Lake Superior State University 2009 List of Banished Words
http://www.lssu.edu/banished/current.php
My favorite banished four-letter-word word is “Icon.” Icon has been overused to death and every third-rate entertainer is now an icon.
Columnists and writers who should know better just can’t stop writing it.
Icon icon icon icon.
Vomit.
Whenever I want a character to use a mouthful of cliches, I visit the lists of banished words. Someone should give Lake Superior State University a prize.
Grapeshot, who is reading Proust again this days. No seriously. Haven't seen one single "icon" in Proust.
Showing posts with label Proust. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Proust. Show all posts
Thursday, March 05, 2009
Friday, October 17, 2008
Am I dreaming?
It's been a busy week, no a busy month, and September was crazy, too. The long simmering days of summer are gone and life has come to a boil.
So last night after dinner I was pooped, and with a post-dinner piece of that coffee cake, so comforting, I draped myself on the couch to watch the Red Sox. Ye Gods! Things went to hell in the first inning, and only worsened, until it was 7 zip in favor of Tampa Bay. Significant Other toddled off to bed with the remark that, "when I don't stay up to watch, they always win."
Yeah, sure. I dozed a bit, and woke up with the score still 7-zip and Papelbon was pitching, which means the end is in sight. Ate the last of the Halloween candy, chocolate being so comforting and fell into an apparently deep sleep on the couch.
Awoke and thought I was dreaming, because the score was 7-6, Tampa Bay, and there were two outs, and a man on second and Coco Crisp was batting. Red Sox fans know that there has been bad blood between Crisp and the Rays, rightly so, and how sweet it was, HOW SWEET IT WAS,
when Coco got a hit and tied the game. Wow, was I ever awake!
Thought about waking S.O., and decided that might bring had luck. While the Rays were batting in the ninth, I got ready for bed, and crept back downstairs--by now it was so late the automatic timers had turned off the lights.
The Red Sox got a man on and J.D. Drew batted him in. EVEN SWEETER! Then, of course, I had to wake S.O. up. In Boston, we take our baseball seriously in Red Sox Nation.
So revved up by the excitement and my ill-timed nap, that I had to read some Proust to get my mind and body in the mood for sleep.
Holy freakin' crap, who would have thunk it?
Cat blog day? Forget it. Annie barfed and Thisbe had lovey time and complained about everything. Same old. Same old. The cats are waaayyyy to portly for a hawk or an owl to carry off.
Grapeshot
So last night after dinner I was pooped, and with a post-dinner piece of that coffee cake, so comforting, I draped myself on the couch to watch the Red Sox. Ye Gods! Things went to hell in the first inning, and only worsened, until it was 7 zip in favor of Tampa Bay. Significant Other toddled off to bed with the remark that, "when I don't stay up to watch, they always win."
Yeah, sure. I dozed a bit, and woke up with the score still 7-zip and Papelbon was pitching, which means the end is in sight. Ate the last of the Halloween candy, chocolate being so comforting and fell into an apparently deep sleep on the couch.
Awoke and thought I was dreaming, because the score was 7-6, Tampa Bay, and there were two outs, and a man on second and Coco Crisp was batting. Red Sox fans know that there has been bad blood between Crisp and the Rays, rightly so, and how sweet it was, HOW SWEET IT WAS,
when Coco got a hit and tied the game. Wow, was I ever awake!
Thought about waking S.O., and decided that might bring had luck. While the Rays were batting in the ninth, I got ready for bed, and crept back downstairs--by now it was so late the automatic timers had turned off the lights.
The Red Sox got a man on and J.D. Drew batted him in. EVEN SWEETER! Then, of course, I had to wake S.O. up. In Boston, we take our baseball seriously in Red Sox Nation.
So revved up by the excitement and my ill-timed nap, that I had to read some Proust to get my mind and body in the mood for sleep.
Holy freakin' crap, who would have thunk it?
Cat blog day? Forget it. Annie barfed and Thisbe had lovey time and complained about everything. Same old. Same old. The cats are waaayyyy to portly for a hawk or an owl to carry off.
Grapeshot
Monday, June 02, 2008
The State of the Mystery
The Sisters in Crime Blog has a multi-part report on the state of mystery writing in the U.S. seen from the standpoint of publishers, agents, editors and others in the business. I have to say it's rather disheartening if you are trying to publish a traditional mystery (Promiscuous Mode) or even a genre-bending not-quite-traditional (Festival Madness). The advice is to call it a thriller, whatever it is. It's awfully hard to call an amateur sleuth who solves a crime where there's a soupcon of romance, craziness, technology, and what have you a thriller. I wonder if I put in my query that the book is mainstream enough to require a big umbrella. . .
