Given how much time I spend fiddling with words and assessing their worth, you'd think I'd be concerned with book reviews, back cover copy, etc. Not so much. I don't look at book reviews of anything I haven't read yet—they don't interest me and often leave me jaded. If I'm in the mood for a new author, I almost always choose based on title. Or cool cover art. Usually in a Vintage edition. It's a simple science that has little to do with what's inside the book (caveat: I do read the first paragraph now and then to make sure it's not total crap. But Vintage rarely puts its brand on crap.)
Sometimes I get burned, but for the most part, this system works just fine. And it served me well recently with The Seven League Boots by Albert Murray. I discovered after finishing the book that Mr. Murray is "our great literary practitioner of the blues idiom," but I'd never heard of the guy. His narrative style tends toward excess—the protagonist, Scooter (band nickname: Schoolboy), is a prodigal bassist with a dizzying intellect, an improbable ability to quote verbatim all the authors and historians in the Western canon, and unfailing success with women—but it's hard not to like a story that's almost entirely about playing the 1920s jazz circuit.
Schoolboy got on my nerves at first ("And I had said, In other words it may also be as Lord Raglan the Fourth Earl of Fitzgerald suggests in his book about the origins of civilization when he points out that the most natural state of human existence may be a state of low savagery. But even so, if there is always entropy. there is also always the ineluctable modality of the perceivable.") Yeah, that's just how all the twentysomething musician guys I know talk.
But Murray's mad descriptive skills got me over my failed suspension of disbelief in his dialogue, and then he moved the story to France and let Schoolboy ride around on buses through the Provençal countryside and go to cafés and jazz clubs in Paris. And there was much rejoicing.
I had to look up the title a minute ago, since I had no idea what it meant while I was reading, but I'm not sure it matters. It got the book off the shelf at Pegasus and into my hands, so that's good enough.
October 30, 2005
October 27, 2005
Posting photos is very, very exciting
Especially because I couldn't figure out how to do it on my old blog. Side note: I can't control all the weird font stuff that happened on there either. It still plagues me in a cursory way.
But that's the past, and this here's the mighty present, so let's look at some pictures:
bling family brunch
(c) Janis Levy
Yes, my brother and cousins and I are always having a marvelous time. Rain? Never. War and famine? Not here! Doo doo doo doo. And we all close our eyes when we smile.
flowers. coffee. love.
I was lucky enough to be in New England twice this fall to celebrate two of my favorite newly married ladies. It's a long ride, but some days are worth it.
This is from the band's East Coast tour stop in Manhattan. Apparently on Escher Street.
But that's the past, and this here's the mighty present, so let's look at some pictures:
bling family brunch(c) Janis Levy
Yes, my brother and cousins and I are always having a marvelous time. Rain? Never. War and famine? Not here! Doo doo doo doo. And we all close our eyes when we smile.
flowers. coffee. love.
This is from the band's East Coast tour stop in Manhattan. Apparently on Escher Street.
October 25, 2005
October 24, 2005
Mad dash
On a usual weekday morning, my alarm blasts me awake like a call to arms. Except when it doesn't go off, like it didn't on Sunday at 5 a.m. to wake us for the marathon we've been anticipating for months. But lucky for me, I have a pretty killer backup—my internal clock. It decided that I needed to get up at 6:30 a.m. for work.
Amy, who was out cold on my futon downstairs, said it sounded like I fell out of bed and screamed, "Oh, shit!" OK, I did yell some and it wasn't polite, but there was no falling. More like leaping. Then a frenzy of finding my warmest pajama pants, hurling some layers onto myself and more into a backpack, and bursting out the front door into the car. We had 25 minutes to get to the city, park as close to the starting line as the event allowed (not close), and track down Miss Mobtown.
