"Just remember that the wrong things aren't supposed to last."

The Song: "This is Love," Mary Chapin Carpenter. Words & music by Mary Chapin Carpenter. Track 13 of Stones in the Road, 1994.
When/how acquired: Purchased CD, 1994.
Listen/watch here.

The talk at last week's Virginia Festival of the Book, and online this week, is the move to exclusive e-publishing by some pretty major names in genre fiction. The handsome, witty and delightful Lee Goldberg and I had a long conversation about this last Thursday night, and his blog is one of the best sources for thoughtful commentary on this topic.

Yesterday, however, I got an email that helped crystallize my thoughts on the subject, and it wasn't about books at all. My friend Anna, in a frenzy of spring cleaning, found a VHS tape of my 1999 appearance on "Jeopardy!" Did I want it? she asked.

I have not owned a VCR in ten years or more, but have a box of VHS tapes that has made two cross-country moves with me. Why? I have no idea. I'll never own a VCR again. I'll never watch these tapes again. I need to get rid of them, but it pains me to throw them in a landfill, so there they sit, in that box in my spare room.

And yes, I told Anna that I would like my "Jeopardy!" tape, because I don't own any recording of that appearance, and Chris and Claire might like to see it sometime. How I will show it to them, I don't know. I'll have to find some place that transfers VHS to DVD, and hope the copyright laws don't prohibit that.

The moral of this story, though, is that state-of-the-art data storage has become inaccessible to the casual user in just over a decade. It's not just video; I have a box of unreadable floppy disks, too.

As I see more and more authors move exclusively to electronic publishing, what I see is the acknowledgment that their work is ephemeral. Pulp fiction always was, of course; only the very best of it has survived, and even then the original books crumble to the touch. It makes sense to publish Harlequin romances and men's adventure fiction in e-format, because those books were always meant to be read once, passed on, forgotten. (They'll no longer be left in hospital waiting rooms or on trains, though, and I feel a certain sentimental regret about that.)

My shelves hold books that are almost 100 years old, books I've owned since childhood, books that belonged to my parents and in a couple of cases to their parents. I have books I expect to leave to my heirs, inscribed by friends with messages that I hope will mystify and intrigue my great-grandchildren.

No one will inherit my first-generation Kindle.

"And I'll meet you further on up the road."

The Song: "Further On (Up the Road)," Bruce Springsteen. Words & music by Bruce Springsteen. Track 9 of The Rising, 2002.
When/how acquired: Purchased CD, 2002.
Listen here.

Greetings from East Windsor, NJ, which is only two towns over from Bruce Springsteen's hometown of Freehold. Dizzy and I stopped here overnight to see my dad, who's in Military Sealift Command training here. Now I'm catching up on email and getting a few things done, waiting out rush hour before I head north again. With luck we'll be home before dark, although I hear today's weather in New England is lousy. Dizzy will be disoriented and sad to see the ground covered in snow again, and so will I.

The Rising was exactly the album I needed in 2002, when we were all still trying to process the events of September 11, 2001. I rarely listen to it now. Maybe it's too closely associated with that unhappy time. Maybe it just doesn't feel particularly relevant to my life anymore, although I still listen to the earlier albums a lot. (Nebraska, in particular, is a record that never got old for me.)

As we approach the 10-year anniversary of those attacks, I expect we'll be hearing a lot more of this album again.

"I'll do this/and I'll do that/I'll be burning canyons for you"

The Song: "This and That," Michael Penn. Words & music by Michael Penn. Track 3 of March, 1989.
When/how acquired: Purchased cassette, 1990.
Listen/watch here (it's a bad video transfer, and the sound has some weird interference but is otherwise clear).

I didn't bring any business cards with me to the Virginia Festival of the Book, which was a mistake. But I'm not actively looking for work, and the truth is that I've run out of business cards and am not sure what to do about reprinting them.

I had great "Answer Girl" business cards, designed by my cousin Sheila (who is auctioning off some of her gorgeous artwork for Japan disaster relief on her blog). The easy, logical thing to do would be to reprint those, and I'm not sure why I haven't. Maybe because the whole "Answer Girl" persona feels more and more like hubris; maybe because it still doesn't answer the question, "What it is that you do?"

The question is easy here at the Festival, because I am here as a reader but also as John Connolly's US publicist and all-purpose minion (minus the beatings that minions get in his book The Gates - we had to be clear on that before I took this gig). But this is only one of many things I do. In the past week, I've finished developmental and copy edits on two manuscripts, written and edited copy for two very different corporations, done publicity support work for another author, interviewed a principal for a ghostwriting project, and started some quick research for yet another author. I also finished reading a book that's a candidate for a literary prize I'm a judge for (and no, those books don't show up on the blog reading lists until well after the fact). This week was unusually productive; spring is here, and with it I feel recalled to life, like the crocuses that are finally up in central Maine.

So I tell people who ask that I provide "broad-spectrum author support," because rattling off the various projects gets confusing and tedious, even to me.

But I realized a couple of weeks ago, when I started fretting about this question of business cards, is that my work is not so far from my great-great-grandmother McLaughlin's - not the one on my mother's side, who was born in Ireland and whom I know nothing about, but the one on my father's side (yes, my gene pool is thick). She was the housekeeper at that young ladies' finishing school. I'm a 21st century servant, and I like that idea maybe more than I should. There's honor and grace in doing service well, and I'm far more comfortable downstairs than upstairs. I don't need to be a star, but am happy to shine up the people who do — provided, of course, that I decide they deserve it.

Putting "star polisher" on my business card would just confuse matters even more.

"I'm proud to be a glutton, and I don't have time for sloth."

The Song: "Mr. Bad Example," Warren Zevon. Words & music by Warren Zevon & Jorge Calderon. Track 5 of Mr. Bad Example, 1991.
When/how acquired: Purchased CD, 1991.
Listen/watch here.

That link goes to a live performance of the song on "Late Night with David Letterman" that sounds almost like a mariachi cover. The song was a standard in Zevon's concerts, and my favorite version was an acoustic one, with Zevon alone on guitar.

This CD may be my favorite Warren Zevon album, and was the theme music for the deeply strange summer of 1992, when (among other things) I took my first solo vacation — a long weekend in Bethany Beach, DE — and had back surgery. No, those things were not related.

I'm in Charlottesville for the Virginia Festival of the Book. It's officially work, but feels more like a vacation. One key to a happy life, as a friend wrote in a book that will be out later this year, is having a job that feels more like a hobby.

Which reminds me that it has been a shockingly long time since I posted a reading list. Sorry about that. I've been doing a lot of manuscript work, and my pleasure reading has been catch-as-catch-can. But here are some highlights of the past couple of months:

Good Books I've Read Lately

Jodi Compton, HAILEY'S WAR. I was a big fan of Compton's two Sarah Pribek novels, THE 37TH HOUR and SYMPATHY BETWEEN HUMANS, but this book took me by surprise. Hailey Cain is a truly fresh protagonist, and this thriller reveals new secrets almost to the last page. Hailey works as a San Francisco bike messenger after dropping out of West Point under mysterious circumstances. An old friend asks for an unreasonable favor: drive an undocumented Mexican-American teenager south across the border, so she can take care of her dying grandmother. The trip ends in disaster, with Hailey nearly killed and the girl missing. Hailey's determined to find out what happened and why, and make things right if she can.

Rosanne Cash, COMPOSED. I listened to this on audiobook, rather than read it. Cash herself reads it, and it felt like a gift — a lovely, extraordinary book that reports the gains and losses of her life, but makes no attempt to settle scores. I liked her and her music before I listened to the book, and I like her even more now. She's also my favorite follow on Twitter — @rosannecash.

Gillian Flynn, DARK PLACES. Libby Day, now in her early 30s, is the only survivor of a notorious massacre. Her brother Ben is serving multiple life sentences for murdering Libby's mother and sisters. Libby managed to run from the house, and her testimony helped convict her brother. Short on cash, Libby agrees to sell her personal information to a group of true-crime fanatics, and must confront some truths she's never admitted to anyone. Flynn's first novel, SHARP OBJECTS, blew me away, and this book is just as good. I'd like to read it in a book group, because I need to talk to someone about the ending, which felt abrupt and not fully justified.

Lisa Gardner, LOVE YOU MORE. I read this at the recommendation of Joseph Finder, who raved about it. The praise was justified. Gardner keeps her D.D. Warren series fresh by giving equal time to other characters, and in this book, the other character is a Massachusetts state trooper who's found standing over her husband's dead body with a gun in her hand. The trooper, Tessa Leoni, tells us her story in the first person, alternating with the third-person account of Warren's investigation. Twists keep coming, to an ending that is both plausible and deeply satisfying. A virtuoso performance.

John Connolly, HELL'S BELLS. This book will not be out in the US until October, when it will be called THE INFERNALS (but it's coming out in May in the UK), and my minion status earned me an early copy. I am John's paid minion, and he's a good friend besides, but this is one of those pieces of the job that feels like a hobby, because this book is simply wonderful. In this more-than-worthy sequel to THE GATES, young Samuel Johnson and his faithful Dachshund, Boswell, are sucked into the depths of Hell, along with a couple of policemen, some very unpleasant dwarfs, and an ice cream truck. HELL'S BELLS manages to be both very funny and truly frightening, a rollercoaster that is fierce and wise and smart and kind.