The other totally disheartening thing is that publishers now say one book a year is not enough. I can barely see myself writing one book a year, much less two or 2.5. It seems like a book requires two years to get it right. Maybe I'm a pokey writer. Maybe I want to make the Indian relish and the orange yogurt bread and see the art exhibits and do OTHER STUFF like till my garden and sit on the deck with a glass of wine and enjoy NATURE. Read other books (Hello again, Proust). Do stuff.
The odd thing is, that while I've been going through the 8th, yes, the 8th draft of Festival Madness, and thinking and researching the California book, and thinking the World War II YA, and thinking (hard) about my cat short story, that yet another book has come into my head. Unbidden.
I didn't need this. It's crime fiction, which I thought I had given up on. It takes place in Northern Nevada and the plot is kind of coming together. I suppose in light of the current market it should be a thriller, but it seems a little more like, I don't know, not a mystery but just a novel. With crime. And scary people.
When people ask, where do you get your ideas, well, the idea for this book came one night when I was (in Northern Nevada) and in the middle of the night awakened by the train rumbling thru town, making the mobile home vibrate, awakened again to someone going down the street playing a slide whistle, and yet again by a coyote howling at the edge of town.
I wrote a poem about it, and hoped that was it. Nope, here comes a book, saying write me, write me. Merde.
I've also got the Chaucer book (don't ask), the Elizabeth von Arnin short bio, and the Grace Hopper short bio in my head. Six books? Well, not in a year. At the rate I'm scribbling it will take 18 years. I'm going to be sort of old by then. Can't see myself doing tours and all that stuff.
Three books a year? Ha ha.
Que faire? Mon Dieu.
Grapeshot
The other totally disheartening thing is that publishers now say one book a year is not enough. I can barely see myself writing one book a year, much less two or 2.5. It seems like a book requires two years to get it right. Maybe I'm a pokey writer. Maybe I want to make the Indian relish and the orange yogurt bread and see the art exhibits and do OTHER STUFF like till my garden and sit on the deck with a glass of wine and enjoy NATURE. Read other books (Hello again, Proust). Do stuff.
The odd thing is, that while I've been going through the 8th, yes, the 8th draft of Festival Madness, and thinking and researching the California book, and thinking the World War II YA, and thinking (hard) about my cat short story, that yet another book has come into my head. Unbidden.
I didn't need this. It's crime fiction, which I thought I had given up on. It takes place in Northern Nevada and the plot is kind of coming together. I suppose in light of the current market it should be a thriller, but it seems a little more like, I don't know, not a mystery but just a novel. With crime. And scary people.
When people ask, where do you get your ideas, well, the idea for this book came one night when I was (in Northern Nevada) and in the middle of the night awakened by the train rumbling thru town, making the mobile home vibrate, awakened again to someone going down the street playing a slide whistle, and yet again by a coyote howling at the edge of town.
I wrote a poem about it, and hoped that was it. Nope, here comes a book, saying write me, write me. Merde.
I've also got the Chaucer book (don't ask), the Elizabeth von Arnin short bio, and the Grace Hopper short bio in my head. Six books? Well, not in a year. At the rate I'm scribbling it will take 18 years. I'm going to be sort of old by then. Can't see myself doing tours and all that stuff.
Three books a year? Ha ha.
Que faire? Mon Dieu.
Grapeshot
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
The Salt of the Earth and other preoccupations
A few of my mother's salt cellar's. Pretty, aren't they? I wonder if Proust used the Limoges ones for his boeuf a la mode.
This week I bit hard on the bullet and pulled out all the leaves in our dining room table and unpacked my Mom’s collection of salt cellars AKA salt dips. 134 china, glass, silver, and what have you. They’ve been in boxes. Sold some when we moved, and now it’s time for the rest to go. I catalogued and photographed everything, documented to within a gnat’s bristle. Now packed up and ready to go off to the auction house along with a few prints and paintings and more cool that was also confined to boxes.
I also began printing Festival Madness in 100 page chunks, and imagine my horror—no, you cannot, when I discovered, 2/3 of the way thru the story, 75 pages of pure dull. So we are working on that, the editorial we, of course, we the writer. Arrrrgh!
This weekend we dart off to Montreal to see the cool Cuban exhibit at the Art Museum and pig out on French food. In other words, live the good life.
Busy as the busy little bee, that’s how doth. Prepping to bake two loaves of bread. Put up the hummingbird feeder. The Canada Geese and the White Geese who inhabit Glue Factory Pond (not too scenic a name for such a nice pond) all have babies, so we keep cracked corn in the car for drive-by feeding. No sign of baby ducks in the slough, but soon. . . . I am on a baby craze: calves, ducklings, geese and what have you.
