire novel -- as in Theresa Schwegel's books, for example -- the best the author can hope for is that the reader stops noticing the present tense after reading a page or two. Thus, the writer's setting himself or herself an unnecessary challenge before the reader even begins.
So I'll say it again: if what you want to do is engage your readers, why make it harder for yourself and them?
If you're a writer working in the present tense, tell us why you do it.
Five Random Songs
"Can't You See," Marshall Tucker Band. Six minutes of classic Southern rock, and the flute makes all the difference.
"(Don't Go Back to) Rockville," R.E.M. The practice of putting portions of song titles in parentheses is something else that's always baffled me. Insights into this phenomenon are welcome.
"Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band," The Beatles. This album came out 40 years ago last week, and I read a bunch of articles suggesting that it hasn't aged well, or that it might not be as iconic as people thought, or that Pet Sounds is a better album. To all of these articles I say: I beg to differ.
"Creeps Like Me," Lyle Lovett. One of his grimmest, funniest songs. "Look around and you will see/This world is full of creeps like me/You look surprised, you shouldn't be..."
"If I Had My Way," Peter, Paul and Mary. Paul, I think, was signing copies of his new book at BEA, but I never saw him in person.
Elvis Costello sings it in "Brilliant Mistake": "I wish that I could write a book/And talk in the past and not the present tense..." but more and more novels these days are being written in the present tense.
I've mentioned before that I have trouble with this. Present tense works for short stories and magazine articles, but it's very difficult to pull off over an extended narrative. It's probably the single biggest piece of advice I give to my first-novel clients who bring me present-tense novels: don't.
The problem with present-tense narration is how you convey information that happened in the past, particularly if you're writing from something broader than a narrow first or third-person point of view. Past tense? Past perfect? Pluperfect conditional?
I can't point to a single reason we're seeing so much more of this, but I have a few theories. First, present-tense narration feels immediate and emotionally engaging, which is why it does work well for short stories -- action's moving, the reader's with the narrator from the beginning, experiencing what the narrator experiences in the literary equivalent of real time.
Second, people read more magazines than books these days, and magazine articles are often written in the present tense. When people who don't read many books sit down to write books themselves, they model their prose on what they read or watch -- which, all too often, are magazine articles and intrusive voiceovers from cheesy movies.
In rare cases where an author's a good enough writer to sustain present-tense narration over the length of an entire novel -- as in Theresa Schwegel's books, for example -- the best the author can hope for is that the reader stops noticing the present tense after reading a page or two. Thus, the writer's setting himself or herself an unnecessary challenge before the reader even begins.
So I'll say it again: if what you want to do is engage your readers, why make it harder for yourself and them?
If you're a writer working in the present tense, tell us why you do it.
Five Random Songs
"Can't You See," Marshall Tucker Band. Six minutes of classic Southern rock, and the flute makes all the difference.
"(Don't Go Back to) Rockville," R.E.M. The practice of putting portions of song titles in parentheses is something else that's always baffled me. Insights into this phenomenon are welcome.
"Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band," The Beatles. This album came out 40 years ago last week, and I read a bunch of articles suggesting that it hasn't aged well, or that it might not be as iconic as people thought, or that Pet Sounds is a better album. To all of these articles I say: I beg to differ.
"Creeps Like Me," Lyle Lovett. One of his grimmest, funniest songs. "Look around and you will see/This world is full of creeps like me/You look surprised, you shouldn't be..."
"If I Had My Way," Peter, Paul and Mary. Paul, I think, was signing copies of his new book at BEA, but I never saw him in person.
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
Why do they call it "Hell's Kitchen"?
Who's asking: A bookseller in a bar at 48th St. and 9th Ave., on Sunday night
"Hell's Kitchen," also known as Clinton or Midtown West, is a Manhattan neighborhood that runs roughly from 34th Street to 57th Street, and from Eighth Avenue to the Hudson River. It was a desperately poor Irish neighborhood from the mid-19th century to about the mid-20th century, and the influx of Puerto Rican immigrants into the area helped inspire West Side Story, which is set there. Early residents of Hell's Kitchen were dockworkers, smugglers, prostitutes and the other fine upstanding citizens one usually found around commercial ports.
The name's origins are obscure. Davy Crockett allegedly said of the Irish immigrants in New York City, "These are worse than savages; they are too mean to swab Hell's Kitchen." "Hell's Kitchen" was a name for a London tenement district, so the name may have come from there. It may also have referred to individual buildings on 54th or 39th. It became the name of a gang that was based in the area, too.
Here in Gardiner everything is green and lovely, though it's about to thunderstorm. Dizzy is happy to be home, and so am I. I'm home for two whole days, in fact, before I head back to Boston overnight...
"Hell's Kitchen," also known as Clinton or Midtown West, is a Manhattan neighborhood that runs roughly from 34th Street to 57th Street, and from Eighth Avenue to the Hudson River. It was a desperately poor Irish neighborhood from the mid-19th century to about the mid-20th century, and the influx of Puerto Rican immigrants into the area helped inspire West Side Story, which is set there. Early residents of Hell's Kitchen were dockworkers, smugglers, prostitutes and the other fine upstanding citizens one usually found around commercial ports.
The name's origins are obscure. Davy Crockett allegedly said of the Irish immigrants in New York City, "These are worse than savages; they are too mean to swab Hell's Kitchen." "Hell's Kitchen" was a name for a London tenement district, so the name may have come from there. It may also have referred to individual buildings on 54th or 39th. It became the name of a gang that was based in the area, too.
Here in Gardiner everything is green and lovely, though it's about to thunderstorm. Dizzy is happy to be home, and so am I. I'm home for two whole days, in fact, before I head back to Boston overnight...
Monday, June 04, 2007
Do witches wear bras?
Who's asking: Lilly Dean, Mechanicsville, VA
Lilly, I should say, is still quite small and at least seven or eight years away from any practical knowledge of bras. But this question stumped her mother, so I'm happy to take a crack at it.
Yes, witches wear bras, and if they don't, they should. Proper support is important for looking and feeling one's best. Even if someone has magic powers that might render a bra unnecessary, why waste those powers on doing something that a piece of clothing can?
This afternoon I'm in Westchester County, visiting my Uncle Eddie and Aunt Marie. Last night I made fun of a friend for whining about getting caught in the rain, so this morning instant karma sent me trudging through the streets of Ditmas Park in a tropical storm, dragging two rolling cases and two bookbags to the Q train. It makes me wonder whether my friend has some magical powers of his own -- because really, if I had them, that's exactly the sort of thing I'd do.
Which is why it's best for everyone that I don't...
Lilly, I should say, is still quite small and at least seven or eight years away from any practical knowledge of bras. But this question stumped her mother, so I'm happy to take a crack at it.
Yes, witches wear bras, and if they don't, they should. Proper support is important for looking and feeling one's best. Even if someone has magic powers that might render a bra unnecessary, why waste those powers on doing something that a piece of clothing can?
This afternoon I'm in Westchester County, visiting my Uncle Eddie and Aunt Marie. Last night I made fun of a friend for whining about getting caught in the rain, so this morning instant karma sent me trudging through the streets of Ditmas Park in a tropical storm, dragging two rolling cases and two bookbags to the Q train. It makes me wonder whether my friend has some magical powers of his own -- because really, if I had them, that's exactly the sort of thing I'd do.
Which is why it's best for everyone that I don't...
Sunday, June 03, 2007
Where is Tim Gunn?
Who's asking: Jane Cleland, Margery Flax, Alison Janssen, Jennifer Jordan, and me
Being a well-balanced person requires a diversity of interests, so yesterday afternoon a few of us crime-fiction types headed to the far side of BookExpo's upper exhibit floor in hopes of seeing the one and only Tim Gunn signing his new book.
Getting there meant passing a signing line for James Patterson that was -- I'm not exaggerating -- at least a quarter of a mile long. I was nervous, because if James Patterson could attract so many people, how many would be waiting to see the man whose approval is one of my most-cherished fantasies? (If I have to explain that, you don't get the Tim Gunn phenomenon and I can't explain it to you.)
It seemed wrong when we got to the publisher's booth and found no line at all. "Where is Tim Gunn?" we asked.
"The book [i.e., the BEA program schedule] was wrong," the publisher's rep said. "He was here yesterday."
It felt like being told the birthday party had just run out of cake. We were so dismayed that we stood around for 15 minutes in front of the booth and told Tim Gunn stories to each other, as if it were a wake.
On the way back to our regularly-scheduled BEA adventures, Jen Jordan and I stopped to watch a Sufi whirler for a few minutes. It wasn't the most unusual thing on an exhibit floor that included people impersonating God, Santa Claus, Elton John and Albus Dumbledore, but it was the coolest thing I saw all day.
Being a well-balanced person requires a diversity of interests, so yesterday afternoon a few of us crime-fiction types headed to the far side of BookExpo's upper exhibit floor in hopes of seeing the one and only Tim Gunn signing his new book.
Getting there meant passing a signing line for James Patterson that was -- I'm not exaggerating -- at least a quarter of a mile long. I was nervous, because if James Patterson could attract so many people, how many would be waiting to see the man whose approval is one of my most-cherished fantasies? (If I have to explain that, you don't get the Tim Gunn phenomenon and I can't explain it to you.)
It seemed wrong when we got to the publisher's booth and found no line at all. "Where is Tim Gunn?" we asked.
"The book [i.e., the BEA program schedule] was wrong," the publisher's rep said. "He was here yesterday."
It felt like being told the birthday party had just run out of cake. We were so dismayed that we stood around for 15 minutes in front of the booth and told Tim Gunn stories to each other, as if it were a wake.
On the way back to our regularly-scheduled BEA adventures, Jen Jordan and I stopped to watch a Sufi whirler for a few minutes. It wasn't the most unusual thing on an exhibit floor that included people impersonating God, Santa Claus, Elton John and Albus Dumbledore, but it was the coolest thing I saw all day.
Saturday, June 02, 2007
"We must find another brain."
The Movie: Frankenstein, 1931 (Francis Edward Faragoh & Garrett Fort, screenwriters, from an adaptation by John L. Balderston of a play by Peggy Webling based on the novel by Mary W. Shelley; James Whale, dir.)
Who says it: Colin Clive as Dr. Henry Frankenstein
The context: Dr. Frankenstein discovers that the man he proposed to reanimate has a broken neck, making his original brain useless.
How you can use it: When the one you have just won't do.
I'm a little overstimulated. Sorry for not posting yesterday, but I'm just distracted, like a puppy in a pet store window. Book, there! Friend, there! Client, there! Oh, did you want something? Was I supposed to send you something -- call you -- figure something out? Sorry, sorry, sorry. Normal service will resume Monday night, when I retreat to my mountain (okay, piedmont) solitude.
In the meantime, New York's a darn good time. BookExpo's a good time, though overwhelming. The Javits Center is an annoying place for a conference -- it is convenient to nothing, blocks away from the subway, and the concessionaires should die of shame for charging $3.00 for a 16-ounce bottle of water.
What I Read This Week
James Lee Burke, The Tin Roof Blowdown. Burke tackles Hurricane Katrina in his next Dave Robicheaux novel (coming in July), and this is his most ambitious book in a long time. Dave and his colleagues from the New Iberia Sheriff's Department are called in as relief in Katrina's aftermath, and Dave's investigation of the shooting of some looters comes much too close to home. I have a feeling that this book is far from the last Burke will say on the subject, but this is an impressive start, and the book's last paragraph is a heart-stopping piece of writing.
Tobias Wolff, Old School. At a boys' boarding school in early 1960s New England, the students compete to meet with visiting famous writers -- Robert Frost, Ayn Rand and others. A visit from Ernest Hemingway leads the narrator to some choices that change his life permanently. This small gem of a novel, less than 200 pages, says so much about youth's passionate desires, the ideas of honor and literature, and the things we do to preserve other people's ideas of us. Thanks to Scott Phillips for recommending it.
Joshua Ferris, Then We Came to the End. This first novel is narrated in the first-person plural, which felt like a stunt for the first three pages, then felt normal, and paid off like a skyrocket in the final line. It's the story of the slow collapse of a Chicago ad agency in the wake of the dot-com boom, and I'm not sure I've ever read a better description of this peculiar period of our history, the year or so immediately before September 11 when we all realized that new technology hadn't repealed the business cycle after all. Dazzling.
Who says it: Colin Clive as Dr. Henry Frankenstein
The context: Dr. Frankenstein discovers that the man he proposed to reanimate has a broken neck, making his original brain useless.
How you can use it: When the one you have just won't do.
I'm a little overstimulated. Sorry for not posting yesterday, but I'm just distracted, like a puppy in a pet store window. Book, there! Friend, there! Client, there! Oh, did you want something? Was I supposed to send you something -- call you -- figure something out? Sorry, sorry, sorry. Normal service will resume Monday night, when I retreat to my mountain (okay, piedmont) solitude.
In the meantime, New York's a darn good time. BookExpo's a good time, though overwhelming. The Javits Center is an annoying place for a conference -- it is convenient to nothing, blocks away from the subway, and the concessionaires should die of shame for charging $3.00 for a 16-ounce bottle of water.
What I Read This Week
James Lee Burke, The Tin Roof Blowdown. Burke tackles Hurricane Katrina in his next Dave Robicheaux novel (coming in July), and this is his most ambitious book in a long time. Dave and his colleagues from the New Iberia Sheriff's Department are called in as relief in Katrina's aftermath, and Dave's investigation of the shooting of some looters comes much too close to home. I have a feeling that this book is far from the last Burke will say on the subject, but this is an impressive start, and the book's last paragraph is a heart-stopping piece of writing.
Tobias Wolff, Old School. At a boys' boarding school in early 1960s New England, the students compete to meet with visiting famous writers -- Robert Frost, Ayn Rand and others. A visit from Ernest Hemingway leads the narrator to some choices that change his life permanently. This small gem of a novel, less than 200 pages, says so much about youth's passionate desires, the ideas of honor and literature, and the things we do to preserve other people's ideas of us. Thanks to Scott Phillips for recommending it.
Joshua Ferris, Then We Came to the End. This first novel is narrated in the first-person plural, which felt like a stunt for the first three pages, then felt normal, and paid off like a skyrocket in the final line. It's the story of the slow collapse of a Chicago ad agency in the wake of the dot-com boom, and I'm not sure I've ever read a better description of this peculiar period of our history, the year or so immediately before September 11 when we all realized that new technology hadn't repealed the business cycle after all. Dazzling.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Why are red bell peppers so much more expensive than green ones?
Who's asking: Peggy Lavinder, Mechanicsville, VA
Most varieties of bell pepper (sweet pepper) start out as green. Depending on their variety, they may ripen into colors ranging from yellow to chocolate brown. Peppers can be harvested when they're green, but leaving them on the plant to ripen to their final color takes time. The fully-ripened peppers don't keep as long as the immature green ones, and are more fragile to handle.
In Tribeca for the weekend, and my garden feels like a different planet. I don't expect much of it to be left when I get home on Monday night, but on Tuesday I'll re-trench (literally) and start over. Because, as a friend said to me, gardening is an existential exercise. The point is to keep trying in the face of certain failure, to learn to be a knight (a dame?) of faith.
Most varieties of bell pepper (sweet pepper) start out as green. Depending on their variety, they may ripen into colors ranging from yellow to chocolate brown. Peppers can be harvested when they're green, but leaving them on the plant to ripen to their final color takes time. The fully-ripened peppers don't keep as long as the immature green ones, and are more fragile to handle.
In Tribeca for the weekend, and my garden feels like a different planet. I don't expect much of it to be left when I get home on Monday night, but on Tuesday I'll re-trench (literally) and start over. Because, as a friend said to me, gardening is an existential exercise. The point is to keep trying in the face of certain failure, to learn to be a knight (a dame?) of faith.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Paper or plastic?
Who's asking: The checkout clerk at Hannaford
Plastic. I'm an apartment-dweller with a large dog. I hoard plastic bags, and never seem to have enough.