A Conversation with Henry

I stopped off in Mechanicsville yesterday, and had this conversation with my seven-year-old nephew.

Henry: What's your least favorite food?

Me: Fish, probably. I don't really like fish.

Henry: I like fish, with lots of lemon juice on it.

Me: Lemon juice is good. Lemon juice makes almost anything better.

Henry: Well — not everything. Lemon juice isn't good on cereal.

"Where e'er we go, we celebrate/The land that makes us refugees."

The Song: "Thousands are Sailing," The Pogues. Words & music by Philip Chevron. Track 6 of If I Should Fall From Grace with God, 1988.
When/how acquired: Purchased cassette, 1989; purchased CD, c. 1992
Listen/watch here.

The nation of Ireland has always been more powerful in diaspora than at home. I'd give you my theory about why that is, but W.B. Yeats put it better than I could: "Great hatred, little room." I grew up in a house where six children shared one bathroom. Apply that principle to nine million on a rocky island the size of Indiana, and you can imagine what the place was like in 1845, before the Famine.

I don't know a lot about my own family's arrival dates, but a couple of branches came over before the Famine, and as far as I know, no one passed through Ellis Island. They came through Castle Clinton, they came through Philadelphia, they might have landed directly in Charleston, SC. They worked hard and married people from their own part of Ireland, mostly Clare and Cork. The memorial plaque at Dysert O'Dea, in Clare, bears half a dozen of my own family names.

Generations away from Ireland, they lived in Irish neighborhoods and went to Irish churches and distrusted all things non-Irish. My great-grandmother Hogan, at the turn of the last century, ran an employment service that sponsored young Irish women to come over as domestic help for New York's wealthy families. (Her own mother had been the housekeeper for a girls' boarding school; my great-grandmother went to classes with the daughters of the Gilded Age, who became her clients.)

Friends of mine who are Irish are understandably annoyed sometimes by the foolish, sentimental, sloppy ways Irish Americans celebrate their heritage. But the whole culture is based on this longing for home, and I have always thought of homesickness as the human condition.

I first heard this album on a snowy weekend in February 1989, visiting my friends Scott and Nancy in Williamsburg. We played board games, drank at the Greene Turtle, and listened to this album almost non-stop, in rotation with John Hiatt's Drive South. As it happens, I am driving south today - first to Mechanicsville, then to Charlottesville for the Virginia Festival of the Book - and will make both these albums the soundtrack for the drive.

If you are lucky enough to be in New York today, the Irish Arts Center is handing out free books by Irish authors all day throughout the five boroughs. Somewhere in the city, they're giving away a few dozen copies of my friend and client John Connolly's magical novel The Gates; if you haven't read it, see if you can snag one for yourself. Details about the giveaway are here.

"Jesus rides beside me/He never buys any smokes."

The Song: "Can't Hardly Wait," The Replacements. Words & music by Paul Westerberg. Track 11 from Pleased to Meet Me, 1987.
When/how acquired: Purchased cassette, c. 1987.
Listen/watch here. (Also check out this demo version, which is missing the horns I love but has an amazing guitar track.)

The car is back, after a sum of money too large to post here. If I posted the repair cost, people would tell me the car isn't worth it, and I don't feel like having that argument. As my vision continues to narrow and my night vision continues to fade, I don't expect to be driving more than another year or two. This will be the last car I own, and it needs to last.

But it took time and attention I couldn't spare yesterday, and this morning I'm behind again. I have promised to do things and be places today that may not be possible, and it makes me want to drop my head and weep. I'm working as hard and as fast as I can, and I apologize for everything that's falling off the back of the truck.

"Think I'll flip a coin, I'm a winner either way/Mmmm, I feel lucky today."

The Song: "I Feel Lucky," Mary Chapin Carpenter. Words & music by Mary Chapin Carpenter. Track 4 of Come On Come On, 1992.
When/how acquired: Purchased CD, 1992.
Listen/watch here.

My car stopped on Route 1 South last night, and all I can think about this morning is how lucky I am.

It was after rush hour, barely. I wasn't traveling any faster than 35 miles an hour, and was able to coast over to a small shoulder that got me out of the flow of traffic. Our Chris was already on his way to meet me, but came to the rescue with his mother. The AAA guy was able to tow the car to Volkswagen of Alexandria, right around the corner. The car actually started once we got it to the lot (of course), but I'll hear from the dealership this morning about what needs to be done. I'm guessing/hoping it's the alternator, which is not a small thing but no disaster.

All in all, a minor inconvenience in a life of ridiculous abundance, and I'm so grateful for it I can't even worry about the car. I have clothes and shoes and food, I have cable TV and a dog. I have a family I love who put up with me. I have extraordinarily generous friends. I have books and music and none of this is wrecked or underwater or under threat of nuclear disaster. And for once, I have enough money in my checking account to pay for car repairs. Within reason.

I feel lucky today.

Mary Chapin Carpenter used to play coffeehouses and afternoon concerts at Georgetown when she was first starting out. I saw her at least once in Red Square, the brick amphitheater outside Georgetown's School of Foreign Service building, when my friend Scott booked her for a summer music event. I wanted to be her friend then, and still do. I think we'd agree on just about everything.

"Confidentially, between these walls/I'm on top of it all."

The Song: "Quiet Life," The Kinks. Words & music by Ray Davies. Track 4 of the Absolute Beginners soundtrack, 1986.
When/how acquired: Purchased cassette, c. 1987.
I have not been able to find any version of this song, audio or video, online. If you have a link, please share.

I say yes to things, if I can. On balance, I think it's a good way to live one's life. It's gotten me into considerable trouble and has caused me a great deal of pain, but it's also taken me on adventures I didn't have the imagination to want. You never know, is what I say, and since my primary goal has always been to learn as much as I can about as many things as I can, everything is grist to the mill.

The problem with this approach is that it can get a little overwhelming, and is not always fair to the people I've said yes to, or to myself. Last week's blog break was an effort to catch up on some of the things I've said yes to, combined with a trip to Washington that had already been delayed by more than a week. I'm still not caught up, but I am not as desperately behind as I was, and feel good about the sheer volume of work I've gotten done in the last ten days or so. It must be spring.

I'm surprised and dismayed that this soundtrack isn't on iTunes. The movie came out at a time when I wasn't seeing much in theaters, so I had to wait to watch it on VHS about a year later. I needed the soundtrack as soon as I saw the movie, and probably bought it the next day. It dazzled me. I have no idea whether it's a good movie, in the same way I have no idea whether any of the men I've fallen in love with were handsome. It was the right movie at the right time, and it can still make me feel 19.

"And it's a hard/And it's a hard/And it's a hard, hard, hard/It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall."

The Song: "A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall," Bryan Ferry. Words & music by Bob Dylan. Track 1 of These Foolish Things, 1973; track 2 of Street Life, 1986.
When/how acquired: Gift bootleg cassette, c. 1987; gift MP3, 2004.
Listen/watch here.

I do not currently own a copy of These Foolish Things, a situation I must address immediately. This is one of my all-time favorite covers, a version that reinvents the song while reminding us of what makes it great.

It's a mix of snow and rain that's falling right now, but when I woke up, it was ice pellets. I was supposed to drive south today, but am pushing it until tomorrow in hopes of better weather. Quite a lot of snow melted over the weekend, so the roads have standing water as well as ice, and everything is coated in mud. Dizzy and I went for a lunchtime walk; my coat has a hood, but the rain stung his snout, and he was not sorry to cut things short.

The weather report says the sun is shining in Washington, DC, and temperatures will reach the 50s today. I badly need something other than gray in my life right now.

"That what you fear the most could meet you halfway."

The Song: "Crazy Mary," Pearl Jam. Words & music by Victoria Williams. Track 3 of Sweet Relief, 1993.
When/how acquired: Purchased cassette, 1993
Listen/watch here.

It's obvious to me that we attract what we fear, though it's a dynamic I don't pretend to understand. I'm a hypochondriac (most writers are, if they'll admit it) who never goes to the doctor because I'm afraid of what I might find out, which means that if something really were wrong with me I probably wouldn't know about it until it was too late to do much. See how that works?

Not so with Dizzy, however. I am vigilant about Dizzy's health and changes in his behavior, which is why we went to the vet this morning. He's been slowing down considerably over the past few months, as his age catches up with him. I read in a book last week that 11-year-old dogs his size (about 75 lbs.) are about as old as humans in their mid-70s. He gets confused sometimes, and his sleeping and eating patterns have changed. I know he doesn't see as well as he used to, especially at night (though I don't, either).

The other day I noticed his ear was infected, and this morning he threw up and wouldn't eat his breakfast. Off to the vet we went, so that they could tell me he has an ear infection but is otherwise pretty healthy for a dog of his age. He has cataracts, and he needs some oral surgery to remove a growth on his gum, but otherwise, he's doing okay.

I have said before in this space that Dizzy makes the whole structure of my life possible. Without him I would be too weird, too lonely, too idle, too isolated. He needs to hang in there for as long as he can.

"Never take any pictures/Just try to remember"

The Song: "Half Life," Too Much Joy. Words & music by Too Much Joy (Jay Blumenfield, Tim Quirk, Tommy Vinton & William Wittman). Track 9 of ...Finally, 1996.
When/how acquired: Purchased CD, 1996.
Listen here.