Off to bake bread. And to create some excitement in those 75 pages. Which task will be easier?
I also began printing Festival Madness in 100 page chunks, and imagine my horror—no, you cannot, when I discovered, 2/3 of the way thru the story, 75 pages of pure dull. So we are working on that, the editorial we, of course, we the writer. Arrrrgh!
This weekend we dart off to Montreal to see the cool Cuban exhibit at the Art Museum and pig out on French food. In other words, live the good life.
Busy as the busy little bee, that’s how doth. Prepping to bake two loaves of bread. Put up the hummingbird feeder. The Canada Geese and the White Geese who inhabit Glue Factory Pond (not too scenic a name for such a nice pond) all have babies, so we keep cracked corn in the car for drive-by feeding. No sign of baby ducks in the slough, but soon. . . . I am on a baby craze: calves, ducklings, geese and what have you.
Off to bake bread. And to create some excitement in those 75 pages. Which task will be easier?
More Cow News:
The little herd as been thinned, as we expected, but a quick count yesterday evening confused me. The two infants are there, naturally, with their moms, and Maggie is there, and the black calf and his mom Crooked Horn are there. Is that it? Don’t think I counted more. That means one cow, the bull and two of last fall’s babies are gone as well as Maggie’s December baby. Is this possible? More anon. I feel so possessive of these cows.
The little herd as been thinned, as we expected, but a quick count yesterday evening confused me. The two infants are there, naturally, with their moms, and Maggie is there, and the black calf and his mom Crooked Horn are there. Is that it? Don’t think I counted more. That means one cow, the bull and two of last fall’s babies are gone as well as Maggie’s December baby. Is this possible? More anon. I feel so possessive of these cows.
Wednesday, January 09, 2008
Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award
In less than a week, I'll know whether World of Mirrors made the first Amazon cut. If it did, I'll be weaseling around and asking friends, fellow-writers and even my wonderful blog readers who are also Amazon customers (is anyone not an Amazon customer?) to sign in, read my first chapter and write a short review. And do tell the truth. If you think it sucks, I need to know that, too.
This is so demeaning, but of course even more demeaning is if the chapter tanked/and or cratered with the reviewer and was rejected. Right now my self-confidence if at the bottom of the storm sewer with last year's leaves and a few old mouse carcasses. You get the idea.
And I have a cold. I never catch colds. I am blaming it on not eating meat for 2 weeks, and missing all that good zinc and B-vitamins.
We had chicken cutlets with tomatos, capers and wine tonight, ripped right out of the food section of today's Boston Globe. Very tasty, and enough for tomorrow. The tomato and parseley looked so cheery, almost like Christmas was back. It's always a shock when everyone takes down the Christmas lights and the night is so dreary again.
Made reservations for Sleuthfest today, and I continue to tweak the beginning of Promiscuous Mode. I decided it didn't have enough tension and conflict for the beginning of a crime fiction novel. Why did I ever start writing crime fiction? I don't even much like to read it anymore, however, I still want to read Sue Grafton's latest. I don't get tired of her. And then there's poor old Proust who I've been dawdling over for 13 months and 772 pages.
My first readings of Proust, I totally missed all the humor. How is that possible? There is a lot of humor, not in the romantic love parts, but in his descriptions of the daily life of the family. Humor enlivens any kind of writing. Humor enlivens life.
Rant alert! Boston is a dirty town, sad to say. The "T" is dirty--people strew newspapers all over. Sullivan Square was filthy. The sidewalk was a continuous garbage can. Disgusting. We came here from Chicago which was, by comparison, squeaky clean. End of rant.
Another warm day, but rainy, and I didn't walk because of my blasted cold. It's almost worse than having a broken ankle. Onward.
Grrrrrapeshot
This is so demeaning, but of course even more demeaning is if the chapter tanked/and or cratered with the reviewer and was rejected. Right now my self-confidence if at the bottom of the storm sewer with last year's leaves and a few old mouse carcasses. You get the idea.
And I have a cold. I never catch colds. I am blaming it on not eating meat for 2 weeks, and missing all that good zinc and B-vitamins.
We had chicken cutlets with tomatos, capers and wine tonight, ripped right out of the food section of today's Boston Globe. Very tasty, and enough for tomorrow. The tomato and parseley looked so cheery, almost like Christmas was back. It's always a shock when everyone takes down the Christmas lights and the night is so dreary again.
Made reservations for Sleuthfest today, and I continue to tweak the beginning of Promiscuous Mode. I decided it didn't have enough tension and conflict for the beginning of a crime fiction novel. Why did I ever start writing crime fiction? I don't even much like to read it anymore, however, I still want to read Sue Grafton's latest. I don't get tired of her. And then there's poor old Proust who I've been dawdling over for 13 months and 772 pages.