Off to New York today for BookExpo America -- feeling a little frantic and more tired than I should be at the beginning of such a big adventure. I have become a complete country mouse, I realized the last time I was in New York, and have lost whatever city skills I had. It's humbling. Sad, even.
Saw a bumper sticker in Augusta this morning that said, "Some Days All I Want to Be is a Missing Person."
Five Random Songs
"Rambling Boy," The Weavers. Classic, and the refrain makes a good impromptu mantra. "Fare thee well, my rambling boy/May all your rambling bring you joy..."
"M-O-N-E-Y," Lyle Lovett and His Large Band. From the Live in Texas CD. "No finance, no romance..." Whoever said that did not live in central Maine.
"So Many Little Lies," Peter Himmelman. I like Peter Himmelman a lot. This song is off a Trampoline Records sampler collection that my sister Susan gave me.
"These Blues is Killing Me," A.C. Reed. The words are grim, but the tune is bouncy and cheerful, and the chorus ("Say what? Say what?") makes me laugh. From the Alligator Records 20th Anniversary Collection.
"Andy's Chest," Lou Reed. The perfect soundtrack for a trip to New York.
Plastic. I'm an apartment-dweller with a large dog. I hoard plastic bags, and never seem to have enough.
Off to New York today for BookExpo America -- feeling a little frantic and more tired than I should be at the beginning of such a big adventure. I have become a complete country mouse, I realized the last time I was in New York, and have lost whatever city skills I had. It's humbling. Sad, even.
Saw a bumper sticker in Augusta this morning that said, "Some Days All I Want to Be is a Missing Person."
Five Random Songs
"Rambling Boy," The Weavers. Classic, and the refrain makes a good impromptu mantra. "Fare thee well, my rambling boy/May all your rambling bring you joy..."
"M-O-N-E-Y," Lyle Lovett and His Large Band. From the Live in Texas CD. "No finance, no romance..." Whoever said that did not live in central Maine.
"So Many Little Lies," Peter Himmelman. I like Peter Himmelman a lot. This song is off a Trampoline Records sampler collection that my sister Susan gave me.
"These Blues is Killing Me," A.C. Reed. The words are grim, but the tune is bouncy and cheerful, and the chorus ("Say what? Say what?") makes me laugh. From the Alligator Records 20th Anniversary Collection.
"Andy's Chest," Lou Reed. The perfect soundtrack for a trip to New York.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
What do groundhogs eat?
Who's asking: Me
In West Gardiner, they eat my garden.
Dizzy and I went over to water the patch yesterday afternoon (I don't have a yard; a friend lent me an unused piece of his yard. This friend is British and refers to his entire yard as the garden, which makes conversations about it confusing).
The first thing I noticed, approaching the vegetable patch, was that things didn't look as tall as they had when I left on Saturday. It rained a little on Sunday, and we'd had some wind; could everything have been knocked down?
A closer look found that weather had nothing to do with it. The six lettuce plants were entirely gone. Most of the tomato plants had lost their leaves, and several of the stems were bitten down to the ground. The only plants left mostly intact were the peppers and the marigolds I'd planted to keep the aphids away.
My first instinct was to blame rabbits (too much Beatrix Potter!), but my friend said he'd seen a large woodchuck waddling across the yard, away from the garden. He'd even pointed it out to his visiting nephew as a cute representative of the wonders of nature.
Wonders of nature, my foot. It turns out that woodchucks (or groundhogs, they're the same thing) are the gluttons of the vegetable world. They're herbivores, and how much do you figure they have to eat to keep those doughy body shapes? A lot.
Beginner's mistake on my part, obviously, and I'm considering my options. Deer fencing or chicken wire, to start, but my Organic Gardening book and some websites I've found suggest more exotic remedies. Did you know, for example, that you can buy fox urine in a bottle?
The next time I whine about my workload, please remind me that somewhere, someone has the job of collecting and bottling fox urine for the organic gardening market. If this happens to be your job, please write and tell me about it. I really, really want to know how this works.
In West Gardiner, they eat my garden.
Dizzy and I went over to water the patch yesterday afternoon (I don't have a yard; a friend lent me an unused piece of his yard. This friend is British and refers to his entire yard as the garden, which makes conversations about it confusing).
The first thing I noticed, approaching the vegetable patch, was that things didn't look as tall as they had when I left on Saturday. It rained a little on Sunday, and we'd had some wind; could everything have been knocked down?
A closer look found that weather had nothing to do with it. The six lettuce plants were entirely gone. Most of the tomato plants had lost their leaves, and several of the stems were bitten down to the ground. The only plants left mostly intact were the peppers and the marigolds I'd planted to keep the aphids away.
My first instinct was to blame rabbits (too much Beatrix Potter!), but my friend said he'd seen a large woodchuck waddling across the yard, away from the garden. He'd even pointed it out to his visiting nephew as a cute representative of the wonders of nature.
Wonders of nature, my foot. It turns out that woodchucks (or groundhogs, they're the same thing) are the gluttons of the vegetable world. They're herbivores, and how much do you figure they have to eat to keep those doughy body shapes? A lot.
Beginner's mistake on my part, obviously, and I'm considering my options. Deer fencing or chicken wire, to start, but my Organic Gardening book and some websites I've found suggest more exotic remedies. Did you know, for example, that you can buy fox urine in a bottle?
The next time I whine about my workload, please remind me that somewhere, someone has the job of collecting and bottling fox urine for the organic gardening market. If this happens to be your job, please write and tell me about it. I really, really want to know how this works.
Monday, May 28, 2007
Are you really taking the long weekend off?
Who's asking: One of my clients
No. No, I'm not. I tried, and failed. I am incapable of taking meaningful time off unless I physically remove myself from all the tools of my work: no computer, no telephone, no books.
On Saturday I managed to spend a few hours digging a garden. It's a small garden, but with luck it will produce tomatoes and peppers and green leaf lettuce, and something "yellow" that I thought was peppers but may be beans. (The tag on the seedling said "yellow." I assumed the plants were peppers, so didn't ask; now I look at my Organic Gardening book and think they're probably beans. I like beans.)
The fact that I'm working today speaks to some fundamental issues in my life at the moment, things that will require hard decisions and possibly some big changes -- but from those issues, at least, I'm taking a holiday.
No. No, I'm not. I tried, and failed. I am incapable of taking meaningful time off unless I physically remove myself from all the tools of my work: no computer, no telephone, no books.
On Saturday I managed to spend a few hours digging a garden. It's a small garden, but with luck it will produce tomatoes and peppers and green leaf lettuce, and something "yellow" that I thought was peppers but may be beans. (The tag on the seedling said "yellow." I assumed the plants were peppers, so didn't ask; now I look at my Organic Gardening book and think they're probably beans. I like beans.)
The fact that I'm working today speaks to some fundamental issues in my life at the moment, things that will require hard decisions and possibly some big changes -- but from those issues, at least, I'm taking a holiday.
Saturday, May 26, 2007
What does the "grip" on a movie do?
Who's asking: Steve Lechner, Freeport, ME
The grip is responsible for moving and setting up the physical equipment of filmmaking: lights and reflectors, Steadicam tracks, pipes and scaffolding, etc. The "key grip" is the leader of a group of grips (say that fast), and can also work as the on-set construction coordinator.
Don't make the mistake of thinking this is unskilled labor. Good grips can make all the difference to a day's shooting. If you've never been on a movie set, you would not believe how long it can take to set things up -- and if it takes too long, depending on the shot, the light has changed and you have to set it up all over again.
Since this was Steve's follow-up question, the "best boy" is the key grip's chief assistant, sometimes called the assistant chief lighting technician. It's the best boy's responsibility to figure out how many men and how much equipment is required for each day's shooting.
I'm off to Agway to look at seedlings. It's a gorgeous day, and Dizzy and I have already spent an hour down at the Cobbosseecontee, reading and chewing on sticks. (Well, each of us did one of those things.)
The grip is responsible for moving and setting up the physical equipment of filmmaking: lights and reflectors, Steadicam tracks, pipes and scaffolding, etc. The "key grip" is the leader of a group of grips (say that fast), and can also work as the on-set construction coordinator.
Don't make the mistake of thinking this is unskilled labor. Good grips can make all the difference to a day's shooting. If you've never been on a movie set, you would not believe how long it can take to set things up -- and if it takes too long, depending on the shot, the light has changed and you have to set it up all over again.
Since this was Steve's follow-up question, the "best boy" is the key grip's chief assistant, sometimes called the assistant chief lighting technician. It's the best boy's responsibility to figure out how many men and how much equipment is required for each day's shooting.
I'm off to Agway to look at seedlings. It's a gorgeous day, and Dizzy and I have already spent an hour down at the Cobbosseecontee, reading and chewing on sticks. (Well, each of us did one of those things.)
Friday, May 25, 2007
What do you DO?
Who's asking: My neighbor Monte
Too damn much, is what, and I need to raise my rates. But this is one of those questions that people never really want the answer to, because it's too hard to explain and their eyes glaze over.
I am a writer, researcher and editor for a wide range of clients. This week my projects included a market research report, a couple of newsletters, a draft of Congressional testimony for a nonprofit organization, and website maintenance and strategy for a bestselling author. Still on my to-do list for the week are a proposal to draft marketing materials for a corporate training program and the editing of an author's work-in-progress.
Not all of these things will get done between now and 4:00 p.m., when I plan to meet Mrs. Lechner for margaritas on the deck at Gritty's in Freeport. But I'm working as hard as I can.
What I Read This Week (and now you know why this list is short)
Christopher Buckley, Boomsday. At a dinner in Washington last week, four of us (age range 36-41) were ranting about the fact that our society is starting to look like ancient Egypt, putting a disproportionate and unsustainable (and growing) percentage of resources into its least productive citizens. My friend Megan said, "Hey, have you read Boomsday?" Christopher Buckley's latest satire is about this very issue, and is so angry and brilliant and funny that I want to require every Presidential candidate to read it. 30ish PR executive and blogger Cassandra Devine is obsessed with the fact that her generation is being forced to pay for the excesses of the baby boomers, and offers a simple proposal: Voluntary Transitioning, which would save Social Security by offering massive tax breaks to those who choose suicide at age 70. She's not serious -- not really -- but the proposal takes on a life of its own, and Buckley plays it out with a story that's only too plausible.
Too damn much, is what, and I need to raise my rates. But this is one of those questions that people never really want the answer to, because it's too hard to explain and their eyes glaze over.
I am a writer, researcher and editor for a wide range of clients. This week my projects included a market research report, a couple of newsletters, a draft of Congressional testimony for a nonprofit organization, and website maintenance and strategy for a bestselling author. Still on my to-do list for the week are a proposal to draft marketing materials for a corporate training program and the editing of an author's work-in-progress.
Not all of these things will get done between now and 4:00 p.m., when I plan to meet Mrs. Lechner for margaritas on the deck at Gritty's in Freeport. But I'm working as hard as I can.
What I Read This Week (and now you know why this list is short)
Christopher Buckley, Boomsday. At a dinner in Washington last week, four of us (age range 36-41) were ranting about the fact that our society is starting to look like ancient Egypt, putting a disproportionate and unsustainable (and growing) percentage of resources into its least productive citizens. My friend Megan said, "Hey, have you read Boomsday?" Christopher Buckley's latest satire is about this very issue, and is so angry and brilliant and funny that I want to require every Presidential candidate to read it. 30ish PR executive and blogger Cassandra Devine is obsessed with the fact that her generation is being forced to pay for the excesses of the baby boomers, and offers a simple proposal: Voluntary Transitioning, which would save Social Security by offering massive tax breaks to those who choose suicide at age 70. She's not serious -- not really -- but the proposal takes on a life of its own, and Buckley plays it out with a story that's only too plausible.
Thursday, May 24, 2007
How did "actually" become the most-used word in the United States?
Who's asking: Larry Willis, St. Louis, MO
Verbal tics come and go. I notice that people don't say "You know" as much as they used to, or maybe I've culled those people from my circle of acquaintances. Someone I worked for used to end every sentence with, "You know what I mean?" I assumed it was just a bad conversational habit until I realized that he did, in fact, expect me to acknowledge the wisdom of each of his observations.
I haven't noticed an increase in the use of "actually," but I tend to filter those words out when I'm listening to someone. I'll take Larry's word for it, and it doesn't surprise me if it's true.
One of the reasons I pound my clients so hard about adverbs is that the presence of an adverb makes the reader stop and wonder why it's necessary. A reader sees the tag, "she said coyly," and wonders: why is she coy? What's she got to be coy about? The reader's thoughts wander down that path and away from the conversation on the page, and the writer has lost him. Leave "coyly" out and the reader keeps reading, thinking, "Oh, boy, she wants something."
The very presence of an adverb suggests a need to reassure the reader about something, and creates doubt and distraction where none existed.
Likewise, words such as "actually," "really," "honestly," and "frankly" suggest that you might otherwise lie to the person you're talking to -- and imply that you might be lying now, so need that intensifier to convince your listener of your sincerity.
I actually think (no, really) that people are using the word "actually" more these days because we all feel so uncertain and anxious. We can't believe the people running the government; our sports heroes are mercenary bullies and drug abusers; our movie stars are narcissistic neurotics; and God, as always, works in mysterious ways. When we say "actually," we are saying, "I want to believe this -- if you believe it too, that will help."
But you're right, Larry, it's still annoying.
Verbal tics come and go. I notice that people don't say "You know" as much as they used to, or maybe I've culled those people from my circle of acquaintances. Someone I worked for used to end every sentence with, "You know what I mean?" I assumed it was just a bad conversational habit until I realized that he did, in fact, expect me to acknowledge the wisdom of each of his observations.
I haven't noticed an increase in the use of "actually," but I tend to filter those words out when I'm listening to someone. I'll take Larry's word for it, and it doesn't surprise me if it's true.
One of the reasons I pound my clients so hard about adverbs is that the presence of an adverb makes the reader stop and wonder why it's necessary. A reader sees the tag, "she said coyly," and wonders: why is she coy? What's she got to be coy about? The reader's thoughts wander down that path and away from the conversation on the page, and the writer has lost him. Leave "coyly" out and the reader keeps reading, thinking, "Oh, boy, she wants something."
The very presence of an adverb suggests a need to reassure the reader about something, and creates doubt and distraction where none existed.
Likewise, words such as "actually," "really," "honestly," and "frankly" suggest that you might otherwise lie to the person you're talking to -- and imply that you might be lying now, so need that intensifier to convince your listener of your sincerity.
I actually think (no, really) that people are using the word "actually" more these days because we all feel so uncertain and anxious. We can't believe the people running the government; our sports heroes are mercenary bullies and drug abusers; our movie stars are narcissistic neurotics; and God, as always, works in mysterious ways. When we say "actually," we are saying, "I want to believe this -- if you believe it too, that will help."
But you're right, Larry, it's still annoying.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
How were root beer floats invented?
Who's asking: Carolyn Bea, Alexandria, VA
It's hard to believe someone had to "invent" a root beer float, but the man who gets credit for it is Frank J. Wisner of Cripple Creek, Colorado, who dropped a scoop of vanilla ice cream into a glass of his Myers Avenue Red root beer in 1893. Locals called the drink a "Black Cow" after nearby (snow-capped) Cow Mountain.
Root beer, it turns out, is a literal name -- it's a fermented beverage made from root extracts, and the ambitious can make it at home. Although it's fermented, it's not alcoholic, for reasons I don't really understand. Fermentation is what causes the carbonation, as the interaction of yeast and sugar creates carbon dioxide and sugar alcohol. In a root beer float, the air bubbles in the ice cream act as "nucleation sites" for the carbon dioxide molecules to congregate and form giant bubbles -- which is why the root beer at the bottom of the glass is flat, after the ice cream is gone.
Root beer and sarsaparilla are essentially the same thing: carbonated beverages flavored with sassafras root and other natural flavors (including, depending on the recipe, everything from cinnamon to wintergreen). Root beer is not the same as birch beer, which is flavored with the bark of a birch tree (really). Birch beer is usually red, while root beer is usually brown.