I won't tell you how fast I drove, but it's a good thing there aren't any cops on the Bay Bridge at 6:45 a.m. on weekends. We got to SoMa by 6:50 or so, parked at 5th and Mission, and sprinted toward Union Square. My backpack zipper broke and we took a wrong turn once, but Amy's former SF-dweller instincts kicked in and set us straight. We booked up the final block toward the cheering crowd at exactly 7 a.m. as they counted down, "5 . . . 4 . . . 3 . . . 2 . . . 1!" We found our pace group, connected with our third musketeer via the magic of cell phones, and even ran into a couple of Amy's old coworkers as we slogged through hordes of revved-up ladies to the starting line.
After that exciting beginning, walking 13.1 miles in the foggy, gray dampness felt almost mellow. We kept a decent pace, 12–15 minutes per mile, and the only time we slowed to a crawl was in the irritatingly long lines for the porta-potties. 15,000 women and about two stalls every three miles. We decided The Man must have planned the event.
But The Woman played her hand also, because there were oxygen stops, Luna Bar stops, a banana stop, and a chocolate stop along the route. Plus adorable high-school cheerleaders and volunteers cheering for us and handing out water, plus a different DJ spinning semi-inspiring music (salsa: yes; hip-hop: yes; Enya: no) every few miles. And, of course, the wildly gay dance troupe that mamboed us along at mile 9. We even passed by Casa Robin Williams in the fancy part of town. I love San Francisco.
Our intrepid crew made it to the end as the race clock hit 4.5 hours. If you subtract the 15 minutes it took to reach the official beginning after they started the clock, minus 25 minutes or so for bathroom breaks, we finished in a little under the four hours I predicted. And I think I'm only slightly worse for wear, thanks to some quality stretching and the massage we scheduled for afterward.
My Tiffany necklace is lovely, by the way, but not so lovely as the tuxedoed gent who handed it to me on a silver platter just past the finish line. I guess I take it back—The Woman must have been Chief Planner after all.
Amy, who was out cold on my futon downstairs, said it sounded like I fell out of bed and screamed, "Oh, shit!" OK, I did yell some and it wasn't polite, but there was no falling. More like leaping. Then a frenzy of finding my warmest pajama pants, hurling some layers onto myself and more into a backpack, and bursting out the front door into the car. We had 25 minutes to get to the city, park as close to the starting line as the event allowed (not close), and track down Miss Mobtown.
I won't tell you how fast I drove, but it's a good thing there aren't any cops on the Bay Bridge at 6:45 a.m. on weekends. We got to SoMa by 6:50 or so, parked at 5th and Mission, and sprinted toward Union Square. My backpack zipper broke and we took a wrong turn once, but Amy's former SF-dweller instincts kicked in and set us straight. We booked up the final block toward the cheering crowd at exactly 7 a.m. as they counted down, "5 . . . 4 . . . 3 . . . 2 . . . 1!" We found our pace group, connected with our third musketeer via the magic of cell phones, and even ran into a couple of Amy's old coworkers as we slogged through hordes of revved-up ladies to the starting line.
After that exciting beginning, walking 13.1 miles in the foggy, gray dampness felt almost mellow. We kept a decent pace, 12–15 minutes per mile, and the only time we slowed to a crawl was in the irritatingly long lines for the porta-potties. 15,000 women and about two stalls every three miles. We decided The Man must have planned the event.
But The Woman played her hand also, because there were oxygen stops, Luna Bar stops, a banana stop, and a chocolate stop along the route. Plus adorable high-school cheerleaders and volunteers cheering for us and handing out water, plus a different DJ spinning semi-inspiring music (salsa: yes; hip-hop: yes; Enya: no) every few miles. And, of course, the wildly gay dance troupe that mamboed us along at mile 9. We even passed by Casa Robin Williams in the fancy part of town. I love San Francisco.
Our intrepid crew made it to the end as the race clock hit 4.5 hours. If you subtract the 15 minutes it took to reach the official beginning after they started the clock, minus 25 minutes or so for bathroom breaks, we finished in a little under the four hours I predicted. And I think I'm only slightly worse for wear, thanks to some quality stretching and the massage we scheduled for afterward.