My first readings of Proust, I totally missed all the humor. How is that possible? There is a lot of humor, not in the romantic love parts, but in his descriptions of the daily life of the family. Humor enlivens any kind of writing. Humor enlivens life.
Rant alert! Boston is a dirty town, sad to say. The "T" is dirty--people strew newspapers all over. Sullivan Square was filthy. The sidewalk was a continuous garbage can. Disgusting. We came here from Chicago which was, by comparison, squeaky clean. End of rant.
Another warm day, but rainy, and I didn't walk because of my blasted cold. It's almost worse than having a broken ankle. Onward.
Grrrrrapeshot
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Home Again, Home Again, Jiggety-Jig
It's always nice to come home. We miss our bed, our pillows, our cats, our toothbrush glass for cryin' out loud.
I'm coming to the exciting end of "The Killing Moon" by Chuck Hogan. It's so tense-making that I can't read it before I go to sleep. At our hosts, I picked up a book, a memoir of being a refugee fleeing the Russians in the last days of World War II, and that became full of suspense, as well. Maybe one should always travel with Proust, or Henry James, or a writer that may induce sleep, someone who writes marvelously, but is decidedly NOT a page-turner.
Now I have no more excuses for not putting Festival Madness in the mail to the publisher. One more pass, just one more pass. There must be words that could be more precise, emotions more finely rendered, scenery described "just so."
The friends we see never ask about my writing. Might as well be digging ditches or rolling bandages. I am used to this. Maybe only writers talk shop about the current work in process.
This week, the biggest decision is whether to attend the auction and which cookies to put on the Christmas baking list. And of course, which book to do next. It's looking like the German one, but I can't tell for sure. It's nice to have choices, but if I didn't, I'd be well into the next one. Not to decide is to decide. Grrr.
There will be delicous Christmas cookies on the web site, soon, so don't be shy about visiting. And watch for Grapeshot's ten tips for computer security. Seems to be a lot of phishing lately. I'm always amazed that anyone falls for it. You don't, do you? Never ever give anyone banking, credit card of personal information as a result of an email. Don't click onto web sites from emails. Go there the traditional way. wwwdot whatever.
Onward, without too much sucking it up,
Grapeshot
I'm coming to the exciting end of "The Killing Moon" by Chuck Hogan. It's so tense-making that I can't read it before I go to sleep. At our hosts, I picked up a book, a memoir of being a refugee fleeing the Russians in the last days of World War II, and that became full of suspense, as well. Maybe one should always travel with Proust, or Henry James, or a writer that may induce sleep, someone who writes marvelously, but is decidedly NOT a page-turner.
Now I have no more excuses for not putting Festival Madness in the mail to the publisher. One more pass, just one more pass. There must be words that could be more precise, emotions more finely rendered, scenery described "just so."
The friends we see never ask about my writing. Might as well be digging ditches or rolling bandages. I am used to this. Maybe only writers talk shop about the current work in process.
This week, the biggest decision is whether to attend the auction and which cookies to put on the Christmas baking list. And of course, which book to do next. It's looking like the German one, but I can't tell for sure. It's nice to have choices, but if I didn't, I'd be well into the next one. Not to decide is to decide. Grrr.
There will be delicous Christmas cookies on the web site, soon, so don't be shy about visiting. And watch for Grapeshot's ten tips for computer security. Seems to be a lot of phishing lately. I'm always amazed that anyone falls for it. You don't, do you? Never ever give anyone banking, credit card of personal information as a result of an email. Don't click onto web sites from emails. Go there the traditional way. wwwdot whatever.
Onward, without too much sucking it up,
Grapeshot
Friday, December 07, 2007
Sucking It Up is a Universal Experience
Proust, Joyce, and others have had to suck it up, too. Even F. Scott Fitzgerald.
http://www.columbusalive.com/?sec=upfront&story=alive/2007/1206/u-mental.html
I don't compare myself to them, novelist of computer crime as I am, but it's nice to be in good company.
Grapeshot
Recipe en route, as well as photos of last night's broccoli-mushroom quiche. So stop by again soon.
Tonight it the party at the local mystery book store (Kate's) and I'm taking a lovely appetizer.
Grapeshot
http://www.columbusalive.com/?sec=upfront&story=alive/2007/1206/u-mental.html
I don't compare myself to them, novelist of computer crime as I am, but it's nice to be in good company.
Grapeshot
Recipe en route, as well as photos of last night's broccoli-mushroom quiche. So stop by again soon.
Tonight it the party at the local mystery book store (Kate's) and I'm taking a lovely appetizer.