Sassafras oil, found in roots, bark and fruit of the sassafras tree, is powerful stuff. Native Americans brewed it as a medicinal tea and used it as insect repellent. Ground sassafras leaves are a major ingredient in filé, the thickener Creole cooks use for gumbo. Concentrated sassafras oil is sometimes used in moonshine, and can have hallucinogenic properties. It's also now on the list of things that can give you cancer, so commercial root beer brewers use a synthetic sassafras flavor substitute.
Five Random Songs
"Road," Nick Drake. I whine a lot about classic music being used for TV commercials, but VW's use of "Pink Moon" for one of its ads led to a minor Nick Drake revival. That was a good thing.
"Rikki Don't Lose that Number," Steely Dan. Somewhere I read that this song was about a drug dealer, but if that's true, I don't want to know it.
"Corpus Christi Carol (for Roy)," Jeff Buckley. Tragic singer-songwriter morning on the iPod Shuffle. Jeff Buckley sings like an angel. I can only listen to this album (Grace) when I'm in a really good mood. Next...
"A Classic Arts Showcase," ...And You Will Know Us By the Trail of Dead. A friend of mine said he felt this album (Worlds Apart) wasn't loud enough, and on this song I almost know what he meant. You do need to turn it up, but the guitars sound tinny. Midway through the song it breaks and becomes something almost operatic, which I love.
"Ruined in a Day," New Order. I bought this CD (The Best of New Order) at the going-out-of-business sale of Washington's Serenade Record Store, which used to be at 1800 M Street NW. The stock was pretty well picked-over by the time I got there, but I managed to get this CD along with a Debussy collection, a good recording of Carmina Burana, and Jimmy Cliff Live in Concert. The clerk asked me, "Are all of these for you?" "Yes," I said.
It's hard to believe someone had to "invent" a root beer float, but the man who gets credit for it is Frank J. Wisner of Cripple Creek, Colorado, who dropped a scoop of vanilla ice cream into a glass of his Myers Avenue Red root beer in 1893. Locals called the drink a "Black Cow" after nearby (snow-capped) Cow Mountain.
Root beer, it turns out, is a literal name -- it's a fermented beverage made from root extracts, and the ambitious can make it at home. Although it's fermented, it's not alcoholic, for reasons I don't really understand. Fermentation is what causes the carbonation, as the interaction of yeast and sugar creates carbon dioxide and sugar alcohol. In a root beer float, the air bubbles in the ice cream act as "nucleation sites" for the carbon dioxide molecules to congregate and form giant bubbles -- which is why the root beer at the bottom of the glass is flat, after the ice cream is gone.
Root beer and sarsaparilla are essentially the same thing: carbonated beverages flavored with sassafras root and other natural flavors (including, depending on the recipe, everything from cinnamon to wintergreen). Root beer is not the same as birch beer, which is flavored with the bark of a birch tree (really). Birch beer is usually red, while root beer is usually brown.
Sassafras oil, found in roots, bark and fruit of the sassafras tree, is powerful stuff. Native Americans brewed it as a medicinal tea and used it as insect repellent. Ground sassafras leaves are a major ingredient in filé, the thickener Creole cooks use for gumbo. Concentrated sassafras oil is sometimes used in moonshine, and can have hallucinogenic properties. It's also now on the list of things that can give you cancer, so commercial root beer brewers use a synthetic sassafras flavor substitute.
Five Random Songs
"Road," Nick Drake. I whine a lot about classic music being used for TV commercials, but VW's use of "Pink Moon" for one of its ads led to a minor Nick Drake revival. That was a good thing.
"Rikki Don't Lose that Number," Steely Dan. Somewhere I read that this song was about a drug dealer, but if that's true, I don't want to know it.
"Corpus Christi Carol (for Roy)," Jeff Buckley. Tragic singer-songwriter morning on the iPod Shuffle. Jeff Buckley sings like an angel. I can only listen to this album (Grace) when I'm in a really good mood. Next...
"A Classic Arts Showcase," ...And You Will Know Us By the Trail of Dead. A friend of mine said he felt this album (Worlds Apart) wasn't loud enough, and on this song I almost know what he meant. You do need to turn it up, but the guitars sound tinny. Midway through the song it breaks and becomes something almost operatic, which I love.
"Ruined in a Day," New Order. I bought this CD (The Best of New Order) at the going-out-of-business sale of Washington's Serenade Record Store, which used to be at 1800 M Street NW. The stock was pretty well picked-over by the time I got there, but I managed to get this CD along with a Debussy collection, a good recording of Carmina Burana, and Jimmy Cliff Live in Concert. The clerk asked me, "Are all of these for you?" "Yes," I said.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
When are auditions for Crimes of the Heart?
Who's asking: Various Lucky Stiff cast members and others
I think I've mentioned that I'll be directing Gaslight Theater's production of Crimes of the Heart by Beth Henley this summer. Show dates are August 16-18 and August 23-25; performances are at Hallowell City Hall.
Auditions are now scheduled for Sunday, June 24 at 1:00 p.m. and Tuesday, June 26 at 7:00 p.m. The cast is four women and two men, playing characters between the ages of 20 and 30.
Crimes of the Heart, if you've never seen the play or the movie, is the story of one bad weekend in the lives of the Magrath sisters. Lenny, a spinster turning 30, has spent her life taking care of their grandfather, who's about to die. Babe, the youngest, has just shot her abusive husband in the stomach after he discovered that she was having an affair with a teenager. Meg, the middle sister, has come home from Los Angeles, where her dreams of stardom have failed. The play is a comedy, but a black one, in the way you have to laugh because -- as the play explains -- it's really not fair to kill yourself.
The play's full of challenges, but the three I worry about most are 1) whether I'll even allow the actors to try Southern accents; 2) where I'm going to get Coca-Cola in glass bottles, a key prop; and 3) how I'm going to create the illusion of flaming birthday candles in a building that doesn't allow any kind of fire. I've already ordered the appropriate Acting with an Accent CD, but suggestions are welcome.
I think I've mentioned that I'll be directing Gaslight Theater's production of Crimes of the Heart by Beth Henley this summer. Show dates are August 16-18 and August 23-25; performances are at Hallowell City Hall.
Auditions are now scheduled for Sunday, June 24 at 1:00 p.m. and Tuesday, June 26 at 7:00 p.m. The cast is four women and two men, playing characters between the ages of 20 and 30.
Crimes of the Heart, if you've never seen the play or the movie, is the story of one bad weekend in the lives of the Magrath sisters. Lenny, a spinster turning 30, has spent her life taking care of their grandfather, who's about to die. Babe, the youngest, has just shot her abusive husband in the stomach after he discovered that she was having an affair with a teenager. Meg, the middle sister, has come home from Los Angeles, where her dreams of stardom have failed. The play is a comedy, but a black one, in the way you have to laugh because -- as the play explains -- it's really not fair to kill yourself.
The play's full of challenges, but the three I worry about most are 1) whether I'll even allow the actors to try Southern accents; 2) where I'm going to get Coca-Cola in glass bottles, a key prop; and 3) how I'm going to create the illusion of flaming birthday candles in a building that doesn't allow any kind of fire. I've already ordered the appropriate Acting with an Accent CD, but suggestions are welcome.
Monday, May 21, 2007
Can sugar-free gum make me fat?
Who's asking: An anonymous Googler from somewhere in Pennsylvania
No. What makes people fat is consuming more calories than they use. Period. No one food makes people fat, and certainly a five-calorie stick of gum doesn't make anyone fat. You can burn five calories in one trip up and down a flight of stairs.
I've never been a gum-chewer, although I'll take a piece if someone offers it. Many years ago, someone gave me a piece of gum before I went to meet the guy I was dating at the time. Before he even said hello, he stepped back and said, "You don't chew gum." Funny how we classify people in those terms.
Dad thought it was an ugly habit, so we never had much of it around in my childhood. Three years of braces made it impossible for me to chew gum between the ages of 11 and 14. Now I grind my teeth when I'm sleep-deprived or stressed, so why would I want to do something that would make my jaw hurt more?
No. What makes people fat is consuming more calories than they use. Period. No one food makes people fat, and certainly a five-calorie stick of gum doesn't make anyone fat. You can burn five calories in one trip up and down a flight of stairs.
I've never been a gum-chewer, although I'll take a piece if someone offers it. Many years ago, someone gave me a piece of gum before I went to meet the guy I was dating at the time. Before he even said hello, he stepped back and said, "You don't chew gum." Funny how we classify people in those terms.
Dad thought it was an ugly habit, so we never had much of it around in my childhood. Three years of braces made it impossible for me to chew gum between the ages of 11 and 14. Now I grind my teeth when I'm sleep-deprived or stressed, so why would I want to do something that would make my jaw hurt more?
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Picture of the week
Megan's bulldogs Sammie and Brindle -- like the Teletubbies -- love each other very much.
Dizzy and I got home last night a little after 11:00. He's passed out, I'm on my way to a Gaslight rehearsal for our summer musical, Lucky Stiff. A producer must wear many hats; today, I'm serving as stand-in for an absent actress in the role of "Drunken Hotel Maid."
The director suggested I might be overqualified for this role. Damn straight: I should at least be a Drunken Housekeeper. Maybe even a Drunken Chatelaine.
Friday, May 18, 2007
A few questions of my own
I am operating on a massive sleep deficit -- six hours last night didn't put me any further behind, but it didn't catch me up, either -- and tired of myself, my voice, and my general insufferableness. Thank God for friends and family who'll put up with it.
So today, rather than pretending I have any answers for anyone, a few questions of my own. If you have answers, please leave them below.
1. Why does everything break down at once? It's never just one major appliance, vehicle, or piece of electronic equipment; it's always at least three in the space of a single week. Why is this?
2. As a corollary question, why do socks all wear out at once?
3. But then, why does only one car headlight blow at a time, even if you replace them both at the same time?
4. Why do people act like such monsters around free stuff? Whether it's food, labor, advance reading copies, or gifts-with-purchase, the idea that someone's entitled to a free whatever disgusts me. I'm damn grateful for free stuff, and it would never occur to me to write or accost someone to ask where my free whatever is or why that favor wasn't done more quickly.
5. What happened to the idea of personal sacrifice for the greater good among our public servants? Where is Sydney Carton when we need him?
All right, that's enough to keep you busy. In Washington one last day, then home again tomorrow. Life would be easier with a jetpack, but then Dizzy couldn't travel with me.
What I Read This Week
Lee Child, Bad Luck and Trouble. Jack Reacher, always the loner, reunites with the members of his former MP Special Investigators' Unit to avenge the deaths of four of their comrades. For the first time, Reacher seems to be counting the cost of his peculiar lifestyle (no possessions but a folding toothbrush, which actually gets destroyed in this book, and no permanent address). Lee Child is speaking and signing at The Mystery Bookstore today, and I'll be interviewing him for a podcast later this afternoon. I feel nervous about that, and he's the first author I've felt nervous about interviewing. If you have any questions you'd like me to ask (Sue...), e-mail them to me.
Harlan Coben (ed.), Death Do Us Part. A collection of short stories of "love, lust, and murder," published by the Mystery Writers of America. It's been on my shelf for at least a year, but it's perfect reading for travel. Tim Maleeny's title story is gleeful and diabolical; Charles Ardai's "The Home Front" deserved its Edgar; and Lee Child's "Safe Enough" has an ingenious twist. Laura Lippman's "One True Love" is my favorite here, though.
So today, rather than pretending I have any answers for anyone, a few questions of my own. If you have answers, please leave them below.
1. Why does everything break down at once? It's never just one major appliance, vehicle, or piece of electronic equipment; it's always at least three in the space of a single week. Why is this?
2. As a corollary question, why do socks all wear out at once?
3. But then, why does only one car headlight blow at a time, even if you replace them both at the same time?
4. Why do people act like such monsters around free stuff? Whether it's food, labor, advance reading copies, or gifts-with-purchase, the idea that someone's entitled to a free whatever disgusts me. I'm damn grateful for free stuff, and it would never occur to me to write or accost someone to ask where my free whatever is or why that favor wasn't done more quickly.
5. What happened to the idea of personal sacrifice for the greater good among our public servants? Where is Sydney Carton when we need him?
All right, that's enough to keep you busy. In Washington one last day, then home again tomorrow. Life would be easier with a jetpack, but then Dizzy couldn't travel with me.
What I Read This Week
Lee Child, Bad Luck and Trouble. Jack Reacher, always the loner, reunites with the members of his former MP Special Investigators' Unit to avenge the deaths of four of their comrades. For the first time, Reacher seems to be counting the cost of his peculiar lifestyle (no possessions but a folding toothbrush, which actually gets destroyed in this book, and no permanent address). Lee Child is speaking and signing at The Mystery Bookstore today, and I'll be interviewing him for a podcast later this afternoon. I feel nervous about that, and he's the first author I've felt nervous about interviewing. If you have any questions you'd like me to ask (Sue...), e-mail them to me.
Harlan Coben (ed.), Death Do Us Part. A collection of short stories of "love, lust, and murder," published by the Mystery Writers of America. It's been on my shelf for at least a year, but it's perfect reading for travel. Tim Maleeny's title story is gleeful and diabolical; Charles Ardai's "The Home Front" deserved its Edgar; and Lee Child's "Safe Enough" has an ingenious twist. Laura Lippman's "One True Love" is my favorite here, though.
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Any thoughts on Ouija boards?
Who's asking: Kathleen McLaughlin Jacobson, Los Angeles, CA
Ouija, by Parker Brothers, is officially a game that allows participants to try (or pretend) to communicate with intelligences outside their own. Mom never allowed us to have one, and I inherited her deep distrust -- not to say superstition -- about them.
Everyone's familiar with the set-up. People place two fingers, or a finger and a thumb, on a planchette -- a flat, tripod piece of sliding plastic -- that glides over a board decorated with letters, numbers, and the words "Yes," "No," and "Good Bye." Someone asks a question, and the planchette moves around the board to provide an answer. Someone's usually pushing the planchette, consciously or unconsciously, and hilarity or chills may ensue.
The idea of fortune-telling through automated writing, or through a board, dates back over 3,000 years. Automated writing became a craze throughout the United States and Europe in the 19th century, and people used planchettes on sheets of paper to try to communicate with the spirit world. The Ouija board itself was patented in 1891.
Do I believe that Ouija boards allow communication with the spirit world? Not really. Do I think they're weird and dangerous? Yes.
No good can come from any use of a Ouija board, and people ought to leave them alone. First off, the whole idea is that people using them should surrender their conscious will in order to make themselves available for communications from the Outside. In extreme cases -- e.g., any situation involving preteen girls -- this leaves people vulnerable to delusions and mass hysteria, and encourages people's worst impulses. The Ouija board lets people send messages to each other anonymously, which can be fun or funny, but can also be cruel.
Someone I trust once told me about a group of college friends who became obsessed with a Ouija board. The board seemed to be communicating with one girl in particular, who became convinced that she was the target of some sinister supernatural force. She stopped going to class, stopped leaving her dorm room, and ultimately withdrew from school. Did the spirits drive her out of college? I don't believe that, but I do think that the Ouija board became an instrument for her pre-existing mental instability to grow -- and, my friend thought, for at least one of the other people in the group to experiment with manipulating the girl.
So those are my thoughts on Ouija boards. As I mentioned in a comment on Tuesday, friends of mine have had some pretty disturbing Ouija board experiences; if you have, tell us about them below.
Ouija, by Parker Brothers, is officially a game that allows participants to try (or pretend) to communicate with intelligences outside their own. Mom never allowed us to have one, and I inherited her deep distrust -- not to say superstition -- about them.
Everyone's familiar with the set-up. People place two fingers, or a finger and a thumb, on a planchette -- a flat, tripod piece of sliding plastic -- that glides over a board decorated with letters, numbers, and the words "Yes," "No," and "Good Bye." Someone asks a question, and the planchette moves around the board to provide an answer. Someone's usually pushing the planchette, consciously or unconsciously, and hilarity or chills may ensue.