This may be my favorite song by one of my all-time favorite bands, a group that never got the attention they deserved. They're all about the same age as I am, so this album would have come out when we were all about 30. Thirty used to be the beginning of middle age; now it's more like the end of adolescence. I will say that the years from 15 to 30 passed a lot more slowly than 30-45 went.

I did some cleaning this weekend (and still have a lot more to go), and came across several envelopes of photos from a client's book tour, a few years ago. I need to ask the client what I should do with them, but this is one reason I don't take many pictures myself. When I see people with video cameras at major life events, I always want to ask: are you going to watch that? When, and why? To remind yourself of an event that you didn't fully experience when it happened, because you were too busy fiddling with the camera?

A great photograph is a work of art. I do love having photos of events I missed, or people who have gone, but I don't particularly like to see myself in old photographs. It feels like time travel, and I'd rather stay here.

"...everything dies, baby, that's a fact/But maybe everything that dies someday comes back."

The Song: "Atlantic City," Bruce Springsteen. Words & music by Bruce Springsteen. Track 2 of Nebraska, 1982.
When/how acquired: Purchased cassette, 1982.
Listen/watch here. (Sorry about the long ad at the beginning; you can skip it after a few seconds.)

The last day of February, and I'm glad to see it go. It's snowing again, but this feels like a spring storm, if that makes any sense. The temperature is a relatively balmy 25F (no sarcasm, it feels warm), and the snow is supposed to change to sleet and rain by afternoon. Impossible to drive in, more treacherous than regular snow, but still a promise of better things to come.

The dog my kids grew up with, the noble Clancy Bea, passed away in his sleep last night. He and Dizzy were about the same age, good friends and boon companions. We all feel the loss, but it was peaceful, Clancy didn't suffer much, and no one had to second-guess any decisions. My sympathies go out to Vikki and Keith, Chris, Claire, Celeste and Carolyn. Nothing's better than a good dog. It feels cruel that their lives last only a fraction of ours.

In better news, my dad starts a new adventure today, taking a job with the Military Sealift Command. I hope it's everything he wants it to be, and wish him fair winds and following seas.

I'm supposed to head south later this week, but that may slide, as we're due more bad weather on Wednesday, and I need to clear a few things off my desk first.

"Start your own revolution and cut out the middleman."

The Song: "Waiting for the Great Leap Forwards," Billy Bragg. Words & music by Billy Bragg. Track 11 of Workers Playtime, 1988.
When/how acquired: Gift cassette, 1989.
Listen/watch here.

This is Billy Bragg's theme song, and it's different every time he sings it. I've seen him live a couple of times and on TV quite a few times, and he updates the lyrics according to whatever's on his mind.

As revolution breaks out at home and abroad, both civil and uncivil, I notice how we've lost the middlemen in so many aspects of our lives. I'm not sure that's always a good thing.

Today I went to the Sears in Augusta, looking for a replacement part for my vacuum cleaner. Of course they didn't have it, but rather than offer to order it for me, they directed me to order it myself at Sears.com. Which I've just done, paying $8.99 in shipping on top of the $16.79 the vacuum piece cost.

Let's look at this transaction for a moment, and consider the implications for our economy as a whole. Undoubtedly it saves Sears money not to keep parts in stock at the store, and it certainly saves them money to have me do the ordering instead of an employee. It certainly saves them money to be able to pass on shipping costs to me.

But what did they lose? I went to the store prepared to spend some money. If they'd had the part, I'd probably have spent more time in the store, and I might have bought something besides. If they ordered the part for me and I needed to return to the store to pick it up, that would be a second visit, with a second opportunity for me to shop and buy something. And those might have been employment opportunities for the clerks helping me shop and doing the ordering. But that's not how they do it any more, so they missed those sales opportunities, and they definitely don't have as many clerks as they used to.

Is this progress? Is this better? Sears, which meant retail shopping for generations of the American heartland, is surviving by delegating customer service to the customers themselves. This is the new model of retail. And I hate it.

I want a little mediation, dammit. I want helpers. I want guides. It's a complicated enough world out there, without my having to figure out the !@$% model number for a vacuum hose.

"They don't like me/I just know it/But I'd be happy/Just to get along."

The Song: "They Don't Like Me," Lyle Lovett. Words & music by Lyle Lovett. Track 7 of I Love Everybody, 1994.
When/how acquired: Purchased CD, 1994.
Listen here.

I don't know most of my neighbors well, and they don't know me. I was startled a few years ago to discover that some (not all) of my neighbors paid much more attention to my comings and goings than I realized, and had drawn their own conclusions about how I was: specifically, lesbian, unemployed, stuck-up, and weird.

Some (not all) also seem to assume that I don't like them, which I have tried to dispel by smiling and waving and trying to chat when I see them. Maybe these aren't things people do in Maine; I've had a neighbor visibly recoil when I greeted her and said something friendly.

Dizzy, on the other hand, assumes that everyone in the neighborhood is his friend, which means they must also be mine. Dizzy is a big dog, and not particularly tidy. I pick up his droppings faithfully, but there's no easy way to catch his urine, and he pees pretty much where he wants to pee. The woman across the street told me not to let Dizzy pee on her lawn anymore, and I have carefully avoided that yard ever since. It hasn't helped; if anything, it seems to have made neighborhood relations worse, rather than better. (She has a small dog of her own, as well as a cat that roams the neighborhood at will.)

Dizzy is completely in love with Casey, a friendly black lab up the street, who's allowed to run around in her yard without a fence or a tie-down. Casey's owner is lovely, and has been very kind to both Dizzy and me.

This afternoon, as I walked Dizzy in a snowstorm, Casey came barreling across another neighbor's driveway to greet us. A truck was backing out of that driveway, and very nearly hit Casey; I yelled at Casey (not the driver) to stop, but she ignored me. She wasn't hit, the driver stopped, and everything was okay — except that the woman in the house, who saw nothing but only heard me yelling, assumed I was yelling at the driver of the truck, and not the dog. I tried to explain, but I don't think she heard me; she shook her head and went back into her house.

I don't want to spend a lot of time trying to manage what people I don't know think of me, but it's depressing to be judged and found wanting.

"It's time I had some time alone."

The Song: "It's the End of the World As We Know It (And I Feel Fine)," R.E.M. Words & music by R.E.M. (Bill Berry, Michael Stipe, Mike Mills & Peter Buck). Track 12 of Eponymous, 1988; track 6 of Document, 1987.
When/how acquired: Purchased Eponymous, c. 1990.
Listen/watch here.

The Middle East is melting down. The governor of Wisconsin has forgotten basic American values. Books Etc. in Falmouth is closing on Monday. Clancy Bea, great dog among great dogs, rebounded yesterday after a weekend his family thought would be his last. And Mother Jones just published this set of charts that should make even the hardest-core free market conservatives (Dad?) stop and wonder what the hell is wrong here.

At macro and micro levels, it feels as if civilization is collapsing around me. I must remind myself that I have groceries and cable and a great dog of my own, friends and family and work to do without unnecessary distractions.

I may give up Twitter for Lent. I'm seriously thinking about it. I never thought I'd say this, but I'm just not sure how much information I need.

"I get the news I need on the weather report."

The Song: "The Only Living Boy in New York," Simon & Garfunkel. Words & music by Paul Simon. Track 8 of Bridge Over Troubled Water, 1970.
When/how acquired: Purchased LP, c. 1981.
Listen/watch here.

This song's being used in a TV commercial for something, which bothers me. Paul Simon can't possibly need the money that much, can he? I know he has young children, but couldn't have have sold them "At the Zoo" instead?

It's winter break for the Maine public schools this week, which means that anyone who can afford it has left the state for warmer climes. The weather report's been important over the last week or so, as we've swung from thaw to deep freeze and back again. The current temperature is 9F. By this afternoon, we'll have broken the freezing mark, and it's supposed to hit 40F over the weekend. These things matter when you have a dog to walk.

I own a CD set of Simon & Garfunkel's studio albums — only three CDs, as they only released five albums (Wednesday Morning, 3 A.M.; Sounds of Silence; Parsley, Sage, Rosemary, and Thyme; Bookends; and Bridge Over Troubled Water). Of them, Bridge Over Troubled Water is probably the album I listen to least, and I'm not sure why that is. It feels jumbled and distracted, transitional in many ways, a grab bag in which the whole is less than the sum of the parts.

This is the song that stands out for me, the one I go back to, and I find new things in it every time. The story is that Paul Simon wrote it for Art Garfunkel, when he was leaving to shoot Catch-22. Someone is leaving, and the singer is the person left; it's a lonely song, but it's also a blessing.

"I close my eyes and I see/Blood and roses."

The Song: "Blood & Roses," The Smithereens. Words & music by Pat DiNizio. Track 9 of Especially for You, 1986.
When/how acquired: Gift cassette, c. 1987.
Listen/watch here.

Saturday I went to Boston for a day at Boskone 48, the annual gathering of the New England Science Fiction Association. It's a world I don't know much about, but I was interested in the program — particularly the chance to see and hear Jane Yolen, who wrote so many of the favorite stories of my childhood.