Grapeshot
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
The Road Was Life But Not Friendship
Racing across the Great American Night doesn't sound so attractive anymore. I'm nearly finished reading of On the Road, for at least the third time, and except for a few lyrical descriptions, I'm very disappointed. The phrase "running around like a chicken with its head cut off" comes to mind. Maybe I have grown old. Maybe I have grown up. The book now makes me sad. The energy consumes itself. Dean Moriarty has become extremely tedious. I want to slap him silly. How did this happen? The old doper in New Orleans is the only character I find sympathetic, and maybe some of the people whose hospitality is taken advantage of.
I recall a professor literature expressing the critical view the Kerouac ruined the beautiful description of New Orleans and the delta with the remark that "Mary Lou went to the john." At the time, I thought, "so what?" It didn't really break the mood that much.
My dislike of the characters is a complete surprise to me. Sal Paradise, the narrator, is just barely all right, but Dean Moriarty is a world class jerk.
On the Road is, or course, the classic "buddy" road book, but I don't think Dean is capable of being a friend. I'm also re-reading Proust, and thinking about Bloch (superficial friend) and St. Loup (so far good friend). The awful Verdurins and their friends. The Guermantes and their friends. And I see superficial friendships abound. Maybe it is the way of the world. And old friends are often like family, with the long history and the squabbles and the backbiting.
My mother had so many good friends, and she valued friendship and I always noticed how she gave flowers, and garden produce, and kept in touch and went the extra mile. I do have a few good friends, and I treasure them. The "theme" if you will, of Festival Madness is friendship.
I don't think my writing group is all that keen on Festival Madness. The book they like best, Promiscuous Mode, beginning to look like another dud although it is the least technical and has all sorts of cool stuff like bass fishing, casinos, sex and well, yanno, good topics.
Tomorrow we are setting up a booth at a book fair, and that should be fun. I love books, even books that I don't love as much as formerly, like On the Road.
In a somewhat sad, philosophical mood,
Grapeshot
I recall a professor literature expressing the critical view the Kerouac ruined the beautiful description of New Orleans and the delta with the remark that "Mary Lou went to the john." At the time, I thought, "so what?" It didn't really break the mood that much.
My dislike of the characters is a complete surprise to me. Sal Paradise, the narrator, is just barely all right, but Dean Moriarty is a world class jerk.
On the Road is, or course, the classic "buddy" road book, but I don't think Dean is capable of being a friend. I'm also re-reading Proust, and thinking about Bloch (superficial friend) and St. Loup (so far good friend). The awful Verdurins and their friends. The Guermantes and their friends. And I see superficial friendships abound. Maybe it is the way of the world. And old friends are often like family, with the long history and the squabbles and the backbiting.
My mother had so many good friends, and she valued friendship and I always noticed how she gave flowers, and garden produce, and kept in touch and went the extra mile. I do have a few good friends, and I treasure them. The "theme" if you will, of Festival Madness is friendship.
I don't think my writing group is all that keen on Festival Madness. The book they like best, Promiscuous Mode, beginning to look like another dud although it is the least technical and has all sorts of cool stuff like bass fishing, casinos, sex and well, yanno, good topics.
Tomorrow we are setting up a booth at a book fair, and that should be fun. I love books, even books that I don't love as much as formerly, like On the Road.
In a somewhat sad, philosophical mood,
Grapeshot
Thursday, August 23, 2007
The Warlord's Son
For months I have been savoring, a few pages at a time, the novel, The Warlord's Son, by Dan Fesperman. At some point, I had a feeling that maybe things weren't going to end all that well for some of the characters, and so I peeked into the last part of the book which I never, ever do but I did with this one. There were the 3 main characters, hale and hearty having escaped from the wild lands beyond the Khyber Pass.
So I read on, confident that things would work out well, although the author, now that I think about it, was signalling wildly that everything would NOT work out well. So you believe what you want to believe. Yesterday, on the train, I read and read and finally took the book up to bed last night to finish it.
Yikes, did I get a surprise. There was another twist at the ending a things did not work out, as signalled. It bothered me all night. "It's a book!" I told myself this morning. Why was I so upset? Maybe that one of the protagonists had been betrayed by his countrymen. It seemed like such a likely scenario, and he walked into it so blindly, desperate to put the pieces together of the wonderful story he was going to write. I guess it sounded true. And lately, true has not been good. Not at all. So it was just a book, but it also held up a mirror to our time, and of course I didn't like the image in the mirror. Nobody would.