The idea of fortune-telling through automated writing, or through a board, dates back over 3,000 years. Automated writing became a craze throughout the United States and Europe in the 19th century, and people used planchettes on sheets of paper to try to communicate with the spirit world. The Ouija board itself was patented in 1891.
Do I believe that Ouija boards allow communication with the spirit world? Not really. Do I think they're weird and dangerous? Yes.
No good can come from any use of a Ouija board, and people ought to leave them alone. First off, the whole idea is that people using them should surrender their conscious will in order to make themselves available for communications from the Outside. In extreme cases -- e.g., any situation involving preteen girls -- this leaves people vulnerable to delusions and mass hysteria, and encourages people's worst impulses. The Ouija board lets people send messages to each other anonymously, which can be fun or funny, but can also be cruel.
Someone I trust once told me about a group of college friends who became obsessed with a Ouija board. The board seemed to be communicating with one girl in particular, who became convinced that she was the target of some sinister supernatural force. She stopped going to class, stopped leaving her dorm room, and ultimately withdrew from school. Did the spirits drive her out of college? I don't believe that, but I do think that the Ouija board became an instrument for her pre-existing mental instability to grow -- and, my friend thought, for at least one of the other people in the group to experiment with manipulating the girl.
So those are my thoughts on Ouija boards. As I mentioned in a comment on Tuesday, friends of mine have had some pretty disturbing Ouija board experiences; if you have, tell us about them below.
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
What's Jerry Falwell doing right now?
Who's asking: Ashton LeBourgeois, Washington, DC
I'm staying with Ashton, so he gets to ask the questions, but this is one I too would like the answer to. In the absence of a HeavenCam, all we can do is speculate.
My own theory is that Jerry Falwell's last thought as he approached that white light was, "I was wrong." In the face of that recognition -- with, I hope, the accompanying instantaneous remorse -- the infinite mercy of God laughed, took him in, and said, "I'd like you to meet my friends Oscar (Wilde) and Gertrude (Stein). Maybe later, you can get a glass of wine with the Apostle Paul."
The God I believe in -- omniscient, omnipotent, omnipresent, infinite in mercy and love but ultimately unknowable to us on Earth -- is so far beyond the scope of any human religion that I can only think God must find it all kind of endearing, like a parent watching kids play cops and robbers. "It's not good, what you did," I can imagine God saying. "You didn't get it. But everyone ends up with me in the end anyway, so now that you're here, we'll just move on. Do you get it now?"
Some folks, I imagine, don't get it. And if they don't, they have to stay separate and alone forever. Flames and brimstone are nothing compared to an eternity trapped alone inside one's own mind.
Five Random Songs
Dwight Yoakam, "If There Was a Way." As close to perfect as a country song can get -- a diffident, sad plea for the singer's love to take him back. "I was just wondering/If there was a way..."
Billy Bragg, "Love Gets Dangerous." Sometimes I wonder whether romantic love is just a handy excuse for bad behavior. As an excuse, it's right up there with religion.
The Beatles, "The Long and Winding Road." This song is a river of chocolate, and Paul McCartney's voice is the candy boat that rides it. (Sorry, was that too much? But it's true, just listen.)
Enya, "Marble Halls." This song -- not Enya's version, but the song itself -- features prominently in "Clay," from James Joyce's Dubliners, when a group of people at a party must stop and pay attention to a spinster whose feelings they had never regarded. This version of it is on the "Age of Innocence" soundtrack. "I also dreamt, which charmed me most/That you loved me still the same."
Mary Chapin Carpenter, "A Keeper for Every Flame." Wow, it's Unrequited Love Day on the iPod Shuffle. But as Lily Tomlin says in Shadows & Fog, "Unrequited love is the only love that lasts." Flame on.
I'm staying with Ashton, so he gets to ask the questions, but this is one I too would like the answer to. In the absence of a HeavenCam, all we can do is speculate.
My own theory is that Jerry Falwell's last thought as he approached that white light was, "I was wrong." In the face of that recognition -- with, I hope, the accompanying instantaneous remorse -- the infinite mercy of God laughed, took him in, and said, "I'd like you to meet my friends Oscar (Wilde) and Gertrude (Stein). Maybe later, you can get a glass of wine with the Apostle Paul."
The God I believe in -- omniscient, omnipotent, omnipresent, infinite in mercy and love but ultimately unknowable to us on Earth -- is so far beyond the scope of any human religion that I can only think God must find it all kind of endearing, like a parent watching kids play cops and robbers. "It's not good, what you did," I can imagine God saying. "You didn't get it. But everyone ends up with me in the end anyway, so now that you're here, we'll just move on. Do you get it now?"
Some folks, I imagine, don't get it. And if they don't, they have to stay separate and alone forever. Flames and brimstone are nothing compared to an eternity trapped alone inside one's own mind.
Five Random Songs
Dwight Yoakam, "If There Was a Way." As close to perfect as a country song can get -- a diffident, sad plea for the singer's love to take him back. "I was just wondering/If there was a way..."
Billy Bragg, "Love Gets Dangerous." Sometimes I wonder whether romantic love is just a handy excuse for bad behavior. As an excuse, it's right up there with religion.
The Beatles, "The Long and Winding Road." This song is a river of chocolate, and Paul McCartney's voice is the candy boat that rides it. (Sorry, was that too much? But it's true, just listen.)
Enya, "Marble Halls." This song -- not Enya's version, but the song itself -- features prominently in "Clay," from James Joyce's Dubliners, when a group of people at a party must stop and pay attention to a spinster whose feelings they had never regarded. This version of it is on the "Age of Innocence" soundtrack. "I also dreamt, which charmed me most/That you loved me still the same."
Mary Chapin Carpenter, "A Keeper for Every Flame." Wow, it's Unrequited Love Day on the iPod Shuffle. But as Lily Tomlin says in Shadows & Fog, "Unrequited love is the only love that lasts." Flame on.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Does "Light as a feather, stiff as a board" actually work?
Who's asking: Ashton LeBourgeois, Washington, DC
This question came up last night when Ashton and I were watching that seminal 1990s cheesefest -- er, piece of pop culture -- The Craft. A group of high school girls (Fairuza Balk, Neve Campbell, Rachel True, Robin Tunney) dabbles in witchcraft, and they first discover their true powers when three of them raise Rachel True several feet off the floor, using only their fingers.
It's a staple of preteen slumber parties, or at least it was when I was that age. One girl lies rigid on the floor, arms by her sides. The rest of the group sits around her, with the leader at the head. The leader massages the subject's temple while telling a story in a soothing tone of voice -- usually, a story about how the person on the floor came to be there, dead or unconscious. The rest of the group puts two fingers of each hand under the victim. At the end of the story, the leader puts two fingers under each of the victim's shoulders and says, "She is light as a feather, and stiff as a board."
"She is light as a feather, and stiff as a board," everyone repeats, and the group chants this several times as they begin to lift the victim on their fingers. If it works, the victim rises easily from the floor, with almost no effort from each of the people in the group.
That's the theory, anyway. In practice, my fifth-grade classmates and I could never get it to work; nor could we get any results with a similar game, in which one person sits in a chair, the group piles hands atop that person's head, and when everyone removes their hands the person in the chair rises like magic from the seat.
Beth Shapiro swore that she had been at a party where it had worked, or maybe it was one of her sisters; at every slumber party, Girl Scout camp or CYO retreat, someone insisted they knew someone who had done it, or had seen it themselves. But I never did -- and therefore, based on my own field research, I'm saying it doesn't work.
If anyone has any experience to the contrary -- or even a good story about trying it -- leave it in the comments section.
It's one of those things I'd be tempted to try even now, though I suspect that any adult gathering where this became a good idea would involve too much alcohol for safety.
This question came up last night when Ashton and I were watching that seminal 1990s cheesefest -- er, piece of pop culture -- The Craft. A group of high school girls (Fairuza Balk, Neve Campbell, Rachel True, Robin Tunney) dabbles in witchcraft, and they first discover their true powers when three of them raise Rachel True several feet off the floor, using only their fingers.
It's a staple of preteen slumber parties, or at least it was when I was that age. One girl lies rigid on the floor, arms by her sides. The rest of the group sits around her, with the leader at the head. The leader massages the subject's temple while telling a story in a soothing tone of voice -- usually, a story about how the person on the floor came to be there, dead or unconscious. The rest of the group puts two fingers of each hand under the victim. At the end of the story, the leader puts two fingers under each of the victim's shoulders and says, "She is light as a feather, and stiff as a board."
"She is light as a feather, and stiff as a board," everyone repeats, and the group chants this several times as they begin to lift the victim on their fingers. If it works, the victim rises easily from the floor, with almost no effort from each of the people in the group.
That's the theory, anyway. In practice, my fifth-grade classmates and I could never get it to work; nor could we get any results with a similar game, in which one person sits in a chair, the group piles hands atop that person's head, and when everyone removes their hands the person in the chair rises like magic from the seat.
Beth Shapiro swore that she had been at a party where it had worked, or maybe it was one of her sisters; at every slumber party, Girl Scout camp or CYO retreat, someone insisted they knew someone who had done it, or had seen it themselves. But I never did -- and therefore, based on my own field research, I'm saying it doesn't work.
If anyone has any experience to the contrary -- or even a good story about trying it -- leave it in the comments section.
It's one of those things I'd be tempted to try even now, though I suspect that any adult gathering where this became a good idea would involve too much alcohol for safety.
Monday, May 14, 2007
Do you take PayPal?
Who's asking: A potential client who lives outside the United States
I don't, sorry. It would be convenient for clients who live abroad, but few of my clients do.
Today's a slower, lazier day than it should be, but after yesterday and the past week, I needed a day to catch up with myself. It's a beautiful day here in Alexandria, it's good to be with my family, and I am so grateful for my life that I wonder whether I might just disappear. Isn't that what happens when you reach Nirvana?
The Mystery Bookstore has posted a whole new crop of podcast interviews. Click on one of the four boxes in the right-hand corner of the page and you can listen to me talking with Mary Higgins Clark, Carol Higgins Clark, Harlan Coben, Jennifer Colt, Michael Connelly, and Laura Lippman. The interview with Laura is my favorite (ignore the telephone that rings twice about halfway through), although everyone was fascinating. Michael Connelly was honest and insightful about Harry Bosch's future, and his own adventures in the screen trade; Mary Higgins Clark was both hilarious and suspenseful-on-command; Harlan Coben was an incredibly good sport, as I misunderstood his schedule and wound up interviewing him during his signing at Mysterious Galaxy's Festival of Books booth.
Things will be back to normal tomorrow, but in the meantime, here's another picture. That's Chris and this three sisters -- Claire, Celeste, and Carolyn -- at brunch yesterday.
Sunday, May 13, 2007
Picture of the week
Congratulations to Christopher Joseph Bea, Bachelor of Arts, St. John's class of 2007. Next to him is his sister Claire, who will receive her degree from McGill in October.
Happy Mother's Day, Vikki.
Saturday, May 12, 2007
Did you want any ARCs?
Who's asking: Joseph Finder, Boston, MA
It's still three months from publication, but Joseph Finder, his assistant Sarah and I (and a cast of dozens at Joe's publishing house and elsewhere) have already started the promotional campaign for Joe's next book, POWER PLAY.
The first shipment of advance reading copies reached Joe's office this week. Sarah and I have spent a fair amount of time over the past several months putting together a mailing list of people who should get them -- reviewers, bloggers, opinion-makers, contest winners -- but I hadn't thought to ask for any of my own, until Joe asked me.
So now I have a small box of advance copies of Power Play. Some are already spoken for, but to celebrate the launch of Joe's website redesign, I'll give the rest away to the first people who write and ask me for them. My e-mail address is on my profile, you'll see it if you click on my photo in the right-hand corner. Give me about a week to get them out, since I'll be traveling for the next few days.
Oh, and did I mention that Joe's new website is up? It is, and it looks darn cool if I do say so myself. I am responsible only for content; the design comes from Joe Rivera and the fine folks at the Book Reporter Network. And I've already found a mistake in the text, but such is life. If everything were perfect, I'd be out of a job.
In fact, if you find the error, I'll send you an ARC just for that. Just e-mail it to me, okay? Don't embarrass me by leaving it in the comments section...
It's still three months from publication, but Joseph Finder, his assistant Sarah and I (and a cast of dozens at Joe's publishing house and elsewhere) have already started the promotional campaign for Joe's next book, POWER PLAY.
The first shipment of advance reading copies reached Joe's office this week. Sarah and I have spent a fair amount of time over the past several months putting together a mailing list of people who should get them -- reviewers, bloggers, opinion-makers, contest winners -- but I hadn't thought to ask for any of my own, until Joe asked me.
So now I have a small box of advance copies of Power Play. Some are already spoken for, but to celebrate the launch of Joe's website redesign, I'll give the rest away to the first people who write and ask me for them. My e-mail address is on my profile, you'll see it if you click on my photo in the right-hand corner. Give me about a week to get them out, since I'll be traveling for the next few days.
Oh, and did I mention that Joe's new website is up? It is, and it looks darn cool if I do say so myself. I am responsible only for content; the design comes from Joe Rivera and the fine folks at the Book Reporter Network. And I've already found a mistake in the text, but such is life. If everything were perfect, I'd be out of a job.
In fact, if you find the error, I'll send you an ARC just for that. Just e-mail it to me, okay? Don't embarrass me by leaving it in the comments section...
Friday, May 11, 2007
Is the French word légume masculine or feminine?
Who's asking: An anonymous Google searcher
Masculine; it's le légume, though one usually sees this noun in the plural (vegetables). People do come here looking for the oddest things.
Driving south tomorrow rather than today, as I'm still catching up on work and taking the car in for repairs this afternoon. The weather's lousy, so I'm better off driving tomorrow, anyway.
This week's major reading has been a 600+ page manuscript clean-up, plus a couple of smaller jobs. I also read some things that were not to my taste, which I'll skip over. But I read two books I liked:
What I Read This Week
Chris Mooney, The Missing. Darby McCormick becomes a criminalist with the Boston police after surviving an attack as a teenager that resulted in the disappearance of one of her best friends. Twenty years later, another young woman goes missing, and a woman is found -- the two events are related, and may even be connected to Darby's own attack. Lots of twists and turns, in the tradition of Kiss the Girls and Silence of the Lambs, though not as graphic. Darby's an excellent character, and I always admire male writers who write believable female protagonists.
Kerry Greenwood, The Green Mill Murder. I was talking about Australian writers earlier this week; here's a good one. Greenwood's Phryne Fisher series features an independent woman in 1920s and 1930s Australia, who flies her own plane and does what she likes. This time out, she's investigating a murder at a dance hall, which leads to a hunt for a long-missing Great War veteran. The murder becomes almost irrelevant to the story, but the plots of these books are so much less important than the chance to hang out with Phryne.
Masculine; it's le légume, though one usually sees this noun in the plural (vegetables). People do come here looking for the oddest things.
Driving south tomorrow rather than today, as I'm still catching up on work and taking the car in for repairs this afternoon. The weather's lousy, so I'm better off driving tomorrow, anyway.
This week's major reading has been a 600+ page manuscript clean-up, plus a couple of smaller jobs. I also read some things that were not to my taste, which I'll skip over. But I read two books I liked:
What I Read This Week
Chris Mooney, The Missing. Darby McCormick becomes a criminalist with the Boston police after surviving an attack as a teenager that resulted in the disappearance of one of her best friends. Twenty years later, another young woman goes missing, and a woman is found -- the two events are related, and may even be connected to Darby's own attack. Lots of twists and turns, in the tradition of Kiss the Girls and Silence of the Lambs, though not as graphic. Darby's an excellent character, and I always admire male writers who write believable female protagonists.
Kerry Greenwood, The Green Mill Murder. I was talking about Australian writers earlier this week; here's a good one. Greenwood's Phryne Fisher series features an independent woman in 1920s and 1930s Australia, who flies her own plane and does what she likes. This time out, she's investigating a murder at a dance hall, which leads to a hunt for a long-missing Great War veteran. The murder becomes almost irrelevant to the story, but the plots of these books are so much less important than the chance to hang out with Phryne.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
What happened?