Here is a fundamental truth I think I've discussed before. It is not possible to have thoughts we don't have words for. It is possible to have feelings beyond our ability to describe. But when we can't name our feelings or find words to discuss them, we tend to do things about them, and sometimes that wreaks havoc.

Which is why fairy tales, in particular, are so important for children. Fairy tales riff on children's deepest fears and frustrations: our parents don't love us, can't feed us, secretly want to kill us. Our mother will die, and be replaced by someone our father loves better. The unknown forests hide monsters. Siblings are better-loved than we are, are responsibilities we can't handle, and/or also secretly want to kill us. The world is full of mysteries that might reward us if only we can figure out the tricks to unlocking them.

Children might not be able to articulate any of this, but look to the old stories for solutions and affirmation. My personal favorite: "Hansel and Gretel," which encapsulated every one of my deepest fears, and all my understanding of my responsibility to/for my twin sister. Of Jane Yolen's stories, the one that hit me hardest, and stays with me, is "The Girl Who Cried Flowers."

Jane Yolen read from her forthcoming novel Snow in Summer, a retelling of the Snow White story set in West Virginia. I think it'll be marketed to young adults, but Jane Yolen, like all great writers, never writes up or down to her readers. She just tells the stories she wants to tell. The chapters Ms. Yolen read were beautiful and gripping, and I do have the words to say that I'm impatient for November, when the rest of the book will be available.

"I put on some make-up/And turn on the eight-track/I'm pulling the wig down from the shelf"

The Song: "Wig in a Box," The Polyphonic Spree. Words & music by Stephen Trask. Track 9 of Wig in a Box, 2004.
When/how acquired: Purchased MP3, 2007.
Listen/watch here.

I had errands to run and friends to see in Portland yesterday, and stopped off at the Maine Mall to spend a gift card a friend/client had given me for Christmas. I never go shopping, and can't remember the last time I visited the Macy's in South Portland. I needed a new winter coat; I needed new turtlenecks to replace the ones that have become so desperately shabby; I needed socks and underwear and all those things I never replace until they are frayed and holey.

I used my gift card to buy a tube of Chanel lip gloss.

I can't remember the last time I bought expensive makeup; several years ago, certainly, before some conference where I knew I'd see a young man who had captured my affections. (Makeup didn't help, by the way. In my experience, it never does.) I don't lead a life that requires much makeup, except when I go on stage, and I have enough stage makeup to last a while.

But I saw the Chanel display, and remembered a wonderful tube of Chanel lipstick I used to have, years and years ago when I had disposable income for that kind of thing. I stopped at the counter, pulled out a tester in a shade I liked, and tried it on the back of my hand. It was bright, and shiny, and made the world around me seem brighter and shinier.

"I'll take it," I said, and handed over my gift card.

It's completely indefensible. Self-indulgent. Reckless, even. But if the result is that I go out looking for opportunities to wear my lip gloss in public, that might not be a bad thing.

"Could you be loved?"

The Song: "Could You Be Loved?", Bob Marley & the Wailers. Words & music by Bob Marley. Track 3 of Legend, 1984.
When/how acquired: Gift cassette, 1989; gift CD, c. 2002.
Listen/watch here.

It's been a long time since I was in a relationship on Valentine's Day, but even when I was, it was hard for me to take it seriously. The corrosive power of Valentine's Day is that too many people see it as a day to find out how much they are loved, instead of how much they love.

Guess what? It's none of your business how much anyone else loves you. You can't know it, you can't control it, and no one but God knows whether you deserve it or not. Love is a gift we give each other. Think of it as any other gift; how horrifying would it be to go around asking why people aren't giving you more?

What we can control and know and celebrate is how much we love other people. Get out there and show a little love today.

I've used lines from this album before, but am not sure I wrote much about it. Legend reminds me of a time when I was head-bustingly, foolishly in love, overwhelmed with a feeling I knew could not last and could not be reciprocated, and didn't care at all.

As a bonus, one of my favorite love poems, which is all about the power of loving without worrying about being loved back. Blogger won't let me format it as it's supposed to be laid out, so go find it in a book somewhere, to see how Graves does it.

She Tells Her Love While Half Asleep
Robert Graves

She tells her love while half asleep,
In the dark hours,
With half-words whispered low:
As Earth stirs in her winter sleep
And puts out grass and flowers
Despite the snow,
Despite the falling snow.

"All exiles are distinguished, more important, they're not dead."

The Song: "A New Argentina," Bob Gunton, Patti LuPone, Mandy Patinkin and cast. Words & music by Tim Rice & Andrew Lloyd Webber. Track 10 of Evita (original cast recording), 1976.
How/when acquired: Purchased CD, c. 1996.
Listen/watch here.

All regimes come to an end, peacefully or otherwise. Few dictators die peacefully in their beds without relinquishing power; even Francisco Franco had handed over the reins of government to King Juan Carlos before he died. Given a choice between retaining power and spending the rest of one's days in luxurious exile, I'd choose feather beds on Elba any day. Reluctantly as Mubarak left, it's possible that he waited too long; newscasts reported last night that the Swiss banks had frozen his accounts.

I've got a guest room, if he needs one.

"I don't want to go out./I want to stay in./Get things done."

The Song: "Modern Love," David Bowie. Words & music by David Bowie. Track 1 of Let's Dance, 1983; track 20 of ChangesBowie, 1990.
When/how acquired: Illegal cassette copy (Let's Dance), 1983; purchased CD (ChangesBowie), 1990
Listen/watch here.

It would not have surprised me at all if Christopher Bea had emerged from the womb singing this song, since I had this tape on constant replay through the summer and fall of 1983 (along with The Psychedelic Furs' Forever Now, the Talking Heads' Speaking in Tongues, and The Police's Synchronicity). Somewhere, photographic evidence exists of an all-nighter I pulled about two weeks before Chris was born, finishing a term paper for Introduction to Biblical Literature. If memory serves, the paper was about Second Isaiah (Isaiah 40-55), which - I realize only now, almost 30 years later - was exactly what I needed to be reading at the time.

Anyway. The fever is gone, and I'm much better, though something hard and painful has settled in my lower respiratory system. I'm taking Mucinex to loosen it up, but will see a doctor if it isn't gone by Monday. It's rare for me to get through a winter without a case of bronchitis, so why should this year be any different?

In the meantime, though, I have a lot of catching up to do. Staying in. Getting things done.

"I'm sick of myself when I look at you/Something as beautiful and true."

The Song: "Sick of Myself," Matthew Sweet. Words & music by Matthew Sweet. Track 1 of 100% Fun, 1995.
When/how acquired: Purchased CD, 1995.
Listen/watch here.

Matthew Sweet's music was the soundtrack of the 1990s for me, from 1991's Girlfriend (one of the greatest albums of all time) to 1999's In Reverse (an album I admit I still don't entirely get). He's still making music, but I'm mildly shocked to discover how little I know about what he's been doing for the past ten years. It feels like losing touch with an old boyfriend.

I am sick, not of myself (although I'm almost always sick of myself) but in general. I assume this is some kind of virus, which would make going to the doctor pointless, but people say it's going around: sore throat, chills and fever, head twice the usual size, mild nausea and a general feeling that someone has been beating me with one of those big foam bats. Varying reports say this either blows right through or lingers for weeks; I'm praying for "blows right through."

Until it does, I am conserving my energy like a bristlecone pine, and might be scarce around here for the duration.

"Don't know much about history/Don't know much biology/Don't know much about a science book/Don't know much about the French I took"

Today's entry is a guest post from Dan Smith, author of Think You Know it All? The Ultimate Interactive Quiz Book, which the folks at Penguin were kind enough to send me. Everyone knows I'm a sucker for this stuff. And no, I didn't know everything in this book.

The Song: "Wonderful World," Sam Cooke

For lots of people growing up, the accumulation of knowledge is something they are forced into at school and not something they ever consider a pleasure. For others, though, knowledge for its own sake is a complete obsession. I suspect I fall into that second category.

I don’t remember a time when trivia hasn’t fascinated me. When I was little I would read books of facts from cover to cover – really nerdy books but ones that taught me a lot. I especially loved anything to do with history. And Trivial Pursuit always played a big part in my family Christmases.

So you can imagine that getting the opportunity to put together my own quiz book, Think You Know It All?, was quite a thrill. The idea behind each quiz is that it consists of one short question but which has multiple answers to tax you to the limit. So, for instance, you might be asked to name all the plays that Shakespeare wrote. Or the bones of the human body. The member states of the European Union. The cast of "Friends." The instruments in a symphony orchestra.

Ideally, the reader and their friends can put their heads together to try and get all the answers. This really is a case where several heads are better than one. Subjects range from high culture to low, science, language, history, religion, transport, sport – I have done my best to include quizzes that will appeal to pretty much anybody.

If you do manage to work your way through all of the quizzes, and assuming you have a memory the size of Alaska, then you might well be tempted to show off.

Be careful, though – it’s a thin line between looking clever and showing off. My advice is to remember that the greatest fun to be had by a true know-it-all is not by boasting or bragging (such smugness will rightfully inspire scorn) but to set your knowledge valve to slow-release and look on as those around you discover for themselves just how clever you really are!

"If I get home before daylight/I just might get some sleep tonight."

The Song: "Friend of the Devil," the Grateful Dead. Music by Jerry Garcia & John Dawson; lyrics by Robert Hunter. Track 2 of American Beauty, 1970.
When/how acquired: Purchased cassette tape, c. 1990.
Listen/watch here.