On the listserve DorothyL, the question was asked about East German mysteries, and I had to pipe up that agents didn't want to touch them, which is true in my case. I always wonder a bit ruefully if I had a bunch of neo-Nazis and low lifes would the agents have been keener on the book. Never mind the Stasi, and the KGB and the Russian navy and even the dog that formerly patrolled the border, an ex-wall dog. Never mind the Vietnamese almost-slave labor. Where the hell are the neo-Nazis? Okay, maybe the story just stinks. But it doesn't. It's pretty cool actually, with a really neat ending with twists and turns.
One can read Proust before bedtime with the assurance that none of the main characters will die a violent death, although right now I am reading the part that introduced Albertine. Whenever I read about her, the image of the face of one of my high school friends inserts itself. She just looks like Albertine.
Some of the Burning Man honchos had dinner at our little place in Nevada this week. But I wasn't there to hostess, alas. Thinking of desperate ways to get to the Man this year. It's like a religion. I see myself on a run up to Lowell to the store that sells whorish dresses to find a costume. And maybe a run by St. Vincent DePaul for some outre duds. I see my credit card bill next month. Gaaaaa!
Onward,
Grapeshot
So I read on, confident that things would work out well, although the author, now that I think about it, was signalling wildly that everything would NOT work out well. So you believe what you want to believe. Yesterday, on the train, I read and read and finally took the book up to bed last night to finish it.
Yikes, did I get a surprise. There was another twist at the ending a things did not work out, as signalled. It bothered me all night. "It's a book!" I told myself this morning. Why was I so upset? Maybe that one of the protagonists had been betrayed by his countrymen. It seemed like such a likely scenario, and he walked into it so blindly, desperate to put the pieces together of the wonderful story he was going to write. I guess it sounded true. And lately, true has not been good. Not at all. So it was just a book, but it also held up a mirror to our time, and of course I didn't like the image in the mirror. Nobody would.
On the listserve DorothyL, the question was asked about East German mysteries, and I had to pipe up that agents didn't want to touch them, which is true in my case. I always wonder a bit ruefully if I had a bunch of neo-Nazis and low lifes would the agents have been keener on the book. Never mind the Stasi, and the KGB and the Russian navy and even the dog that formerly patrolled the border, an ex-wall dog. Never mind the Vietnamese almost-slave labor. Where the hell are the neo-Nazis? Okay, maybe the story just stinks. But it doesn't. It's pretty cool actually, with a really neat ending with twists and turns.
One can read Proust before bedtime with the assurance that none of the main characters will die a violent death, although right now I am reading the part that introduced Albertine. Whenever I read about her, the image of the face of one of my high school friends inserts itself. She just looks like Albertine.
Some of the Burning Man honchos had dinner at our little place in Nevada this week. But I wasn't there to hostess, alas. Thinking of desperate ways to get to the Man this year. It's like a religion. I see myself on a run up to Lowell to the store that sells whorish dresses to find a costume. And maybe a run by St. Vincent DePaul for some outre duds. I see my credit card bill next month. Gaaaaa!
Onward,
Grapeshot
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Reading Proust
I feel asleep reading Proust last night, and woke up in the middle of the night with the book open and the light on. The thing about reading Proust is that you don't need to worry about a) too much excitement, keeping you awake, b) too much suspense, c) violence. Just beautiful sentences and descriptions.
I've been editing Festival Madness, because I thought I found some disjointed passages, but when I went back, I couldn't find them. The main character is in the process of putting all the clues together while dealing with her job, her colleague and her husband. Sometimes life itself is disjointed. Should fiction reflect? These are questions I can't find an answer to.
My small houseguest and I saw "You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown" in Mansfield this afternoon. The performance was truly delightful, and the cast, ages 10-13 was superb. We both enjoyed it a lot, a serendipitous find. If you're in the neighborhood, do go. Cheap tickets, too. Free cookies. Life is good. We've enjoyed Shreck III and Rattatouie.
Tonight it grilling weather, and we're doing a pork tenderloin on the grill along with summer squash and zucchini, and a risotto aux fines herbes (but not on the grill). Salad. Ice cream for dessert. Sounds good to me. French toast this a.m. My dad taught me to make French Toast and this is the secret: cream (or half and half) and a spoonful of sugar to make the toast brown nicely. I use half butter/half canola oil for frying, the yin and yang of fats.
While we're telling secrets, I put little quarter teaspoons of cream cheese into scrambled eggs to make them extra yummy. Also, not an original idea, but thanks to my old college friend Hester Finke Zimmerman for this idea. Cooks, like artists, pass on secrets to the next generation. When the time comes, I will tell our little guest about these secrets. I already told her about French Toast, but she is so young she'll need additional lessons. Today I told her about Mockingbirds, Cow Birds and how much fun it is to raise a baby robin. Nature lore is passed down the generations, too. At least I hope so. My mom lured fish worms to her garden with coffee grounds.
I told three secrets. How cool is that?