Who's asking: Kit McLaughlin, Upper St. Clair, PA
I knew yesterday's posting was probably too cryptic. Things are fine, it's just the usual exasperating maintenance of a life that sometimes bears too much resemblance to an episode of "I Love Lucy." ("I Love Lucy" is fun to watch, but Lucy Ricardo would have been an annoying person to know in real life.)
In a perfect world I would have a secretary, a business manager, and a handyman, who would all work for peanut butter sandwiches, live in my kitchen drawers and come out only when I need them. In this world I live alone with a dog who'd like to be helpful but is not especially handy, and I rely on an income stream that does not necessarily flow at the same rate as my expenses.
I also drive a seven-year-old car that needs two new tires and a new set of rear brakes -- routine replacements, just expensive.
And the washing machine mishap was just my own incompetence. I'm not bad at routine handyman work, and I'm good with hammers and screwdrivers. I did, after a couple of tries, manage to replace the three-pronged electric cord on my new dryer with a four-pronged one, and the dryer runs without blowing any fuses, starting fires or electrocuting me.
Plumbing, however, is another story. All I'll say is that pipe connections need to be really, really tight before anyone turns the water on.
I'm still behind, and need to head south again this weekend for Chris's graduation from St. John's. Today and tomorrow will be exercises in triage.
Five Random Songs (since I skipped them yesterday)
Lou Reed, "Satellite of Love." I don't care if he made TV commercials for scooters and American Express. Lou Reed will always be an icon of Cool.
Delbert McClinton, "Why Me?" Funny honky-tonk about being picked up by a woman the singer knows will break his heart.
The Delgados, "The Weaker Argument Defeats the Stronger." The Delgados, now broken up, are a band I should have paid more attention to when they were together. This cut is from The Complete BBC Peel Sessions, which I got for Christmas last year. It's cool to listen to this two-CD set in order, because they sound like completely different bands at different stages in their career.
X, "My Goodness." Another good song about an encounter that's nothing but bad news. "My goodness/Just left to make room for you..."
Wonderlick, "Never Let You Go." Wonderlick is one of the successor bands to Too Much Joy, but don't sound much like them; their sound is much more electronic and the perspective is an adult one, though the sense of humor shines through.
I knew yesterday's posting was probably too cryptic. Things are fine, it's just the usual exasperating maintenance of a life that sometimes bears too much resemblance to an episode of "I Love Lucy." ("I Love Lucy" is fun to watch, but Lucy Ricardo would have been an annoying person to know in real life.)
In a perfect world I would have a secretary, a business manager, and a handyman, who would all work for peanut butter sandwiches, live in my kitchen drawers and come out only when I need them. In this world I live alone with a dog who'd like to be helpful but is not especially handy, and I rely on an income stream that does not necessarily flow at the same rate as my expenses.
I also drive a seven-year-old car that needs two new tires and a new set of rear brakes -- routine replacements, just expensive.
And the washing machine mishap was just my own incompetence. I'm not bad at routine handyman work, and I'm good with hammers and screwdrivers. I did, after a couple of tries, manage to replace the three-pronged electric cord on my new dryer with a four-pronged one, and the dryer runs without blowing any fuses, starting fires or electrocuting me.
Plumbing, however, is another story. All I'll say is that pipe connections need to be really, really tight before anyone turns the water on.
I'm still behind, and need to head south again this weekend for Chris's graduation from St. John's. Today and tomorrow will be exercises in triage.
Five Random Songs (since I skipped them yesterday)
Lou Reed, "Satellite of Love." I don't care if he made TV commercials for scooters and American Express. Lou Reed will always be an icon of Cool.
Delbert McClinton, "Why Me?" Funny honky-tonk about being picked up by a woman the singer knows will break his heart.
The Delgados, "The Weaker Argument Defeats the Stronger." The Delgados, now broken up, are a band I should have paid more attention to when they were together. This cut is from The Complete BBC Peel Sessions, which I got for Christmas last year. It's cool to listen to this two-CD set in order, because they sound like completely different bands at different stages in their career.
X, "My Goodness." Another good song about an encounter that's nothing but bad news. "My goodness/Just left to make room for you..."
Wonderlick, "Never Let You Go." Wonderlick is one of the successor bands to Too Much Joy, but don't sound much like them; their sound is much more electronic and the perspective is an adult one, though the sense of humor shines through.
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
Can you...
Who's asking: Anybody
Just for today, the answer is no. Sorry. I'm past deadline on a couple of things, my car needs $400+ worth of repairs to be street legal, and a mishap with a washing machine that I was responsible for apparently wrecked a bunch of my neighbor's stuff.
It's not a good week. It'll be better tomorrow. I hope.
Just for today, the answer is no. Sorry. I'm past deadline on a couple of things, my car needs $400+ worth of repairs to be street legal, and a mishap with a washing machine that I was responsible for apparently wrecked a bunch of my neighbor's stuff.
It's not a good week. It'll be better tomorrow. I hope.
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
What is the Australian equivalent of the Edgar Awards?
Who's asking: Since the person asking this question needed to know in order to impress someone, I'd better not say
Australia's awards for excellence in crime fiction are called the Ned Kelly Awards. Ned Kelly (1855-1880) is Australia's national folk hero, the outlaw son of a transported Irish convict. Ned Kelly became the man of his family after his father's death, when Ned was only 11, and he robbed and stole to support his mother and seven siblings. He started to run with a bad crowd -- including his mother's second husband -- and faced constant prosecution (or persecution, depending on whom you ask). He turned to bank robbery and was eventually captured in a homemade suit of armor, in a confrontation with police that is now the stuff of legend.
He might have been forgotten -- or never particularly famous at all -- if not for a letter he dictated for publication to his comrade Joe Byrne in 1879. The Jerilderie Letter, as it is known, is considered a seminal piece of Australian literature; it lays out the injustices done to the Kelly family and, more broadly, to the Irish in Australia. It includes vivid descriptions of the crimes Kelly committed and the crimes he chose not to commit -- "I could have shot them without speaking but their lives was no good to me." The letter orders Kelly's enemies to "sell out and give P10 out of every hundred to the widow and orphan fund ... I am a widow's son orphaned and my orders must be obeyed."
Ned Kelly was hanged in November 1880, after a trial that received worldwide attention.
It's supposed to be a global marketplace, but it's hard to find Australian writers' works in American bookstores. For that matter, it's hard to find any non-American writers' works in American bookstores. Kevin Wignall discussed this at some length in a recent blog post, but I'll ask the question here: why is this?
Australia's awards for excellence in crime fiction are called the Ned Kelly Awards. Ned Kelly (1855-1880) is Australia's national folk hero, the outlaw son of a transported Irish convict. Ned Kelly became the man of his family after his father's death, when Ned was only 11, and he robbed and stole to support his mother and seven siblings. He started to run with a bad crowd -- including his mother's second husband -- and faced constant prosecution (or persecution, depending on whom you ask). He turned to bank robbery and was eventually captured in a homemade suit of armor, in a confrontation with police that is now the stuff of legend.
He might have been forgotten -- or never particularly famous at all -- if not for a letter he dictated for publication to his comrade Joe Byrne in 1879. The Jerilderie Letter, as it is known, is considered a seminal piece of Australian literature; it lays out the injustices done to the Kelly family and, more broadly, to the Irish in Australia. It includes vivid descriptions of the crimes Kelly committed and the crimes he chose not to commit -- "I could have shot them without speaking but their lives was no good to me." The letter orders Kelly's enemies to "sell out and give P10 out of every hundred to the widow and orphan fund ... I am a widow's son orphaned and my orders must be obeyed."
Ned Kelly was hanged in November 1880, after a trial that received worldwide attention.
It's supposed to be a global marketplace, but it's hard to find Australian writers' works in American bookstores. For that matter, it's hard to find any non-American writers' works in American bookstores. Kevin Wignall discussed this at some length in a recent blog post, but I'll ask the question here: why is this?
Monday, May 07, 2007
Why is it "two shakes of a lamb's tail"? Wouldn't "one shake" be faster?
Who's asking: Paul Guyot, St. Louis, MO
This question revealed a major gap in my circle of acquaintances: I don't know any sheep farmers. I was going to seek some out, but that will take a while, and I'm traveling too much this month.
So here's my usual combination of online research and making stuff up.
First off, some people say "three shakes" instead of "two shakes." Three shakes? That's just silly. Avoid these people, along with people who say "between you and I," "utilize," and "to be honest with you..."
No one seems to know where the phrase comes from, but people generally agree that lambs can shake their tails pretty fast, making two shakes almost as fast as one shake -- so perhaps the implication is that the listener needs to be a little patient, but not very. The tone of it is always vaguely apologetic; we use it to refer to ourselves, and you'd never hear anyone ask for something to be done in two shakes of a lamb's tail.
What's very cool and unexpected is that "shake" has become an official time measurement in nuclear science. Nuclear engineers and astrophysicists use "shake" to mean 10 nanoseconds. (A nanosecond is 10 to the power of negative nine; 10 nanoseconds is ten to the power of negative eight. Admiral Grace Hopper, whom I had the honor to meet on two occasions, used to hand out lengths of wire just under a foot long, which demonstrated the distance light travels in a nanosecond.)
As for how fast I can shake my tail -- well, never mind. Momentum can be a frightening phenomenon.
This question revealed a major gap in my circle of acquaintances: I don't know any sheep farmers. I was going to seek some out, but that will take a while, and I'm traveling too much this month.
So here's my usual combination of online research and making stuff up.
First off, some people say "three shakes" instead of "two shakes." Three shakes? That's just silly. Avoid these people, along with people who say "between you and I," "utilize," and "to be honest with you..."
No one seems to know where the phrase comes from, but people generally agree that lambs can shake their tails pretty fast, making two shakes almost as fast as one shake -- so perhaps the implication is that the listener needs to be a little patient, but not very. The tone of it is always vaguely apologetic; we use it to refer to ourselves, and you'd never hear anyone ask for something to be done in two shakes of a lamb's tail.
What's very cool and unexpected is that "shake" has become an official time measurement in nuclear science. Nuclear engineers and astrophysicists use "shake" to mean 10 nanoseconds. (A nanosecond is 10 to the power of negative nine; 10 nanoseconds is ten to the power of negative eight. Admiral Grace Hopper, whom I had the honor to meet on two occasions, used to hand out lengths of wire just under a foot long, which demonstrated the distance light travels in a nanosecond.)
As for how fast I can shake my tail -- well, never mind. Momentum can be a frightening phenomenon.
Sunday, May 06, 2007
Picture of the week
I wish this photo had turned out better. It's a little-known fact that some dog toys have superpowers. This karate-playing stuffed animal not only makes realistic kung-fu noises, but can fly.
Actually, one of Gary's dogs dropped it off his back deck, and now it's caught in the bougainvillea thorns until the squirrels dislodge it. Archaeologists may one day find scraps of it and wonder what deity it was an offering to.
Saturday, May 05, 2007
How many of the situations in the Alanis Morissette song are actually "ironic"?
Who's asking: Paul Tomme, Arlington, TX
Irony, for those of you who never saw "Reality Bites," is the use of words to express something different from (and often opposite to) the apparent meaning. It's also an incongruity between what might be expected and what actually occurs.
I overuse it, mostly as a crutch to hold myself aloof and pretend I don't care about things I care deeply about -- so much so, that friends don't always recognize it when I am being sincere, and take offense when I really do mean to compliment them.
9/11 was supposed to be the end of irony, but turns out to have been only a temporary interruption.
Anyway, the Alanis Morissette song is full of things that are disappointments, but not ironies:
A black fly in your Chardonnay (not ironic)
A death-row pardon two minutes too late (maybe, but only if the person being executed was a hanging judge)
Rain on your wedding day (not ironic -- in fact, good luck in many cultures)
A free ride when you've already paid (possibly ironic)
Good advice that you just didn't take (not ironic, without additional information)
Ten thousand spoons when all you need is a knife (not ironic)
Meeting the man of your dreams and then meeting his beautiful wife (story of my life, but not ironic)
Two situations in the song do meet the criteria for irony, I think: the man who won the lottery and died the next day, and the man who was afraid to fly whose plane crashed.
It's another beautiful day, and I might go look at seedlings this afternoon. Someone has offered me garden space, and hope springs eternal.
Irony, for those of you who never saw "Reality Bites," is the use of words to express something different from (and often opposite to) the apparent meaning. It's also an incongruity between what might be expected and what actually occurs.
I overuse it, mostly as a crutch to hold myself aloof and pretend I don't care about things I care deeply about -- so much so, that friends don't always recognize it when I am being sincere, and take offense when I really do mean to compliment them.
9/11 was supposed to be the end of irony, but turns out to have been only a temporary interruption.
Anyway, the Alanis Morissette song is full of things that are disappointments, but not ironies:
A black fly in your Chardonnay (not ironic)
A death-row pardon two minutes too late (maybe, but only if the person being executed was a hanging judge)
Rain on your wedding day (not ironic -- in fact, good luck in many cultures)
A free ride when you've already paid (possibly ironic)
Good advice that you just didn't take (not ironic, without additional information)
Ten thousand spoons when all you need is a knife (not ironic)
Meeting the man of your dreams and then meeting his beautiful wife (story of my life, but not ironic)
Two situations in the song do meet the criteria for irony, I think: the man who won the lottery and died the next day, and the man who was afraid to fly whose plane crashed.
It's another beautiful day, and I might go look at seedlings this afternoon. Someone has offered me garden space, and hope springs eternal.
Friday, May 04, 2007
Who won last night's Republican presidential debate?
Who's asking: Talking heads everywhere
Truly, I don't know and I don't care. I watched most of last night's debates, flipping back and forth between that and the Thursday night shows on NBC -- I clicked away every time a candidate mentioned Ronald Reagan, and clicked back at commercials.
Political reporters seem to think Mitt Romney won last night's debate, but I could hardly stand to watch him; I get no sense of him as anything but a carefully-constructed persona. The only person who seemed to be speaking honestly and rationally, without an eye to the camera, was Ron Paul, whom no one's taking seriously as a candidate.
Come the summertime, I plan to spend a fair amount of time at rallies in New Hampshire, just for the curiosity value. This stuff is too important to let television tell us what to think.
What I Read This Week
Daniel Woodrell, Winter's Bone. Finally read this book, after meeting the man last weekend; I should have read it last year, when it came out. In an Ozark winter, 16-year-old Ree Dolly goes looking for her father, because if he's jumped bail, they'll lose their house. This spare, concentrated novel distills all the bleakness of poverty and all the resilience of youth -- its violence is not gratuitous and its ending is not unrealistically happy, but I finished it feeling I'd known Ree Dolly all my life.
Stef Penney, The Tenderness of Wolves. I wish I hadn't read so much about this book, which won the 2006 UK Costa (formerly Whitbread) Award for Book of the Year. Simon & Schuster seems to be marketing its US release (in July) as a thriller, but that may be inviting disappointment. The Tenderness of Wolves is a wildly ambitious, sprawling epic set in northern Canada in 1867. A teenaged boy disappears after the murder of a French-Canadian trapper; his mother, who narrates much of the book, follows him into the wilderness. Along the way, other men are looking for two long-missing English girls, a mysterious native carving, a priceless cache of furs, and the trapper's killer. It's Dickensian in scope, and the writing is beautiful -- but parts of it do drag, and some of the subplots can't help but be underdeveloped. It's an impressive first novel, but not as good as I'd hoped and expected.
Truly, I don't know and I don't care. I watched most of last night's debates, flipping back and forth between that and the Thursday night shows on NBC -- I clicked away every time a candidate mentioned Ronald Reagan, and clicked back at commercials.
Political reporters seem to think Mitt Romney won last night's debate, but I could hardly stand to watch him; I get no sense of him as anything but a carefully-constructed persona. The only person who seemed to be speaking honestly and rationally, without an eye to the camera, was Ron Paul, whom no one's taking seriously as a candidate.