Got home a little after 12:30 this morning. Up early to pick up Dizzy, who's been sleeping most of the day. Scrambling to catch up with everything that came in over the past six days, plus everything that piled up during my January doldrums.

In other words, I got nothing, unless you want a piece of the meltdown I treated my father to over the phone this morning. Sorry, Dad.

Tune in tomorrow for a guest post by the author of one of the more useful and entertaining books that's crossed my desk recently.

"You can travel for miles and never leave LA."

The Song: "Come a Long Way," Michelle Shocked. Words & music by Michelle Shocked. Track 2 of Arkansas Traveler, 1992.
When/how acquired: Purchased cassette, c. 1992.
Listen/watch here.

Yesterday morning I was awake at 3:00 to meet a 4:00 taxi that took me to a 4:30 shuttle so I could catch a 6:00 a.m. plane to Dulles, from which I hoped to take a flight to Portland, Maine. Arriving at LAX at 5:00 a.m., I discovered that my flight from Dulles to Portland had already been canceled, and the nice people at United would not let me start a journey they knew I couldn't finish.

So I got a shuttle back to Van Nuys and a cab back to my friends Linda and Tim's in Sherman Oaks, and tried again this morning. A more humane flight time — 9:40 a.m., and this time I got a ride with Tim, who had to take his own flight out this morning. I made it to O'Hare, and am now waiting out a four-hour layover to Portland. If all goes well, I'll be home by midnight.

I'm feeling a little overwhelmed by the events of the past month or so, and could sleep for about 48 hours, but will not get the chance to - I am badly behind on everything that got neglected in the past few weeks, and I have a lot of catching up to do. But I want Linda and Bobby to know that a piece of my heart stays in Los Angeles with them, as they finish the process of dismantling the Mystery Bookstore.

"I went to a funeral/Lord, it made me happy/Seeing all those people/That I ain't seen/Since the last time somebody died."

The Song: "Since the Last Time," Lyle Lovett. Words & music by Lyle Lovett. Track 7 of Joshua Judges Ruth, 1992.
How/when acquired: Purchased CD, 1992.
Listen/watch here.

The mystery world turned out in force last night to say goodbye to The Mystery Bookstore, and for stretches of time it was almost possible to forget what we were there for. It was great to see everybody, and I'm so grateful to the authors who made special trips just for the occasion — Lisa Lutz, in particular, who stayed with us to the end, and Eric Stone, who gave Linda and me a ride home when it was over.

I don't know when I'll see everybody again; I just know I will. Since Robert Crais' L.A. Requiem was the first book I bought at the store, it seemed appropriate to wind things up last night by buying his latest, The Sentry. He signed it to me: "Never the last." Let it be so.

Weather has already canceled my flights out of LA in the morning. I've been rebooked on a flight out first thing Wednesday morning, but doubt I'll get all the way to Maine before Thursday.

"All alone in a world that's changed/Running scared, now forced to hide/In a land where he once stood with pride."

The Song: "Will the Wolf Survive?", Los Lobos. Words & music by David Hidalgo and Louie Perez. Track 11 of How Will the Wolf Survive?, 1984.
When/how acquired: Purchased cassette, c. 1985.
Listen/watch here.

Memory's not reliable. I have a vivid memory of listening to this tape on a Greyhound bus from Norfolk to Washington, DC, one winter while I was in college. I was sure it was January 1983, when I returned early from Christmas break for play rehearsals; for years, I've associated this tape with learning my lines for Loot, Mask & Bauble's February 1983 production.

As it turns out, the album didn't even come out until a year later, in 1984. I certainly didn't own any kind of personal stereo until 1985, at the earliest; I think I bought my first Walkman knockoff with earnings from my summer job that year. So my vivid memory of memorizing lines to the beat of Los Lobos is a lie. Which makes me wonder what else I remember that simply isn't true.

Tomorrow, after the Mystery Bookstore closes, Westwood will no longer have any off-campus bookstores. Westwood used to be the heart of the Los Angeles book community; someone said on Saturday that they remembered a time when Westwood had five bookstores, within walking distance of each other.

People say that independent bookstores cannot survive in this new environment, with so much competition from online sellers and e-readers. I don't believe this. I agree that the old models don't work any more, but I see stores finding new models, with new ways to remind people that it's still a great thing to be able to walk into a place that sells and promotes and believes in books. In fact, I'd argue that there's never been a more interesting or exciting time to be an independent bookseller, because I see new opportunities popping up all over the place.

E-readers aren't replacing print books. They might be cutting into the sales of print books, but I see e-readers sparking a renaissance of reading, as people remember how much fun it is to get lost in a story. And if you really love a book in e-format, you're going to want a print copy, so you can hand it to someone or leave it to your kid or just take it down off the shelf once in a while to find that passage you loved most.

It's not like music. The listening experience is the same whether you're listening to an MP3 or a CD; audiophiles can talk about albums vs. singles, digital vs. analog, the warmth of vinyl vs. the austerity of electronics, etc., etc., but the average person doesn't know or care whether they're listening to a digital device or an analog one.

Books are different. Books are both useful and decorative. Books are, as my friend John says, an optimal delivery system. Reading an electronic screen is not the same sensory experience. No matter how much people love their e-readers — and I love my iPad with a foolish, cultlike passion — the e-reader will never be a tactile pleasure in the way that books are.

People will keep buying books. People will still want a place to come for recommendations and conversation and that joyful shock of recognition that comes only when someone puts a book in your hand and says, "Have you read this?"

The world has changed. The wolf will survive. Maybe not in Westwood, but the wolf will survive.

"And it's one more day up in the canyon/And it's one more night in Hollywood/It's been so long since I've seen the ocean/Guess I should."

The Song: "A Long December," Counting Crows. Words & music by Matt Malley, Charlie Gillingham, Dan Vickrey, Adam Duritz, Ben Mize, David Bryson. Track 13 of Recovering the Satellites, 1996.
When/how acquired: Purchased CD, c. 1997.
Listen/watch here.

I did see the Pacific Ocean yesterday, from the back deck of my friend Gary's house, and then when I walked down to meet my friend Ann Marie for brunch at Patrick's Roadhouse, and again when I rode down Ocean Avenue to the Third Street Promenade.

Coming back to Los Angeles in winter, I notice two things immediately: how full of color everything is and how much money everybody seems to have.

"When I come to Los Angeles, I covet things," I said yesterday. Everybody seems to have so much stuff, and the landscape is full of stores and billboards and signs inviting us to buy more, more, more. I saw not one but two Bentleys yesterday, one black and one white. Those are $200,000 cars. Who has $200,000 to spend on a car? And why would you, if you could?

And yet . . . and yet . . . the danger of Los Angeles is that we see these cars on the street and think, My God, what a thing of beauty — because they really are. And then we (or at least I) think, Somebody owns that. Somebody gets to drive that around. From which it is only a small step — again, at least for me — to thinking, Why can't I have that?

Which is why it's much better for my soul and my peace of mind that I live in central Maine.

"And the lights of L.A. County/They look like diamonds in the sky"

The Song: "L.A. County," Lyle Lovett. Words & music by Lyle Lovett. Track 5 of Pontiac, 1990.
When/how acquired: Purchased cassette, c. 1990
Listen/watch here.

You can't beat Lyle Lovett for the perfect combination of good humor and rage. This is the happiest song about homicide I've ever heard.

The lights of L.A. County stretch out as far as the eye can see, when you're flying into LAX at midnight. We landed in fog so dense the world outside the plane looked like nothing but twinkle lights (though, to be fair, that's pretty much what the night looks like to me anyway).

I'm here, anyway, and will not have time to process the culture shock before heading back on Tuesday. But I'll roll with it.

"Going to California with an aching in my heart."

The Song: "Going to California," Led Zeppelin. Words & music by Jimmy Page and Robert Plant. Track 7 of Led Zeppelin IV, 1971.
How/when acquired: Purchased MP3, 2002.
Listen/watch here.

I've never been a Led Zeppelin fan. I can admire much of the music objectively, but most of it has never connected with me. It's Big Swinging Dick music, and nothing summed up my feelings better than the Viking kittens version of "Immigrant Song."

Still, context is everything. Over Thanksgiving 2001 my cousins, friends and I rented a cabin in Yosemite, and spent the weekend eating, drinking, hiking, drinking and consoling each other and ourselves for the losses of that terrible autumn. Our friend Hugh, a professional film editor (among other things), recorded a lot of it on video, and cut it together to make a short film. This song was the soundtrack for shots of us hiking a mountain trail. I had never really listened to it before, but it was perfect for the purpose, wistful and hopeful at the same time.

I've always said that California is the American version of the French Foreign Legion. It's what we do when we can't think what to do next, when our hearts are permanently broken and our dreams disappointed for what seems to be the last time. A voice deep within us says, Move to California. Things will be better there. California is the end of the line, the American dream distilled.

This afternoon I'm going to California for the final weekend of The Mystery Bookstore. It's a trip I can't afford to make, but can't afford not to. I'd no more miss it than I'd skip a family funeral.