Grapeshot
I've been editing Festival Madness, because I thought I found some disjointed passages, but when I went back, I couldn't find them. The main character is in the process of putting all the clues together while dealing with her job, her colleague and her husband. Sometimes life itself is disjointed. Should fiction reflect? These are questions I can't find an answer to.
My small houseguest and I saw "You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown" in Mansfield this afternoon. The performance was truly delightful, and the cast, ages 10-13 was superb. We both enjoyed it a lot, a serendipitous find. If you're in the neighborhood, do go. Cheap tickets, too. Free cookies. Life is good. We've enjoyed Shreck III and Rattatouie.
Tonight it grilling weather, and we're doing a pork tenderloin on the grill along with summer squash and zucchini, and a risotto aux fines herbes (but not on the grill). Salad. Ice cream for dessert. Sounds good to me. French toast this a.m. My dad taught me to make French Toast and this is the secret: cream (or half and half) and a spoonful of sugar to make the toast brown nicely. I use half butter/half canola oil for frying, the yin and yang of fats.
While we're telling secrets, I put little quarter teaspoons of cream cheese into scrambled eggs to make them extra yummy. Also, not an original idea, but thanks to my old college friend Hester Finke Zimmerman for this idea. Cooks, like artists, pass on secrets to the next generation. When the time comes, I will tell our little guest about these secrets. I already told her about French Toast, but she is so young she'll need additional lessons. Today I told her about Mockingbirds, Cow Birds and how much fun it is to raise a baby robin. Nature lore is passed down the generations, too. At least I hope so. My mom lured fish worms to her garden with coffee grounds.
I told three secrets. How cool is that?
Grapeshot
Friday, July 13, 2007
We aren't in Norton anymore
S.O. and I lived in Wellesley for many years, up the hill from Little Italy in Precinct B, in a neighborhood called, "College Heights." The neighborhood was friendly and although the houses were nice enough, it was still the kind of neighborhood where you could mow you own lawn. If you get my drift. . .there are plenty of neighborhoods in this country where you would not dare mow your own lawn. Too long to explain, so think about it.
We drove through the area today after a few months without a drive-by, so to speak, and found 4 tear-downs. The two on Pleasant Street, a street of modest homes, were all right, not too ungainly and set back from the street. Looked like they belonged there.
The two others were godawful McMansions, right up to the lot lines, like ugly on an ape. I am sure glad I don't live across the street from those monstrosities.
In Wellesley, we always shopped at Roche Brothers, and as Proust would be the first to tell you, habit is a powerful thing, and after we moved we diddled around in Shaw's and Stop and Shop and found neither to our liking, so we drove the extra miles to Roche Brothers in Norton. The first time there, we asked for something not in stock, and mentioned (bad mistake) that we used to shop at the Wellesley Roche Bros. After a couple of times of this faux pas, we sucked it up and didn't ask anymore. S.O. mentioned that the female shoppers in the store were not the trophy wives one frequently saw in Wellesley. Well, duh!
Today, before the onslaught of house guests who must be fed, including one vegetarian, we had an errand to run in Wellesley and decided to do the grocery shopping at our old stomping grounds. The women were really noticable. Young and skinny and totally unlike the Norton matrons. I got string cheese, frozen pizza dough and $167.00 worth of groceries (ouch), and found some really nice slab bacon at the deli counter.
I noticed an attractive elderly woman in a Gloria Vanderbuilt wraparound dress and spike heels shopping. Pony skin purse that probably cost a grand. Now even in Wellesley, nobody wears spike heels to the grocery store, and so I took a second look. Cripes, it wasn't an elderly woman at all, it was the most glamourous woman from the workout club. Eight or nine years ago, when I first saw her, she was beautiful: slim, trim, but with a few modest curves, you know, breasts, butt, calves. She could pump iron like nobody's business. Drove a fancy car and once I noticed dry cleaner bags with Chanel clothes hanging in the back seat. A couple years later, she had dieted herself down to no breasts and no butt, and didn't look nearly so cute. Now, she is so stringy looking that I thought she was elderly. I mean, who else is stringy but old women? This is really sad. I was shocked.
It is a fact that is never mentioned that big time weight loss after 50 usually results in big time bags and wrinkles on the face and elsewhere. Sometimes a few extra pounds (I mean a few), are not a bad thing in a 50+ woman.
Actually this time of year, grocery shopping in Wellesley is usually a leisurely pursuit, since everyone is on the Cape, the Island, their yacht or up in Maine. Where-ever-the-hell.
I hope you don't live in a McMansion like Tony Soprano. Actually, his wasn't as big as the new ones in Wellesley, and at least he had two kids and some relatives. Some of the McMansions are inhabited by a childless couple or one couple and a baby. Well, I guess the inhabitants just have to each have an office and a media room and an exercise room and a whatever. Probably no one cooks in the big fancy Viking kitchen. At least Carmela cooked.