Come the summertime, I plan to spend a fair amount of time at rallies in New Hampshire, just for the curiosity value. This stuff is too important to let television tell us what to think.
What I Read This Week
Daniel Woodrell, Winter's Bone. Finally read this book, after meeting the man last weekend; I should have read it last year, when it came out. In an Ozark winter, 16-year-old Ree Dolly goes looking for her father, because if he's jumped bail, they'll lose their house. This spare, concentrated novel distills all the bleakness of poverty and all the resilience of youth -- its violence is not gratuitous and its ending is not unrealistically happy, but I finished it feeling I'd known Ree Dolly all my life.
Stef Penney, The Tenderness of Wolves. I wish I hadn't read so much about this book, which won the 2006 UK Costa (formerly Whitbread) Award for Book of the Year. Simon & Schuster seems to be marketing its US release (in July) as a thriller, but that may be inviting disappointment. The Tenderness of Wolves is a wildly ambitious, sprawling epic set in northern Canada in 1867. A teenaged boy disappears after the murder of a French-Canadian trapper; his mother, who narrates much of the book, follows him into the wilderness. Along the way, other men are looking for two long-missing English girls, a mysterious native carving, a priceless cache of furs, and the trapper's killer. It's Dickensian in scope, and the writing is beautiful -- but parts of it do drag, and some of the subplots can't help but be underdeveloped. It's an impressive first novel, but not as good as I'd hoped and expected.
Thursday, May 03, 2007
Did you still want to go to the movies today or tomorrow?
Who's asking: One of my neighbors; last week we'd talked about catching a matinee when I got back to town
I always want to go to the movies, but not today and not tomorrow. Movers are delivering a shipment of furniture and other stuff -- including a washer and dryer, unimaginable luxury -- from my parents' old house this afternoon, a week earlier than expected. (Crazy, huh? Any minute now, it'll start raining dollar bills.)
It'll take me at least a couple of days to figure out where to put it all. I don't even know exactly what's coming, but I'm pretty sure I'm getting a couple of bookcases, which I desperately need.
The timing on this is good. I'm not exactly caught up with all my projects -- if I'm not overcommitted, I'm not working hard enough -- but I've finished everything that doesn't require major time and attention. A little furniture-rearranging and organizing will give the right side of my brain a break.
In the meantime, though, "Fracture" will have to wait. Sorry...
I always want to go to the movies, but not today and not tomorrow. Movers are delivering a shipment of furniture and other stuff -- including a washer and dryer, unimaginable luxury -- from my parents' old house this afternoon, a week earlier than expected. (Crazy, huh? Any minute now, it'll start raining dollar bills.)
It'll take me at least a couple of days to figure out where to put it all. I don't even know exactly what's coming, but I'm pretty sure I'm getting a couple of bookcases, which I desperately need.
The timing on this is good. I'm not exactly caught up with all my projects -- if I'm not overcommitted, I'm not working hard enough -- but I've finished everything that doesn't require major time and attention. A little furniture-rearranging and organizing will give the right side of my brain a break.
In the meantime, though, "Fracture" will have to wait. Sorry...
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
How long does it take to go from Portland to Washington, DC by train?
Who's asking: Richard Bostwick, Hallowell, ME
The train from Portland to Boston only runs a few times a day, and doesn't go directly through to Washington. You have to transfer at Back Bay in Boston, which isn't difficult; you can also take the express bus from Portland to Boston's South Station, and switch to Amtrak there. Either way, it takes about 12 hours; travel time's a little shorter if you catch the Acela from Boston, but waiting time between transfers is longer.
Prices for the trip range from $100 to $216 each way -- about the same as it would cost to drive, figuring in gas and tolls for a 600-mile trip -- and travel time is about the same. I love train travel, and since I have to go back to Washington next week, I considered this -- but it would mean leaving Dizzy behind again, which I don't really want to do. I'd much rather ride than drive for 12 hours (I could read three books in that time, depending on the books), but it wouldn't be fair to leave Dizzy behind again for a week, especially since I'll have to leave him for a Montreal - New York trip at the end of the month.
After that, thank God, I'll be home for a while.
Five Random Songs
"Country Death Song," Violent Femmes. A tragic story of child-killing, set to a cheerful bluegrass tune. A good soundtrack for a book I read yesterday, but more about that on Friday.
"The Good Intent," Roseanne Cash. This song begins with an old recording of Johnny Cash talking to his daughter as an infant, getting her to speak into a microphone. This album (Black Cadillac) still comforts me tremendously; Jen Lechner gave it to me, and I gave copies to all my siblings for Mom's birthday last year.
"I Have the Touch," Peter Gabriel. I'd be excited about the Genesis reunion if he were going to be part of it. Otherwise, not so much.
"On the Rise," Meat Puppets. This was a recent download; I think (and hope) it's a cut off a forthcoming album. These guys are touring again this summer, and if I get a chance to see them, I'll be there.
"It's All in Your Mind," Beck. Ooh, music to slit one's wrists by. Too early in the morning for this. Next...
The train from Portland to Boston only runs a few times a day, and doesn't go directly through to Washington. You have to transfer at Back Bay in Boston, which isn't difficult; you can also take the express bus from Portland to Boston's South Station, and switch to Amtrak there. Either way, it takes about 12 hours; travel time's a little shorter if you catch the Acela from Boston, but waiting time between transfers is longer.
Prices for the trip range from $100 to $216 each way -- about the same as it would cost to drive, figuring in gas and tolls for a 600-mile trip -- and travel time is about the same. I love train travel, and since I have to go back to Washington next week, I considered this -- but it would mean leaving Dizzy behind again, which I don't really want to do. I'd much rather ride than drive for 12 hours (I could read three books in that time, depending on the books), but it wouldn't be fair to leave Dizzy behind again for a week, especially since I'll have to leave him for a Montreal - New York trip at the end of the month.
After that, thank God, I'll be home for a while.
Five Random Songs
"Country Death Song," Violent Femmes. A tragic story of child-killing, set to a cheerful bluegrass tune. A good soundtrack for a book I read yesterday, but more about that on Friday.
"The Good Intent," Roseanne Cash. This song begins with an old recording of Johnny Cash talking to his daughter as an infant, getting her to speak into a microphone. This album (Black Cadillac) still comforts me tremendously; Jen Lechner gave it to me, and I gave copies to all my siblings for Mom's birthday last year.
"I Have the Touch," Peter Gabriel. I'd be excited about the Genesis reunion if he were going to be part of it. Otherwise, not so much.
"On the Rise," Meat Puppets. This was a recent download; I think (and hope) it's a cut off a forthcoming album. These guys are touring again this summer, and if I get a chance to see them, I'll be there.
"It's All in Your Mind," Beck. Ooh, music to slit one's wrists by. Too early in the morning for this. Next...
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
Do you miss Los Angeles?
Who's asking: Almost everyone I've seen, Los Angeles, CA
Sure I do, sometimes. Lots of things I don't miss: the traffic, the self-absorption, the relentless sexualization of everything, the assumption that only youth matters.
But I miss my friends, I miss the weather, I miss the ability to go from beach to mountains in half an hour. I miss being able to see any movie I want to see at almost any time of day. I miss the variety of produce in the supermarkets, and I miss Trader Joe's so much I didn't even go into one while I was here, for fear that I'd start to cry.
That's not to say I don't love Maine. Maine's home in a way I can't explain, and never expected it to be. It is cold and rocky and isolated, hiding great beauty and the ability to explode into growth with only a little bit of sunshine and warmth. Draw your own metaphor.
Today, especially, I also miss my mom, who would have been 66 today. No place is really home without her.
Back to Maine today... thanks to everyone who offered hospitality on this trip, especially Lori, Pete and Frankie (my dog nephews), Sheila and Greg, Ann Marie, and everyone at The Mystery Bookstore. I wish I could have stayed a little longer, as I'm leaving without seeing too many of the people I wanted to see. Next time.
Sure I do, sometimes. Lots of things I don't miss: the traffic, the self-absorption, the relentless sexualization of everything, the assumption that only youth matters.
But I miss my friends, I miss the weather, I miss the ability to go from beach to mountains in half an hour. I miss being able to see any movie I want to see at almost any time of day. I miss the variety of produce in the supermarkets, and I miss Trader Joe's so much I didn't even go into one while I was here, for fear that I'd start to cry.
That's not to say I don't love Maine. Maine's home in a way I can't explain, and never expected it to be. It is cold and rocky and isolated, hiding great beauty and the ability to explode into growth with only a little bit of sunshine and warmth. Draw your own metaphor.
Today, especially, I also miss my mom, who would have been 66 today. No place is really home without her.
Back to Maine today... thanks to everyone who offered hospitality on this trip, especially Lori, Pete and Frankie (my dog nephews), Sheila and Greg, Ann Marie, and everyone at The Mystery Bookstore. I wish I could have stayed a little longer, as I'm leaving without seeing too many of the people I wanted to see. Next time.
Monday, April 30, 2007
My glamorous life
It all goes so fast... it was a good Festival, though it passed in the usual blur. (That's Linda Brown in the photo, contemplating the wreckage yesterday afternoon.) Lots of people, lots of books. My face hurts from smiling so much, I'm a little sunburned, and I broke all but one fingernail on my right hand (this always happens). I'm sorry that I didn't get a chance to talk to a couple of people I really wanted to talk to, but glad that I saw so many friends, and delighted that the store sold so many books.
Henry Winkler shopped our booth on Saturday afternoon and shook my hand -- "I'm Henry," he said, and all I could manage was a gasped, "I know who you are." He is a huge fan of Lee Child, who wasn't signing with us this weekend but will be at the store next month -- "Tell Lee Child, I said he writes like a river," Henry Winkler said.
Yeah, I bought a few books. I had to get Laura Lippman to sign a copy of What the Dead Know ; she also gave me a wonderful interview for a Mystery Bookstore podcast that should be live later this week. Daniel Woodrell signed a first edition of Winter's Bone for me, and now I'm afraid to read it for fear of getting fingerprints on it. James Ellroy signed a copy of My Dark Places for me, and was so charming I almost followed him home. Peter Spiegelman gave me a copy of Wall Street Noir signed by most of the contributors, and I bought a copy of D.C. Noir to go with it.
If you're not already subscribing to the Mystery Bookstore podcasts, this would be a good time to sign up -- click one of the buttons in the upper right hand corner of the store's home page. Over the next couple of weeks we'll be streaming the Laura Lippman interview, as well as interviews I conducted this weekend with Michael Connelly and Harlan Coben (there's a story behind that one that I'll report when the interview goes live), and two I'll be doing this afternoon with Mary Higgins Clark and Carol Higgins Clark.
Saturday, April 28, 2007
Are Rock 'Em Sock 'Em Robots really robots?
Who's asking: Tom Ehrenfeld, Cambridge, MA
You'd think that people would agree on the definition of "robot," but it seems to be more of an adjective than a noun. Nevertheless, one prerequisite is that a robot needs to be able to operate, once started, without human manipulation -- and the Rock 'Em Sock 'Em Robots don't do anything, unless humans are operating the controls. In fact, they're not even clockwork automatons; they're just a lever-operated simple machine, with spring-loaded heads.
So no, the Rock 'Em Sock 'Em Robots are not really robots. That is not to say, however, they're not a darn good toy. I never owned one, as Mom objected to toys that glamorized violence.
Last night's party was an excellent time. It was too crowded for karaoke, but we had just enough wine (three bottles left), and everyone seemed happy to see everyone else.
This morning's coming very early, but The Mystery Bookstore will be set up and ready to go when the festival opens at 9:00. Signing panels start at 10:00 a.m. and run all day; check here for the full schedule.
You'd think that people would agree on the definition of "robot," but it seems to be more of an adjective than a noun. Nevertheless, one prerequisite is that a robot needs to be able to operate, once started, without human manipulation -- and the Rock 'Em Sock 'Em Robots don't do anything, unless humans are operating the controls. In fact, they're not even clockwork automatons; they're just a lever-operated simple machine, with spring-loaded heads.
So no, the Rock 'Em Sock 'Em Robots are not really robots. That is not to say, however, they're not a darn good toy. I never owned one, as Mom objected to toys that glamorized violence.
Last night's party was an excellent time. It was too crowded for karaoke, but we had just enough wine (three bottles left), and everyone seemed happy to see everyone else.
This morning's coming very early, but The Mystery Bookstore will be set up and ready to go when the festival opens at 9:00. Signing panels start at 10:00 a.m. and run all day; check here for the full schedule.
Friday, April 27, 2007
What time does the party start?
Who's asking: A caller to The Mystery Bookstore yesterday
Today's pre-Festival of Books party at The Mystery Bookstore starts at 5:00, when Denise Hamilton, Jim Pascoe, Christopher Rice and possibly a couple of other folks sign Los Angeles Noir, their new collection of short fiction. It'll go until 9:00 p.m., until the food and drink run out, and/or until we kick everyone out.
I'm feeling generous, so here are a couple more questions I fielded yesterday:
Q: Will there be any celebrities at this party?
A: Depends on what you consider a celebrity. Mary Higgins Clark said she'd stop in, we're hoping to see brand-new Edgar winner Naomi Hirahara, and we should have a few other Edgar winners and nominees on hand as well. The whole list is here.
Q: How much wine should we buy?
A: A lot. I'm not going to say exactly how much, but we bought a lot. Also beer, water, soft drinks, and food.
Q: Can you recommend a contemporary mystery set in India?
A: Vikram Chandra's Sacred Games is supposed to be great, but I have not read it yet because it's 928 pages long.
Those of you in Los Angeles should come out to The Mystery Bookstore tonight. If you're in the Washington, DC area, go see The Good Doctor at St. John's College this weekend, directed by the brilliant and hilarious Christopher Bea.
What I Read This Week
Carol Higgins Clark, Laced. Regan and Jack Reilly, married at last, go on honeymoon to Galway and discover that a notorious pair of jewel thieves have arrived just ahead of them. Much lighter reading than my usual, but charming, and a nice break.
Stuart Woods, Fresh Disasters. Midway through this book, the main character sleeps with three different women on consecutive days -- and takes one of them on a date to the scene of another's brutal murder. Strangely, he's supposed to be the hero. I used to defend this series as Walter Mitty fantasies, but I'm done now.
Kat Richardson, Greywalker. A debut novel introducing Seattle PI Harper Blaine, who can see the Grey -- the zone between living and dead -- after a near-death experience. A missing persons case leaves her working for a vampire and fighting to save the community from a dangerous revenant. Interesting, but I think Christopher Moore may have wrecked my ability to take the vampire genre seriously.
Mike Freeman, Jim Brown: The Fierce Life of an American Hero. Someone needs to write a definitive cultural biography of football legend/actor/activist/alleged abuser Jim Brown, but this isn't it. It's a good introduction for a generation that has already (shockingly) forgotten him, but the subtitle gives Freeman's perspective away: he admires Brown too much to give us a truly comprehensive perspective. And it's hard to write a biography of someone who's still alive.
Louise Penny, A Fatal Grace. Somehow I missed Penny's Dilys-winning debut, Still Life; I'm going to have to go back for it now, because this sequel is wonderful. A cold, much-disliked Martha Stewart wannabe is electrocuted at a Christmas curling match. As Inspector Gamache investigates, he finds that almost everyone in the small southern Quebec town of Three Pines had a motive to kill her. A Fatal Grace reminded me -- if I needed reminding -- that "traditional" mysteries can be every bit as emotionally honest and complex as the darker stuff. It's out next week, but already available in Canada as Dead Cold.
Today's pre-Festival of Books party at The Mystery Bookstore starts at 5:00, when Denise Hamilton, Jim Pascoe, Christopher Rice and possibly a couple of other folks sign Los Angeles Noir, their new collection of short fiction. It'll go until 9:00 p.m., until the food and drink run out, and/or until we kick everyone out.
I'm feeling generous, so here are a couple more questions I fielded yesterday:
Q: Will there be any celebrities at this party?
A: Depends on what you consider a celebrity. Mary Higgins Clark said she'd stop in, we're hoping to see brand-new Edgar winner Naomi Hirahara, and we should have a few other Edgar winners and nominees on hand as well. The whole list is here.