Posting's been scarce the last couple of weeks, and I realized this morning that it's because I've been spending so much time and energy filtering what I say about all of this. I am sad and I am angry. I'm angry about a lot of things that can't be changed or fixed, and won't be helped by anything I say.

This much, however, I do want to say. The Mystery Bookstore had thousands of people on its electronic mailing list, thousands of people who got its newsletter every month and the updates once a week. These newsletters included lists of forthcoming books, plot summaries and recommendations from booksellers. They were free to anyone who asked for them, part of the cost of doing business. I wrote them, not for free but for a pittance, for an hourly rate barely above the minimum wage.

And the vast majority of people who got those newsletters — the vast majority, it's not an exaggeration — took that information and those recommendations and bought online.

Money is tight. I understand that better than most. But in this online era where "content wants to be free," it still costs money to produce content. People's time is worth money. People's expertise is worth money. In the old model, sales were the reward for that time and expertise. Now it's taken for granted, and nothing supports it. People will say it's no longer even necessary; the work I used to do for an hourly wage is now done for free by book bloggers whose only compensation might be free books. If people are willing to do work for free, it makes no sense to pay anyone for it, no matter how little you're paying. Right?

Maybe that's true. What I know is true is that we pay for the things we value, and what we don't pay for, we don't value. What we don't value goes away. If we really don't value it, we don't miss it.

But I'll miss The Mystery Bookstore.

The Mystery Bookstore will close for good on Monday, January 31. I'll be there on Saturday afternoon for the last formal event, when T. Jefferson Parker signs his latest book, BORDER LORDS, and I'll be there most of the day on Monday. Almost everything in the store is currently discounted by 35%, and many older hardcovers have been marked down to a dollar. The store is at 1036-C Broxton Avenue in Westwood, and ample parking is available in the structure above the store.

"'Cause I want to live inside the world/I want to act like a real girl"

The Song: "Dreams Are Not My Home," Rosanne Cash. Words & music by Rosanne Cash. Track 9 of Black Cadillac, 2006.
When/how acquired: Gift CD, 2006
Listen/watch here.

This CD, a memorial to Rosanne Cash's parents, came out within a month of my own mother's death. Jennifer Lechner gave it to me. I played it pretty much nonstop for about six months, and bought copies for all my siblings. Even now, phrases from it can punch me in the gut.

I've been listening to Rosanne Cash's audiobook reading of her memoir, COMPOSED, and it's been catching me the same way. I'm overwhelmed by the generosity of it, the balance she strikes between a clear-eyed willingness to sit in judgment over her choices and a profound tenderness toward her younger self. She manages to find the universal in her extraordinary life. At the end of this book, I'll probably write her a thank-you note.

Early in the book she writes about that sense of not knowing how to be a girl, in the way that other girls seemed to. It's always been a mystery to me, too. Princess stuff makes me angry; makeup baffles me; years ago I ceded defeat in the battle of my hair, and wear it in a careless way that becomes increasingly inappropriate with age. Even the name of this blog was meant to be ironic, because although I am happy to be a woman, I was never any good at being a girl. Too blunt, too independent, too critical and probably too lazy.

But I still feel a little wistful about it. Jewelry will always look silly on me; I never did learn to walk in really high heels; and even my lifelong search for the perfect handbag has always been about something other than fashion.

It's snowing again. Weather permitting (and it may not), I'm hoping to get to Boston tonight for the launch of Daniel Palmer's first novel, DELIRIOUS. If you're in the area, you should go: Borders downtown, 511 Boylston, at 7:00 p.m. Dan's a client and a friend, and I'm proud of the work he did on DELIRIOUS. Check it out.

"A man can be happy with the weather/As long as it doesn't snow."

The Song: Yeasayer, "Wait for the Wintertime." Words & music by Yeasayer (Anand Wilder, Chris Keating, Luke Fasano, & Ira Wolf Tuton). Track 8 of All Hour Cymbals, 2007.
How/when acquired: Gift CD, 2008.
Listen/watch here.

I beg to differ. It's not snowing, but I'm not happy. I put off walking Dizzy this morning for as long as I could, until he was yelping and frantic, but the thermometer still read -11F when we left the apartment. After an hour of sunshine, it's warmed up to -9.

How cold is -11? Cold enough to make you unpleasantly aware not only of the hair in your nostrils, but of the hair in your ears as well. Cold enough to make you feel every piece of dental work in your mouth and every healed fracture in every bone you ever broke. Cold enough to fog up your sunglasses just from the warmth of your skin. Cold enough to make you want to hurt something as bad as you hurt.

I have to go out again in about an hour. Between now and then, I need to take a shower, and really ought to wash my hair. I don't own a bonnet hairdryer, and I just pray I have enough time to blowdry every drop of moisture out of the hair on my head.

"I've been too long without summer/In this winter home."

The Song: "Till it Shines," Lyle Lovett & Keb' Mo'. Words & music by Bob Seger. Track 8 of Smile: Songs from the Movies, Lyle Lovett, 2003.
How/when acquired: Gift CD, 2008.
Listen/watch here.

Bob Seger's original of this is excellent, too, but I don't own it. This cover is from the soundtrack to the underrated Mumford, where it plays over the closing credits. Lyle Lovett and Keb' Mo' are a magic combination. I wish they'd record a whole album together.

My twin sister called last night just to make sure I was okay, because I hadn't posted since Tuesday. Sorry about that. I just haven't had anything to say, and feel as if I've spent most of the past four days dealing with the weather. We had another 10 inches of snow yesterday, which required shoveling approximately every two hours just to keep up with it. My building's roof is overwhelmed, the gutters are clogged with ice, and a row of icicles has laid a half-inch sheet of ice across the deck in front of my front door and my next door neighbor's.

I grew up in Virginia Beach. I don't have the slightest idea of what to do about any of this. I've sent an emergency email to my landlords, who are also friends, and I hope they'll know.

"Too many sad days/Too many Tuesday mornings"

The Song: "Tuesday Morning," The Pogues. Words & music by Spider Stacy. Track 1 of Waiting for Herb, 1993.
How/when acquired: Purchased CD, 1993.
Listen/watch here.

The words are wistful, the melody's cheerful; this song has been a staple in my "Music for a Bad Mood" playlist for almost 20 years now. (Ouch.) If you'd like to make your own "Music for a Bad Mood" playlist, I follow this song with the Psychedelic Furs' "Pretty in Pink" — it's a good segue from one riff to another, I think.

We're about to get another storm here, snow followed by freezing rain and ice pellets. With luck I will be able to get to and from tutoring, and get my errands run before anything starts falling from the sky.

It would not be accurate to say that I feel sad. I feel okay, other than the last of the cold that's hanging around the back of my throat. But everything is harder than it should be, which I know is winter blues. I keep saying that this is the year I get a light box, but I never do it until the season catches me, and then I lose the motivation. The world operates on momentum, and I need to get some back.

"It's been a long, long time coming/But I know a change is gonna come."

The Song: "A Change is Gonna Come," Sam Cooke. Words & music by Sam Cooke. Track 29 of Sam Cooke: Portrait of a Legend 1951-1964, 2005. (Originally released as Track 1, Side 2 of Ain't That Good News, 1964, but I don't own that.)
How/when acquired: Gift MP3, 2007.
Listen/watch here.

The first version of this song I owned was actually The Neville Brothers' cover, released as track 4 of Yellow Moon (1989). Yellow Moon is another essential blues/soul CD, but I'll get to it eventually.

Sam Cooke's a fascinating guy, shot down under mysterious circumstances at the age of 33. My mother loved his early gospel music with The Soul Stirrers. Yesterday was the fifth anniversary of her death, which doesn't seem possible; I still pick up the phone a couple of times a month, thinking it's been too long since I called her.

We celebrate Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. today, and that seems more important rather than less as we get further away from 1968. My earliest memories date to 1968, sometime before my third birthday. They're not coherent narratives, they're just images, and I'm not completely sure what I remember independently and what are memories created by old photographs. I do remember the pocketbook I carried at Easter that year, shiny black patent leather that matched the ribbon on my hat. I do remember not liking my hat, which was white with a black ribbon, and wanting my twin sister Kathy's, which (I think) was yellow.

Easter 1968 fell on April 14, ten days after Dr. King's assassination. I don't remember anything specific about Dr. King's assassination. What I remember is that we got a puppy for Easter, an Alaskan husky-German shepherd mix my mother called Boyfriend. It was a joke between my parents, but it must have been something more, too. Mom was newly pregnant with what would turn out to be my sisters Peggy and Susan, born in November. Daddy was on the USS Austin, which was in and out of port all through the first half of 1968, running training exercises and making trips to the Caribbean. Boyfriend would grow up to be a very big dog, and while he was so gentle he let Kathy and me try to ride him, he looked like a white wolf.

I remember the tension of that time, even though I didn't know what it was about. Kathy and I once ran away from the trash collectors, because they were dark and the truck was loud and the whole idea of garbage men seemed scary. It was Mom who explained that different skin colors were nothing to be afraid of, and that the garbage men were husbands and fathers doing a job, just the same as our own father.

It's not true that children have to be taught to hate and fear. The opposite is true: children have to be taught not to. Any animal's natural response to the unfamiliar is to fear it and flee it. It's every American's responsibility to learn for ourselves, and teach each other, that colors and cultures different from ours don't have to be unfamiliar, and aren't scary. The different is not the enemy. We need this holiday to remind us.