Grapeshot is feeling a little bah-humbug today. A trip to see how the other "half" lives will do that.
Onward, but god help us, not upward, at least not upwardly mobile.
We drove through the area today after a few months without a drive-by, so to speak, and found 4 tear-downs. The two on Pleasant Street, a street of modest homes, were all right, not too ungainly and set back from the street. Looked like they belonged there.
The two others were godawful McMansions, right up to the lot lines, like ugly on an ape. I am sure glad I don't live across the street from those monstrosities.
In Wellesley, we always shopped at Roche Brothers, and as Proust would be the first to tell you, habit is a powerful thing, and after we moved we diddled around in Shaw's and Stop and Shop and found neither to our liking, so we drove the extra miles to Roche Brothers in Norton. The first time there, we asked for something not in stock, and mentioned (bad mistake) that we used to shop at the Wellesley Roche Bros. After a couple of times of this faux pas, we sucked it up and didn't ask anymore. S.O. mentioned that the female shoppers in the store were not the trophy wives one frequently saw in Wellesley. Well, duh!
Today, before the onslaught of house guests who must be fed, including one vegetarian, we had an errand to run in Wellesley and decided to do the grocery shopping at our old stomping grounds. The women were really noticable. Young and skinny and totally unlike the Norton matrons. I got string cheese, frozen pizza dough and $167.00 worth of groceries (ouch), and found some really nice slab bacon at the deli counter.
I noticed an attractive elderly woman in a Gloria Vanderbuilt wraparound dress and spike heels shopping. Pony skin purse that probably cost a grand. Now even in Wellesley, nobody wears spike heels to the grocery store, and so I took a second look. Cripes, it wasn't an elderly woman at all, it was the most glamourous woman from the workout club. Eight or nine years ago, when I first saw her, she was beautiful: slim, trim, but with a few modest curves, you know, breasts, butt, calves. She could pump iron like nobody's business. Drove a fancy car and once I noticed dry cleaner bags with Chanel clothes hanging in the back seat. A couple years later, she had dieted herself down to no breasts and no butt, and didn't look nearly so cute. Now, she is so stringy looking that I thought she was elderly. I mean, who else is stringy but old women? This is really sad. I was shocked.
It is a fact that is never mentioned that big time weight loss after 50 usually results in big time bags and wrinkles on the face and elsewhere. Sometimes a few extra pounds (I mean a few), are not a bad thing in a 50+ woman.
Actually this time of year, grocery shopping in Wellesley is usually a leisurely pursuit, since everyone is on the Cape, the Island, their yacht or up in Maine. Where-ever-the-hell.
I hope you don't live in a McMansion like Tony Soprano. Actually, his wasn't as big as the new ones in Wellesley, and at least he had two kids and some relatives. Some of the McMansions are inhabited by a childless couple or one couple and a baby. Well, I guess the inhabitants just have to each have an office and a media room and an exercise room and a whatever. Probably no one cooks in the big fancy Viking kitchen. At least Carmela cooked.
Grapeshot is feeling a little bah-humbug today. A trip to see how the other "half" lives will do that.
Onward, but god help us, not upward, at least not upwardly mobile.
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
More about LITBLOGS
Oh, the controversy! The sniping! The search for a "business model" for blogging. Yea, sure, like I'm getting paid.
http://www.mediabistro.com/galleycat/web_tech/the_litblog_debate_now_in_stereo_60426.asp
http://marksarvas.blogs.com/elegvar/2007/05/los_angeles_tim.html
Hmmm. Still not sure what to make of all the controversy. I don't review books on this blog, not in any serious way. One does, of course, have opinions, doesn't one? And one can voice them, and readers can take them for what they are, which is opinions. Seems pretty simple to me. Right now I am reading Proust and I think he's been reviewed plenty, but there are still interesting things to say about him, and the web is full of people writing stuff about Proust. So WTF?
Wondering,
Grapeshot
http://www.mediabistro.com/galleycat/web_tech/the_litblog_debate_now_in_stereo_60426.asp
http://marksarvas.blogs.com/elegvar/2007/05/los_angeles_tim.html
Hmmm. Still not sure what to make of all the controversy. I don't review books on this blog, not in any serious way. One does, of course, have opinions, doesn't one? And one can voice them, and readers can take them for what they are, which is opinions. Seems pretty simple to me. Right now I am reading Proust and I think he's been reviewed plenty, but there are still interesting things to say about him, and the web is full of people writing stuff about Proust. So WTF?
Wondering,
Grapeshot
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