Q: How much wine should we buy?
A: A lot. I'm not going to say exactly how much, but we bought a lot. Also beer, water, soft drinks, and food.
Q: Can you recommend a contemporary mystery set in India?
A: Vikram Chandra's Sacred Games is supposed to be great, but I have not read it yet because it's 928 pages long.
Those of you in Los Angeles should come out to The Mystery Bookstore tonight. If you're in the Washington, DC area, go see The Good Doctor at St. John's College this weekend, directed by the brilliant and hilarious Christopher Bea.
What I Read This Week
Carol Higgins Clark, Laced. Regan and Jack Reilly, married at last, go on honeymoon to Galway and discover that a notorious pair of jewel thieves have arrived just ahead of them. Much lighter reading than my usual, but charming, and a nice break.
Stuart Woods, Fresh Disasters. Midway through this book, the main character sleeps with three different women on consecutive days -- and takes one of them on a date to the scene of another's brutal murder. Strangely, he's supposed to be the hero. I used to defend this series as Walter Mitty fantasies, but I'm done now.
Kat Richardson, Greywalker. A debut novel introducing Seattle PI Harper Blaine, who can see the Grey -- the zone between living and dead -- after a near-death experience. A missing persons case leaves her working for a vampire and fighting to save the community from a dangerous revenant. Interesting, but I think Christopher Moore may have wrecked my ability to take the vampire genre seriously.
Mike Freeman, Jim Brown: The Fierce Life of an American Hero. Someone needs to write a definitive cultural biography of football legend/actor/activist/alleged abuser Jim Brown, but this isn't it. It's a good introduction for a generation that has already (shockingly) forgotten him, but the subtitle gives Freeman's perspective away: he admires Brown too much to give us a truly comprehensive perspective. And it's hard to write a biography of someone who's still alive.
Louise Penny, A Fatal Grace. Somehow I missed Penny's Dilys-winning debut, Still Life; I'm going to have to go back for it now, because this sequel is wonderful. A cold, much-disliked Martha Stewart wannabe is electrocuted at a Christmas curling match. As Inspector Gamache investigates, he finds that almost everyone in the small southern Quebec town of Three Pines had a motive to kill her. A Fatal Grace reminded me -- if I needed reminding -- that "traditional" mysteries can be every bit as emotionally honest and complex as the darker stuff. It's out next week, but already available in Canada as Dead Cold.
Thursday, April 26, 2007
How long does it take to get from Gardiner, ME to Santa Monica, CA?
Who's asking: The Super Shuttle driver at LAX, last night
Yesterday, it took about 13 hours. Left my apartment at 12:00 noon EDT, caught the bus from Portland to Boston's Logan Airport, flew to LAX, climbed into a Super Shuttle van, reached my destination (and two happy dogs!) juat before 10:00 p.m. PDT. Read three books (about which more tomorrow), sort-of watched three movies ("Invincible" on the bus, "The Holiday" and "The Pursuit of Happyness" on the plane).
Land distance between my home and Gary's, where I'm staying: 3,151 miles. My average travel speed yesterday: just over 242 MPH. Google Maps says it would take 27 hours to drive it, without stops. Modern travel is amazing...
Woke up before 4:00 local time this morning. The older I get, the harder I find recalibrating to time zone changes. Maybe I'll catch a nap late this afternoon, but I doubt it.
Yesterday, it took about 13 hours. Left my apartment at 12:00 noon EDT, caught the bus from Portland to Boston's Logan Airport, flew to LAX, climbed into a Super Shuttle van, reached my destination (and two happy dogs!) juat before 10:00 p.m. PDT. Read three books (about which more tomorrow), sort-of watched three movies ("Invincible" on the bus, "The Holiday" and "The Pursuit of Happyness" on the plane).
Land distance between my home and Gary's, where I'm staying: 3,151 miles. My average travel speed yesterday: just over 242 MPH. Google Maps says it would take 27 hours to drive it, without stops. Modern travel is amazing...
Woke up before 4:00 local time this morning. The older I get, the harder I find recalibrating to time zone changes. Maybe I'll catch a nap late this afternoon, but I doubt it.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
What's the Spanish word for lamb?
Who's asking: An anonymous Google searcher
The Spanish word for lamb is cordero. Noun, masculine, so it's el cordero. Wouldn't I sound so much more exotic if my last name were Cordero? In Maine, anyway.
I don't often talk about specific client projects, but one of the things I've been spending a lot of time on over the past few months is a website redesign for Joseph Finder, internationally-bestselling author of Killer Instinct, Company Man, Paranoia and the forthcoming Power Play (in stores August 21).
"Internationally-bestselling" is the key phrase, because the most challenging and time-consuming piece of this puzzle has been the international pages -- consolidated pages that show all the international covers, plus individual microsites for (so far) the Dutch, Swedish, German, Spanish and Israeli editions. God willing, some or all of these microsites will go live when the big redesign does, in mid-May.
"Gee," I hear you say, "I didn't know you spoke all those languages," and you would be correct. I have basic reading knowledge of German and Spanish. I am theoretically proficient in French, but took that test 20 years ago. I remember the Cyrillic alphabet from college Russian classes, and can figure out the Greek alphabet because it's basically the same. I have no knowledge of Hebrew at all.
Fortunately, Joe's publishers have kindly provided me with images and blocks of text, and all I have to do is assemble them. In doing so, I see how the nature of language is the same, regardless of the words and letters. We name things, we describe them, and we tell what they do. The power to do that makes us human.
I'm off to Los Angeles this afternoon for the L.A. Times Festival of Books. You will find me at The Mystery Bookstore's tent (Booth #411), and at the store's famous pre-Festival party on Friday night. Blogging will continue, but may be erratic.
Five Random Songs
"Still," Macy Gray. This CD (On How Life Is) was 1999's version of Jagged Little Pill, the one record every unmarried woman needed to own. Last year's version was Pink's I'm Not Dead. I got a little tired of Jagged Little Pill, but I'm still not tired of this record, or of Pink's.
"Finale," Bebe Neuwirth and Ann Reinking, from the Chicago soundtrack. The musical, not the AOR band. What could be more appropriate? "Oh, I'm no one's wife, but/Oh, I love my life/And all that jazz..."
"Get Up Stand Up," Bob Marley. Spring is here at last -- it was 84 degrees on Monday! -- and this is the perfect music for it.
"Way to Blue," Nick Drake. Nick Drake is always springtime music to me, too, though more contemplative.
"Tunnel of Love," Bruce Springsteen. Still one of the greatest albums ever about the impossibility of romantic relationships. "There's a room full of shadows that gets so dark, brother/It's easy for two people to lose each other/In this tunnel of love..."
The Spanish word for lamb is cordero. Noun, masculine, so it's el cordero. Wouldn't I sound so much more exotic if my last name were Cordero? In Maine, anyway.
I don't often talk about specific client projects, but one of the things I've been spending a lot of time on over the past few months is a website redesign for Joseph Finder, internationally-bestselling author of Killer Instinct, Company Man, Paranoia and the forthcoming Power Play (in stores August 21).
"Internationally-bestselling" is the key phrase, because the most challenging and time-consuming piece of this puzzle has been the international pages -- consolidated pages that show all the international covers, plus individual microsites for (so far) the Dutch, Swedish, German, Spanish and Israeli editions. God willing, some or all of these microsites will go live when the big redesign does, in mid-May.
"Gee," I hear you say, "I didn't know you spoke all those languages," and you would be correct. I have basic reading knowledge of German and Spanish. I am theoretically proficient in French, but took that test 20 years ago. I remember the Cyrillic alphabet from college Russian classes, and can figure out the Greek alphabet because it's basically the same. I have no knowledge of Hebrew at all.
Fortunately, Joe's publishers have kindly provided me with images and blocks of text, and all I have to do is assemble them. In doing so, I see how the nature of language is the same, regardless of the words and letters. We name things, we describe them, and we tell what they do. The power to do that makes us human.
I'm off to Los Angeles this afternoon for the L.A. Times Festival of Books. You will find me at The Mystery Bookstore's tent (Booth #411), and at the store's famous pre-Festival party on Friday night. Blogging will continue, but may be erratic.
Five Random Songs
"Still," Macy Gray. This CD (On How Life Is) was 1999's version of Jagged Little Pill, the one record every unmarried woman needed to own. Last year's version was Pink's I'm Not Dead. I got a little tired of Jagged Little Pill, but I'm still not tired of this record, or of Pink's.
"Finale," Bebe Neuwirth and Ann Reinking, from the Chicago soundtrack. The musical, not the AOR band. What could be more appropriate? "Oh, I'm no one's wife, but/Oh, I love my life/And all that jazz..."
"Get Up Stand Up," Bob Marley. Spring is here at last -- it was 84 degrees on Monday! -- and this is the perfect music for it.
"Way to Blue," Nick Drake. Nick Drake is always springtime music to me, too, though more contemplative.
"Tunnel of Love," Bruce Springsteen. Still one of the greatest albums ever about the impossibility of romantic relationships. "There's a room full of shadows that gets so dark, brother/It's easy for two people to lose each other/In this tunnel of love..."
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
If they're legumes, why are they called peaNUTS?
Who's asking: Chris Neely, St. Louis, MO
This is the last peanut question for a while, I think -- although I am very fond of peanuts, alone and as peanut butter. I don't really like peanuts in things, and peanut butter-flavored stuff is usually gross... exceptions to this are Isamax's peanut butter whoopie pie and the peanut-butter filled, chocolate-frosted doughnuts at Stan's in Westwood.
But I digress. Peanuts are called peanuts because they look like peas and taste like nuts. The word "peanut" dates to 1807, approximately; before that, they were called ground nuts and ground peas. The British also called them "monkey nuts."
A nut, botanically, is the hard, one-seeded fruit of a tree. Peanuts grow on vines, not on trees, they're not hard, and they grow two or three to a pod. So they're not nuts.
This begs the next question, "What is a legume?" A legume is a pod that splits into two valves, with the seeds attached to one side of the valve. That describes peanuts, peas and beans. It also describes tamarinds, which I would never have classified as legumes, but actually are.
Peanut butter and tamarind paste might be a pretty good combination, now I think of it.
This is the last peanut question for a while, I think -- although I am very fond of peanuts, alone and as peanut butter. I don't really like peanuts in things, and peanut butter-flavored stuff is usually gross... exceptions to this are Isamax's peanut butter whoopie pie and the peanut-butter filled, chocolate-frosted doughnuts at Stan's in Westwood.
But I digress. Peanuts are called peanuts because they look like peas and taste like nuts. The word "peanut" dates to 1807, approximately; before that, they were called ground nuts and ground peas. The British also called them "monkey nuts."
A nut, botanically, is the hard, one-seeded fruit of a tree. Peanuts grow on vines, not on trees, they're not hard, and they grow two or three to a pod. So they're not nuts.
This begs the next question, "What is a legume?" A legume is a pod that splits into two valves, with the seeds attached to one side of the valve. That describes peanuts, peas and beans. It also describes tamarinds, which I would never have classified as legumes, but actually are.
Peanut butter and tamarind paste might be a pretty good combination, now I think of it.
Monday, April 23, 2007
Who wrote "Me & Bobby McGee"?
Who's asking: The Lechners
I'm allowed to take an easy question once in a while.
Renaissance man Kris Kristofferson (Rhodes scholar, Army officer, helicopter pilot, songwriter, actor) wrote this song with Fred Foster (most famous for being the man who gave Dolly Parton her first record deal). "Bobby McGee" is a woman in Kristofferson's version of the song; the song has also been recorded by Roger Miller, Gordon Lightfoot, Bill Haley & the Comets (!), The Grateful Dead, Jerry Lee Lewis, Johnny Cash and - erk - Jennifer Love Hewitt.
The ultimate version, of course, is Janis Joplin's. I never think of Janis Joplin as a Top 40 musical act, but her cover of "Me & Bobby McGee" was a #1 single.
This week is going to be crazy, and posts are likely to be short. I leave Wednesday afternoon for Los Angeles, and have a lot to do between now and then.
I'm allowed to take an easy question once in a while.
Renaissance man Kris Kristofferson (Rhodes scholar, Army officer, helicopter pilot, songwriter, actor) wrote this song with Fred Foster (most famous for being the man who gave Dolly Parton her first record deal). "Bobby McGee" is a woman in Kristofferson's version of the song; the song has also been recorded by Roger Miller, Gordon Lightfoot, Bill Haley & the Comets (!), The Grateful Dead, Jerry Lee Lewis, Johnny Cash and - erk - Jennifer Love Hewitt.
The ultimate version, of course, is Janis Joplin's. I never think of Janis Joplin as a Top 40 musical act, but her cover of "Me & Bobby McGee" was a #1 single.
This week is going to be crazy, and posts are likely to be short. I leave Wednesday afternoon for Los Angeles, and have a lot to do between now and then.
Saturday, April 21, 2007
"Everything you are doing is bad. You should know this."
The Movie: Ghostbusters II, 1989 (Dan Ackroyd and Harold Ramis, screenwriters; Ivan Reitman, dir.)
Who says it: Peter MacNicol as museum curator Dr. Janosz Poha
The context: Janosz is Managing by Walking Around in the museum's art restoration studio.
How you can use it: What, this isn't Management 101?
Here's a movie quotation, for old times' sake. It's also a line every freelancer can laugh at -- through their pain.
Freelancing is a great life in many ways, but one disadvantage is the nature of feedback. Freelancers are service providers, not employees, and one reason people hire freelancers rather than employees is to avoid the intangible obligations of management. A freelancer provides a service in exchange for a fee, and the freelancer's self-esteem, personal life, professional development and career track are none of the client's concern.
That suits me fine. The "professional development" component of working in my former office used to drive me crazy, and feeling responsible for my own employees' well-being used to keep me awake at night.
But it's true that I tend to hear from my clients only when they're not happy. If they like what I do, they just say thank you, write me a check and hire me again. If they call me, it's usually because whatever I sent them wasn't what they wanted.
This is why all freelancers should own dogs. Dizzy thinks that everything I say is brilliant, that I'm an excellent driver, a world-class cook, and have a lovely singing voice. He just wishes we could work outside more.
Who says it: Peter MacNicol as museum curator Dr. Janosz Poha
The context: Janosz is Managing by Walking Around in the museum's art restoration studio.
How you can use it: What, this isn't Management 101?
Here's a movie quotation, for old times' sake. It's also a line every freelancer can laugh at -- through their pain.
Freelancing is a great life in many ways, but one disadvantage is the nature of feedback. Freelancers are service providers, not employees, and one reason people hire freelancers rather than employees is to avoid the intangible obligations of management. A freelancer provides a service in exchange for a fee, and the freelancer's self-esteem, personal life, professional development and career track are none of the client's concern.
That suits me fine. The "professional development" component of working in my former office used to drive me crazy, and feeling responsible for my own employees' well-being used to keep me awake at night.
But it's true that I tend to hear from my clients only when they're not happy. If they like what I do, they just say thank you, write me a check and hire me again. If they call me, it's usually because whatever I sent them wasn't what they wanted.
This is why all freelancers should own dogs. Dizzy thinks that everything I say is brilliant, that I'm an excellent driver, a world-class cook, and have a lovely singing voice. He just wishes we could work outside more.
Friday, April 20, 2007
How do you live broken-hearted?
Who's asking: Bruce Springsteen, in "Mary's Place"
I still go back to The Rising when I feel bad and baffled about the state of the universe. I've been listening to it a lot this week. I'll turn it off at noon, for the moment of silence to remember the Virginia Tech victims.
Sorrow and hard times get distributed unfairly in this world. The most pointless question in the world is "Why me?", but it doesn't stop any of us from asking it, when we lose the things that are most precious to us. I am far and away the luckiest person I know -- but 10 or 20 years ago, I had no idea that I'd feel this way today. Instead -- if I'd been in a mood to confide, and thought there was a good chance I'd never meet you again -- I might have given you a catalog of everything I'd ever lost.