"And we could be diving for pearls . . ."

The Song: "Shipbuilding," Elvis Costello and the Attractions. Words & music by Clive Langer & Elvis Costello. Track 6 of Punch the Clock, 1983; track 18 of The Best of Elvis Costello & the Attractions, 1990
How/when acquired: Purchased LP, c. 1984; purchased CD, 1990.
Watch/listen here.

Did you know that Chet Baker played on Punch the Clock? Well, he did. You can hear him on the album version of "Shipbuilding." Unfortunately, that's not the link above, but you should own this song in some format anyway. You can listen to Elvis Costello and Clive Langer talk about the song here. It's about men returning to work to build ships for the Falklands War. The words are almost optimistic, but the song itself is profoundly sad.

It's been a tough week for a lot of people I know. Both Dizzy and I have colds, and I'm as tired as if I'd spent the last several days boxing. My attention span is not what it should be, and I've been editing and reading at a pace so slow it frustrates me.

Still, here are three good books I've read since the beginning of the year.

Good Books I've Read Lately

James Hynes, NEXT. This novel showed up on several "Best of 2010 lists," including that of my friend Tod Goldberg, who said it was the best book he'd read all year. It's a book by a man, about a man, for men, but I'm surprised that I haven't seen any reviews comparing it to MRS. DALLOWAY, which it owes a lot to. It's the story of a single day in the life of Kevin Quinn, a middle-aged journal editor who lands in Austin, TX for a job interview. NEXT starts out as one kind of book, and lulls the reader into thinking they know what's happening — just as Kevin thinks he knows what's happening, just as he thinks he knows who he is and who he will be. He doesn't, and we don't, and as his world takes a sharp and unexpected turn, this book becomes something quite extraordinary.

Armistead Maupin, MARY ANN IN AUTUMN. Don't try to read this book unless you've read Maupin's earlier books about the residents of Barbary Lane; the book might stand on its own, but why would you want it to? If home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in, San Francisco is home for Mary Ann Singleton, even after 20 years away. She returns to the city in personal and physical crisis, and finds that the past is still very much present, in unexpected ways. It's always a pleasure to spend time with these characters, and if the world spares them more often than not, I wouldn't have it any other way.

Michael Ruhlman, THE SOUL OF A CHEF. This was one of four books I got for Christmas (and thank you all very much!). Ruhlman, a food writer trained as a chef, gives us in-depth looks at the lives and backgrounds of three American chefs. The first section, on the Certified Master Chef examination, is as tense as any thriller. The second, on Cleveland's Michael Symon and his restaurant, Lola, is a fascinating portrait of a working restaurant. The third, on Thomas Keller and the French Laundry, feels like excerpts from a much longer work, and probably are (Ruhlman is co-author of The French Laundry Cookbook). Great reading for anyone interested in food, but I wish that a copy editor had been more rigorous about Ruhlman's verb tenses, and that a proofreader had been more careful with the entire manuscript.

"And each time I feel like this inside,/There's one thing I wanna know:/What's so funny 'bout peace, love and understanding?"

The Song: "(What's So Funny 'Bout) Peace, Love and Understanding," Elvis Costello & the Attractions. Words & music by Nick Lowe. Track 13 of Armed Forces (U.S. version), 1979.
How/when acquired: Purchased cut-out cassette, c. 1984.
Listen/watch here.

You know what, this whole week will be nothing but Elvis Costello songs. I've said before that I could do an entire year of nothing but Elvis Costello songs; that might be excessive, but at the moment I'm on a roll. Nick Lowe wrote this song and recorded the first version, and many other artists have covered it, but Elvis Costello's is the definitive interpretation. The song is not on the original U.K. issue of Armed Forces, but was added to the U.S. album after it became a hit single.

I am so very tired of the knee-jerk righteous indignation that spews from both sides of the political debate any time a public figure opens his or her mouth.

What a relief, then, to hear President Obama sound presidential last night. In lieu of a substantive post of my own, I'm just going to reprint the relevant paragraphs of last night's speech:

The loss of these wonderful people should make every one of us strive to be better in our private lives – to be better friends and neighbors, co-workers and parents. And if, as has been discussed in recent days, their deaths help usher in more civility in our public discourse, let’s remember that it is not because a simple lack of civility caused this tragedy, but rather because only a more civil and honest public discourse can help us face up to our challenges as a nation, in a way that would make them proud. It should be because we want to live up to the example of public servants like John Roll and Gabby Giffords, who knew first and foremost that we are all Americans, and that we can question each other’s ideas without questioning each other’s love of country, and that our task, working together, is to constantly widen the circle of our concern so that we bequeath the American dream to future generations.

I believe we can be better. Those who died here, those who saved lives here – they help me believe. We may not be able to stop all evil in the world, but I know that how we treat one another is entirely up to us. I believe that for all our imperfections, we are full of decency and goodness, and that the forces that divide us are not as strong as those that unite us.

"Not all good things come to an end now it is/Only a chosen few."

The Song: "Almost Blue," Elvis Costello and the Attractions. Words & music by Elvis Costello. Track 6 of Imperial Bedroom, 1982.
How/when acquired: Purchased cassette, 1983
Watch/listen here.

A word about Imperial Bedroom, one of the best albums of all time. My high school boyfriend owned it on vinyl, and we listened to it almost nonstop during the second half of the summer of 1982. It came with a lyrics sheet, unpunctuated words scrawled closely together in what appeared to be Costello's own handwriting. This song felt like a portent of adulthood. Twenty-nine years later, it feels like a distillation of something more true than words.

The Mystery Bookstore announced yesterday that it will close on January 31.

In the summer of 1999, as I visited Los Angeles and fantasized about running away to the circus, I walked into a dark, narrow store on Beverly Boulevard in West Hollywood. THE MYSTERIOUS BOOKSHOP, the sign said; Washington, DC had only recently lost a mystery bookstore of its own.

I chatted with the clerk, who sold me a signed copy of L.A. Requiem and a paperback of Gone, Baby, Gone. I told him I was thinking about moving to Los Angeles. He said, in a tone I couldn't quite figure out, that Los Angeles had a lot of transplants already.

We didn't introduce ourselves, but that was Richard Brewer, the store's assistant manager. Six months later, I had moved to Los Angeles, and was living within walking distance of the store. I knew Richard's name, and that of Sheldon McArthur, the store's irascible manager. Times were hard: the store's New York owner had decided to close the Los Angeles branch.

A group of loyal customers rallied to buy the store, with Shelly as managing partner and Richard as assistant manager. They needed help. I was freelancing from home and needed to get out more, so I volunteered. I didn't even need to be paid, I said. They could pay me in books.

They did pay me, of course — not much, but they didn't let me work for free. My real compensation from The Mystery Bookstore, though, was a ticket into the world of books, the world of authors and readers and people who cared passionately about the printed page and the creative process. As it turned out, The Mystery Bookstore was the circus I ran away to.

I didn't leave it even when I moved to Maine. I've continued to write the store's weekly and monthly newsletters, and went back whenever I could for major events: the L.A. Times Festival of Books, the annual holiday party, friends' and clients' book launches. All of the book work I do now, I owe to The Mystery Bookstore; my first book editing project came out of a conversation with Scott Phillips one slow afternoon in the store. Over the past 11 years, the store has been the one constant of my working life, as other clients and projects came and went. My association with The Mystery Bookstore been more valuable to me than I can say, and I owe the store more than I could ever repay.

My friend Tod Goldberg describes the store as "a public trust" over on his blog today. I felt that way too. I think we all did. Certainly the current manager, Bobby McCue, and assistant manager Linda Brown feel that way. Owners changed, managers changed, but no one ever really quit the Mystery Bookstore; we all came back, because the store was something more than a business.

But it was a business, and now the business is closing.

I'm planning to fly out for the store's final weekend, at the end of the month. T. Jefferson Parker is the store's last formal event, signing at 4:30 p.m. on Saturday, January 29. See you there?

"Nobody was saying anything at all/We were waiting for the end of the world."

The Song: "Waiting For the End of the World," Elvis Costello. Words & music by Elvis Costello. Track 12 of My Aim is True, 1978.
How/when acquired: Purchased cut-out cassette, 1984.
Watch/listen here.

January's a tough month; my brother James calls it "Suckuary." It ought to be a month of new beginnings — and it is, in many ways — but it's also a month when all the people and things who'd been holding on through the holidays break down, give up, admit defeat and die. And in the northern hemisphere, at least, days are short, nights are long, and temperatures are cold. Grim.

Sorry. Today's post is not only late, but a last-minute substitution for another post I'd had ready to go, in anticipation of news that's been pending since last week.

As a public relations professional, I offer this advice for free: when you have bad news to announce, do it quickly and simply. Don't explain, don't apologize, just report the information and move on to what you plan to do about it. Give people the courtesy and respect of letting them react and adjust as early as they can. If you can help them, great. Explaining, apologizing and asking for forgiveness don't count as helping.

Sorry to be cryptic. I personally am fine. More will be — should be — clear tomorrow.

"And I said to myself, 'What's the matter here?'"

The Song: "What's the Matter Here?" Words & music by Natalie Merchant and Robert Buck. Track 1 of In My Tribe, 1987.
How/when acquired: Illegally copied cassette, 1988; purchased CD, c. 1991. (My cassette has "Peace Train" on it; the CD doesn't.)
Listen/watch here.

I spent most of Saturday glued to coverage of the shootings in Tucson, on TV, radio and online. The 24-hour news media didn't acquit itself well, rushing to report that Rep. Giffords had been killed when she was still alive, offering conflicting reports about the number of victims and the number of suspects, and generally reminding me of the value of newspapers. Finally I remembered that I was choosing to consume this stream of media, and switched away to something less scary: a rebroadcast of The Exorcist on Spike TV.

Speed kills, as the signs used to say. Whatever else I took away from the events of this weekend, what I feel is the overwhelming need to take a deep breath and slow. down. The fact that we can communicate with each other instantaneously does not mean that we should. Anything worth doing takes time: learning, cooking, building, editing, writing, thinking. Creation takes time. Change takes time.

I'm writing this for my own benefit more than for anyone else's, because I am among the worst offenders. Emails don't need immediate responses. No one needs to be on Twitter. I need to spend more time thinking and less time reacting. I'm probably not the only one, but I'm the only one whose behavior I can control.

"For reasons I cannot explain/There's some part of me wants to see/Graceland."

The Song: "Graceland," Paul Simon. Words & music by Paul Simon. Track 2 of Graceland, 1986.
How/when acquired: Purchased cassette, 1986.
Listen here.

Today is Elvis Presley's 76th birthday. Happy birthday, sir, wherever you are. The only Elvis recordings I own are on a cassette of Christmas music, but this song feels more appropriate anyway.

I tell everyone that they need to see Graceland. I never felt particularly interested in Elvis Presley until my brother Ed and I visited his home, at the edge of a residential neighborhood in Memphis, Tennessee.

Whatever you expect Graceland to be, it is not. It's relatively modest, for one thing, a brick center-hall Colonial similar to those many of my schoolmates grew up in. The furnishings are very much of their time (early-mid 1970s), but not particularly garish. The grounds are beautiful, and the famous gate is weirdly out-of-place, installed only to keep curious fans at bay. The house looks exactly like what it was: a family home.

Graceland is worth visiting, first of all, because it gives you a real sense of Elvis Presley the man, and how he struggled with his public image. I did not understand until I walked through his home that Elvis worked really hard, and never took any of it for granted. He was grateful, and he was humble, and he was scared. His private life was a constant effort to improve himself, through reading and karate lessons and the three television sets in his TV room. He was a prisoner of his fame as much as a beneficiary of it, and he must have been terribly lonely. Most of all, I came away from Graceland with the impression of a man who had meant well.

The author and music critic Jim Fusilli, whom I know and like (and whose novels you should read), wrote a thoughtful piece for the Wall Street Journal this week in which he observed that by the end of Elvis Presley's career, he'd become the first Elvis Presley impersonator. I think about this all the time, and it's a question you can't avoid at Graceland: do all great success stories inevitably become parodies of themselves?

"I was born like this, I had no choice/Born with the gift of a golden voice..."

The Song: "Tower of Song," Robert Forster. Words & music by Leonard Cohen. Track 12 of I'm Your Fan, 1991.
How/when acquired: Purchased cassette, 1991.
Watch/listen here (that's Leonard Cohen singing with U2; I couldn't find a sample of the Robert Forster cover, which is what I'm listening to).

One of many things I love about Leonard Cohen is his sense of humor about himself. This line, sung by him, is an obvious joke; his voice has its own cracked beauty, but no objective listener would call it golden.

It's one reason so many artists have covered his songs. I own a few collections of Leonard Cohen covers; I'm Your Fan and Jennifer Warnes' Famous Blue Raincoat are my favorites. I bought I'm Your Fan as a new cassette, and it includes my favorite versions of "Chelsea Hotel" (Lloyd Cole's) and "I Can't Forget" (The Pixies) as well as this version of "Tower of Song."

This song was in my head this morning as I watched the latest of many news stories about Ted Williams, the homeless man with the amazing voice. In the past 72 hours, Mr. Williams has been taken off the street and given opportunities beyond anyone's wildest dreams. Yes, it's a magical story. I can't shake the feeling that it won't end well.

Mr. Williams, God help him, is an addict. Addicts can and do recover, sure. Look at Robert Downey, Jr., whose recovery is nothing short of miraculous. And yes, people become homeless for all kinds of reasons. But a certain percentage of homeless people are homeless because they've let everyone close to them down; because they've disappointed and alienated everyone who tried to help them; because they let every second, third and fourth chance slip through their fingers, or drowned them in a bottle, or shot them into a vein.

I'm not saying we shouldn't keep trying to help. Having been through this with an old friend over the past year, though, I'm skeptical about how long magical happy endings last.

Still, he really does have a golden voice. We'll be hearing a lot of it in the next few months. I just hope it doesn't become something that haunts us.

"You know he'll always keep moving/You know he's never gonna stop moving . . ."

The Song: "Baker Street," Gerry Rafferty. Words & music by Gerry Rafferty. Track 2 of City to City, 1978.
How/when acquired: Downloaded MP3, c.2008.
Listen here.

Someone in my childhood home owned a copy of the City to City LP, and I think it might even have been my mother. Siblings, do you remember? I have vivid memories of this song and "Right Down the Line" playing on the car radio (WTAR-AM, when they still played music) as we drove around town in Mom's Ford LTD station wagon. If I close my eyes, I can smell the interior of that car, black vinyl and mud and cigarettes and God knows what else.

Gerry Rafferty was only 63, and in a way he seems to have died from success. The news reports say that "Baker Street" alone still brought him $125,000 a year, enough that he never had to work again. Alcohol and fear and who knows what other personal demons did the rest.

It's a strange and wonderful thing to create a work of art that people love. I think about this a lot, as someone in service to artists. Many might say — and I might agree — that since most of us can't create a work of art once, it is understandable and forgivable if an artist chooses to stop at one, or stop at two. Harper Lee wrote To Kill a Mockingbird and quit. Charles Laughton directed the strange and wonderful Night of the Hunter and never directed again.

Gerry Rafferty recorded City to City, and although he made seven albums after that, this obituary makes it sound as if he knew he had peaked, and found it harder and harder to keep trying. No one had the power to give him permission to stop, or forgive him for stopping.

"It's times like these when the temperatures freeze/I sit alone gazing at the world through a storm window."

The Song: "Storm Windows," John Prine. Words & music by John Prine. Track 7 of Storm Windows, 1980; Track 7, disc/cassette 2 of Great Days, 1993.
How/when acquired: Purchased LP (Storm Windows), 1981; purchased cassette (Great Days), 1993.
Listen here.

So what if you're not a country music fan? If you can't find something to love in John Prine's music, I don't think we should be friends anymore. I saved my babysitting money to buy this album, which I think I still have. (My LPs are stored in a cedar chest that currently has a shameful pile of laundry on top of it. I could check, but it would mean doing something about the laundry.)

My CDs are alphabetized by artist, but I could just as easily arrange them according to my checkered romantic history. Quite a lot — maybe even most — of my music collection, especially from the early years, is a direct result of trying to impress/communicate with/understand the object of my affections at the time. I was a geeky, broke teenager who grew up to be a geeky, broke adult. I could not dazzle boys with clothes or makeup or fancy hair, and never cared enough about sports to be the Jock Girl. I could spend five bucks (later eight bucks, later 14 bucks, never mind) on their kind of music.

At the risk of embarrassing an old friend, I'll give Art Coulson credit for introducing me to John Prine. Art is a good writer and a citizen activist and a fine, upstanding family man; you should hire him for all your media needs in the Upper Midwest. Thirty years ago, though, he was a skinny kid with a guitar and a smart mouth. I thought he walked on water. If he loved John Prine, so would I, and 30 years later I still do. So thanks, Art.

The thaw over the weekend melted much (but not even most) of the snow central Maine got while I was away. Temperatures dropped again the other night, and now all of Gardiner's side streets have rivers of ice along their edges, where Dizzy and I usually walk. Dizzy's claws usually act as his own version of Yak-Trax, but even he slipped this morning. All he hurt was his pride, but I pretended I hadn't seen it. Dogs are sensitive that way.

"I've been paralyzed by a choice that lies well inside of me/Which world to hold me now"

The Song: "Hey Wow," The Connells. Words & music by Mike Connell. Track 7 of Fun & Games, 1989.
How/when acquired: Bootleg cassette tape, c. 1991; purchased CD, c. 1999.
Listen to a sample here.

The Connells were/are a band out of Raleigh, NC that never got the breakout they deserved. They wrote smart, jangly pop songs that come from the heart, and they put on a great live show.

Fun & Games is my favorite of their albums. While I haven't read much about it, I've concluded over the years that most of it is about recovering from mental illness. This song, in particular, seems to be about a stay in a psychiatric hospital. Anyone know for sure?

It's a new year and a sunny day, which makes me cautiously optimistic despite the skin of ice covering my part of central Maine. I'm glad to be finished with 2010; it was a good year for a handful of my friends and family members, but a bad year for even more of the people close to me, and I have to believe that 2011 will be better.

I don't make New Year's resolutions, really, but am determined to do more things this year that scare me, and most of all to remain in motion. Inertia rules the universe; bodies at rest tend to remain at rest. Let's get moving.