The thing is, this question has no answer, except, "You just do." Like the singer in "Mary's Place," you gather your friends and your family together and you have a party. You turn it up. You go home and you brush your teeth and you cry yourself to sleep, and you do it all again the next day, and the next, until one day, you forget that you're broken-hearted -- and then one day, you might even forget that you're not supposed to be happy. And then you are happy.
What I Read This Week
Mary Higgins Clark, I Heard That Song Before. Not my usual fare, but I'm interviewing Mrs. Clark and her daughter, Carol Higgins Clark, for Mystery Bookstore podcasts at the beginning of May. Kay Lansing falls in love with the heir to a vast fortune, who was implicated in a debutante's disappearance 20 years earlier.
Jennifer Colt, The Vampire of Venice Beach. Identical red-headed twins Kerry and Terry McAfee hunt a murderer who seems to be at large in Los Angeles's "social vampire" community. Wicked, silly fun, and Kerry McAfee (the good twin) is great company as a narrator.
Jason Starr, The Follower. This book doesn't come out until July; the author sent me an advance copy, with a note saying that Ken Bruen had said this book does for dating what Jaws did for the beach. I have nothing to add to that; this book is the story of 23-year-old New Yorker Katie Porter, who finds herself the target of an old friend's excessive affection. I'm 20 years past this scene, and it made me reconsider the convent option. (The Sisters of St. Joseph are just up the road in Winslow...)
Margo Jefferson, On Michael Jackson. This book-length essay explores Michael Jackson both psychologically and culturally, putting him in a context that includes the Elephant Man, Tom Thumb, Jackie Coogan and Diana Ross. Fascinating.
Reed Farrel Coleman, Soul Patch. The late 1980s finds ex-cop, wine merchant and sometime P.I. Moe Prager wrestling with the issues of midlife: a stalled marriage, dying dreams, and bad decisions come back to haunt him. An old friend, now NYPD Chief of Detectives, asks Moe to look into the facts behind a punk's claim that he knows what really happened to a notorious drug dealer killed a decade earlier. The search threatens Moe's marriage, his life and his very idea of himself. Moving and elegiac, with enough loose ends to guarantee Moe's return (in An Inconvenient Child, next spring).
I still go back to The Rising when I feel bad and baffled about the state of the universe. I've been listening to it a lot this week. I'll turn it off at noon, for the moment of silence to remember the Virginia Tech victims.
Sorrow and hard times get distributed unfairly in this world. The most pointless question in the world is "Why me?", but it doesn't stop any of us from asking it, when we lose the things that are most precious to us. I am far and away the luckiest person I know -- but 10 or 20 years ago, I had no idea that I'd feel this way today. Instead -- if I'd been in a mood to confide, and thought there was a good chance I'd never meet you again -- I might have given you a catalog of everything I'd ever lost.
The thing is, this question has no answer, except, "You just do." Like the singer in "Mary's Place," you gather your friends and your family together and you have a party. You turn it up. You go home and you brush your teeth and you cry yourself to sleep, and you do it all again the next day, and the next, until one day, you forget that you're broken-hearted -- and then one day, you might even forget that you're not supposed to be happy. And then you are happy.
What I Read This Week
Mary Higgins Clark, I Heard That Song Before. Not my usual fare, but I'm interviewing Mrs. Clark and her daughter, Carol Higgins Clark, for Mystery Bookstore podcasts at the beginning of May. Kay Lansing falls in love with the heir to a vast fortune, who was implicated in a debutante's disappearance 20 years earlier.
Jennifer Colt, The Vampire of Venice Beach. Identical red-headed twins Kerry and Terry McAfee hunt a murderer who seems to be at large in Los Angeles's "social vampire" community. Wicked, silly fun, and Kerry McAfee (the good twin) is great company as a narrator.
Jason Starr, The Follower. This book doesn't come out until July; the author sent me an advance copy, with a note saying that Ken Bruen had said this book does for dating what Jaws did for the beach. I have nothing to add to that; this book is the story of 23-year-old New Yorker Katie Porter, who finds herself the target of an old friend's excessive affection. I'm 20 years past this scene, and it made me reconsider the convent option. (The Sisters of St. Joseph are just up the road in Winslow...)
Margo Jefferson, On Michael Jackson. This book-length essay explores Michael Jackson both psychologically and culturally, putting him in a context that includes the Elephant Man, Tom Thumb, Jackie Coogan and Diana Ross. Fascinating.
Reed Farrel Coleman, Soul Patch. The late 1980s finds ex-cop, wine merchant and sometime P.I. Moe Prager wrestling with the issues of midlife: a stalled marriage, dying dreams, and bad decisions come back to haunt him. An old friend, now NYPD Chief of Detectives, asks Moe to look into the facts behind a punk's claim that he knows what really happened to a notorious drug dealer killed a decade earlier. The search threatens Moe's marriage, his life and his very idea of himself. Moving and elegiac, with enough loose ends to guarantee Moe's return (in An Inconvenient Child, next spring).
Thursday, April 19, 2007
Should NBC have aired the video they received from the Virginia Tech killer?
Who's asking: Everyone, especially the Virginia Tech community
No. Not yesterday, not this week, and maybe not at all.
Psychologists and sociologists can debate the existence of a "Werther effect," a theory based on the observation that the suicide rate spikes after a highly-publicized suicide.
But it's just common sense that this young man -- I am not giving him his name, for reasons that will be clear -- was unnoticed even by his suite-mates last week. A couple of his suite-mates weren't even sure he spoke English fluently, he was so quiet and so consumed with his inner world. This week, everyone knows his name and his rage, and almost everyone has now seen him as he wanted to be seen.
The message here is obvious. By killing 32 people, this young man gave himself a world-wide platform. He is finally getting the attention he wanted. We want to understand him, when we ignored him before.
What's hard about the decision to say NO to this? He doesn't deserve our attention or our understanding or our sympathy. News reports now suggest that many people made efforts to help him while he was alive, many people offered him understanding. He lost his right to that when he drew the first gun.
Let's forget his name. Let's stop talking about him, and let's continue to refer to him as a creepy loser.
Let the news media instead spend the next month profiling each of the victims of the massacre, who will never have the opportunity to make one last speech to the public.
The other thing that airing this young man's video has done is turn the media themselves into the story. It's too late to roll back this tide, but it's time for someone to say this again: the reporters are not the story. The TV producer's decision is not the story. They should have sealed up the package, handed it off to the police, and let the police decide whether and how to publicize any of it.
No. Not yesterday, not this week, and maybe not at all.
Psychologists and sociologists can debate the existence of a "Werther effect," a theory based on the observation that the suicide rate spikes after a highly-publicized suicide.
But it's just common sense that this young man -- I am not giving him his name, for reasons that will be clear -- was unnoticed even by his suite-mates last week. A couple of his suite-mates weren't even sure he spoke English fluently, he was so quiet and so consumed with his inner world. This week, everyone knows his name and his rage, and almost everyone has now seen him as he wanted to be seen.
The message here is obvious. By killing 32 people, this young man gave himself a world-wide platform. He is finally getting the attention he wanted. We want to understand him, when we ignored him before.
What's hard about the decision to say NO to this? He doesn't deserve our attention or our understanding or our sympathy. News reports now suggest that many people made efforts to help him while he was alive, many people offered him understanding. He lost his right to that when he drew the first gun.
Let's forget his name. Let's stop talking about him, and let's continue to refer to him as a creepy loser.
Let the news media instead spend the next month profiling each of the victims of the massacre, who will never have the opportunity to make one last speech to the public.
The other thing that airing this young man's video has done is turn the media themselves into the story. It's too late to roll back this tide, but it's time for someone to say this again: the reporters are not the story. The TV producer's decision is not the story. They should have sealed up the package, handed it off to the police, and let the police decide whether and how to publicize any of it.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Where does the name "Big Apple" come from?
Who's asking: A guy on the train from Boston to New York yesterday
He asked this to no one in particular, but of course I needed to look it up when I got to Maeve's.
New York has been known as the "The Big Apple" only since the 1930s. Jazz musicians -- particularly bandleader Fletcher Henderson -- made it part of their slang, but the term seems to have originated with New York sports columnist John J. FitzGerald. He reported having heard two stableboys at a race track in New Orleans talk about making it to the Big Apple, by which they meant New York. FitzGerald wrote a column for the New York Morning Telegraph called "Around the Big Apple," and the intersection of Broadway and W. 54th is named "Big Apple Corner," in his honor.
It's a quick trip to New York, but I've managed to see a lot of people in a short time, and will see more this morning before getting back on the train. Today's song list is not quite random, because I wanted to start it with the song that's been running through my head for the past 24 hours.
Five Random Songs
"Another Hundred People," Pamela Myers & The Vocal Minority, from the Company soundtrack. "Can we see each other Tuesday if it doesn't rain?/Look, I'll call you in the morning or my service will explain..."
"Strike Like Lightning," Lonnie Mack. From the Alligator Records 20th Anniversary Collection, which any fan of blues or southern rock should own.
"Soul Shadows," Bill Withers. Bill Withers's voice sounds like warm syrup.
"An Cail n Fionn (Natasha)," James Galway & Phil Coulter. Flute and piano, mood music for a rainy day (which this is).
"At the Zoo," Simon & Garfunkel. This version is from the Old Friends live album, and has great violin and drum backing.
He asked this to no one in particular, but of course I needed to look it up when I got to Maeve's.
New York has been known as the "The Big Apple" only since the 1930s. Jazz musicians -- particularly bandleader Fletcher Henderson -- made it part of their slang, but the term seems to have originated with New York sports columnist John J. FitzGerald. He reported having heard two stableboys at a race track in New Orleans talk about making it to the Big Apple, by which they meant New York. FitzGerald wrote a column for the New York Morning Telegraph called "Around the Big Apple," and the intersection of Broadway and W. 54th is named "Big Apple Corner," in his honor.
It's a quick trip to New York, but I've managed to see a lot of people in a short time, and will see more this morning before getting back on the train. Today's song list is not quite random, because I wanted to start it with the song that's been running through my head for the past 24 hours.
Five Random Songs
"Another Hundred People," Pamela Myers & The Vocal Minority, from the Company soundtrack. "Can we see each other Tuesday if it doesn't rain?/Look, I'll call you in the morning or my service will explain..."
"Strike Like Lightning," Lonnie Mack. From the Alligator Records 20th Anniversary Collection, which any fan of blues or southern rock should own.
"Soul Shadows," Bill Withers. Bill Withers's voice sounds like warm syrup.
"An Cail n Fionn (Natasha)," James Galway & Phil Coulter. Flute and piano, mood music for a rainy day (which this is).
"At the Zoo," Simon & Garfunkel. This version is from the Old Friends live album, and has great violin and drum backing.
Monday, April 16, 2007
Why are they called "Spanish" peanuts?
Who's asking: An anonymous Google searcher from British Columbia
"Spanish" peanuts are one of the four most popular types of peanuts grown for commercial use today; the others are Virginia, Runner, and Valencia. Spanish peanuts are high in oil and flavor, have smaller kernels than Virginia or Runner peanuts, have red skins and are often used to make peanut brittle.
They're called Spanish peanuts because those varieties -- now grown in South Africa and the United States, mostly -- were developed in Spain, in the late 18th century. Peanuts as a species originated in South America (Peru or Argentina), and Spanish and Portuguese explorers took them to Africa, Asia and Europe. Spanish explorers brought the "Virginia" varieties with them from the West Indies to Mexico, and the "Peruvian" variety from Peru to the Philippines and China. The "Spanish" variety actually seems to have originated in Brazil; the "Valencia" varieties, also developed in Spain, first came from Argentina.
Peanuts are an international food staple. They're not nuts at all, but legumes that grow on vines or stalks. They need hot summers, alternating wet and dry weather, and sandy soil -- which is why they do so well in the Virginia and Georgia tidewater regions. One interesting bit of trivia is that peanuts weren't commonly grown in the South until the 1850s, when farmers started planting them in soil that had been exhausted by cotton. Lucky for the Confederate Army, which survived on "goober peas;" they wouldn't have gotten very far eating cotton.
The "historic" storm we were supposed to get yesterday is just a lot of rain, I'm glad to say. I leave very early tomorrow morning for a quick trip to New York, so posting may be late or absent altogether until Thursday.
"Spanish" peanuts are one of the four most popular types of peanuts grown for commercial use today; the others are Virginia, Runner, and Valencia. Spanish peanuts are high in oil and flavor, have smaller kernels than Virginia or Runner peanuts, have red skins and are often used to make peanut brittle.
They're called Spanish peanuts because those varieties -- now grown in South Africa and the United States, mostly -- were developed in Spain, in the late 18th century. Peanuts as a species originated in South America (Peru or Argentina), and Spanish and Portuguese explorers took them to Africa, Asia and Europe. Spanish explorers brought the "Virginia" varieties with them from the West Indies to Mexico, and the "Peruvian" variety from Peru to the Philippines and China. The "Spanish" variety actually seems to have originated in Brazil; the "Valencia" varieties, also developed in Spain, first came from Argentina.
Peanuts are an international food staple. They're not nuts at all, but legumes that grow on vines or stalks. They need hot summers, alternating wet and dry weather, and sandy soil -- which is why they do so well in the Virginia and Georgia tidewater regions. One interesting bit of trivia is that peanuts weren't commonly grown in the South until the 1850s, when farmers started planting them in soil that had been exhausted by cotton. Lucky for the Confederate Army, which survived on "goober peas;" they wouldn't have gotten very far eating cotton.
The "historic" storm we were supposed to get yesterday is just a lot of rain, I'm glad to say. I leave very early tomorrow morning for a quick trip to New York, so posting may be late or absent altogether until Thursday.
Sunday, April 15, 2007
A public service announcement from Dizzy
SQUIRREL! Squirrelsquirrelsquirrelsquirrelsquirrel!
Did you hear me? I mean it! Right there!
SQUIRREL!
Saturday, April 14, 2007
What do you want people to say at your funeral?
Who's asking: Anna Bragdon, China, ME
This was the morbid topic of conversation at Anna's birthday dinner last night, inspired by the terrible occasion of Representative Abigail Holman's funeral on Thursday. These conversations are fun in college, when no one actually believes they're going to die; they get more serious in mid-life, when suddenly people we know are dying of natural causes and accidents that could happen to us.
I used to joke that I'd spent more time planning my dream funeral than I ever spent planning my dream wedding, since the funeral is a ceremony I'm guaranteed to have. The older I get, though, the less I think about it. My main concern now is that no one have to spend too much money on it.
What I'd like people to say about me, when I'm gone, is that I was a pleasure to know, usually interesting and sometimes funny. It would be nice if my survivors could gloss over my perpetual difficulties with time and money management, my lack of basic driving and housekeeping skills, and my questionable taste in men. I have no control over this, however, and can only trust in their mercy.
Anna said that her last words about me would be: "She only ever had one cat at a time." I like that. It says, "weird -- but not that weird." And that's about as much as I'd aspire to.
What do you want people to say about you, when the time comes?
This was the morbid topic of conversation at Anna's birthday dinner last night, inspired by the terrible occasion of Representative Abigail Holman's funeral on Thursday. These conversations are fun in college, when no one actually believes they're going to die; they get more serious in mid-life, when suddenly people we know are dying of natural causes and accidents that could happen to us.
I used to joke that I'd spent more time planning my dream funeral than I ever spent planning my dream wedding, since the funeral is a ceremony I'm guaranteed to have. The older I get, though, the less I think about it. My main concern now is that no one have to spend too much money on it.
What I'd like people to say about me, when I'm gone, is that I was a pleasure to know, usually interesting and sometimes funny. It would be nice if my survivors could gloss over my perpetual difficulties with time and money management, my lack of basic driving and housekeeping skills, and my questionable taste in men. I have no control over this, however, and can only trust in their mercy.
Anna said that her last words about me would be: "She only ever had one cat at a time." I like that. It says, "weird -- but not that weird." And that's about as much as I'd aspire to.
What do you want people to say about you, when the time comes?
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