My Tiffany necklace is lovely, by the way, but not so lovely as the tuxedoed gent who handed it to me on a silver platter just past the finish line. I guess I take it back—The Woman must have been Chief Planner after all.
October 22, 2005
Run like a girl
Eight hours and counting until we leave for the Nike Women's Marathon. At 7 a.m. tomorrow in the dark, foggy San Francisco streets, Amy and Miss Mobtown and I will start our half marathon trek all over the city. Along with about 15,000 other ladies, they say. A fine way to spend a Sunday.
We went to Union Square this afternoon to pick up our race packets, mini Luna Bars, official shirts, pace bracelets, and everything else a gal might need to run herself ragged. Or, you know, walk herself. Can you imagine running for five hours straight? My legs would revolt and annex themselves from the rest of my body. But they should be able to handle 13 miles or so at a rapid stroll, if that final .1 doesn't put them over the edge.
Why all-female events rule: We get a finisher's necklace by Tiffany (presumably their budget athletic gem line), and there are at least two chocolate stands along the race route. Plus Jamba Juice.
Jamba Juice is worth the pain.
We went to Union Square this afternoon to pick up our race packets, mini Luna Bars, official shirts, pace bracelets, and everything else a gal might need to run herself ragged. Or, you know, walk herself. Can you imagine running for five hours straight? My legs would revolt and annex themselves from the rest of my body. But they should be able to handle 13 miles or so at a rapid stroll, if that final .1 doesn't put them over the edge.
Why all-female events rule: We get a finisher's necklace by Tiffany (presumably their budget athletic gem line), and there are at least two chocolate stands along the race route. Plus Jamba Juice.
Jamba Juice is worth the pain.
October 20, 2005
Cuppa
Here's the thing: White tea is the new green tea. At least, I think so. And remember, I'm half English, so I know.
Although I actually refused to drink tea until college. Black tea never did much for me tastewise—still doesn't—and I was a rabid coffee drinker from my überstressful prep school days through a few years ago. By rabid I mean a cup or so a day. But I never branched out into tea, especially herbals, except when visiting my wee Yorkshire grandma and other family members who constantly offer me "a hot drink." You want another hot drink? And then we can peel you off the ceiling at like 3 a.m.?
But during winter exams my sophomore year of college, a woman in my dorm who briefly dated my next-door neighbor stopped by to say hi. I growled at her from my dank, dark lair of essay composition. She brought me a big plastic travel mug of Tension Tamer tea with honey. It was glorious.
Now I drink it all the time. It's my panacea for any sign of illness, tension, sadness, and midafternoon. And I recently discovered that white tea is the bomb, because it has about the same amount of caffeine as green tea—so I can have a cup each morning and maybe even another half of one in the afternoon, and still get to sleep at night. But unlike green tea, which can be bitter and tends to complement food, white tea has a gentle, refreshing, nonblacktea flavor that's best enjoyed unadorned and unaccompanied.
You put on the kettle, luv. We'll have a nice hot drink.
Although I actually refused to drink tea until college. Black tea never did much for me tastewise—still doesn't—and I was a rabid coffee drinker from my überstressful prep school days through a few years ago. By rabid I mean a cup or so a day. But I never branched out into tea, especially herbals, except when visiting my wee Yorkshire grandma and other family members who constantly offer me "a hot drink." You want another hot drink? And then we can peel you off the ceiling at like 3 a.m.?
But during winter exams my sophomore year of college, a woman in my dorm who briefly dated my next-door neighbor stopped by to say hi. I growled at her from my dank, dark lair of essay composition. She brought me a big plastic travel mug of Tension Tamer tea with honey. It was glorious.
Now I drink it all the time. It's my panacea for any sign of illness, tension, sadness, and midafternoon. And I recently discovered that white tea is the bomb, because it has about the same amount of caffeine as green tea—so I can have a cup each morning and maybe even another half of one in the afternoon, and still get to sleep at night. But unlike green tea, which can be bitter and tends to complement food, white tea has a gentle, refreshing, nonblacktea flavor that's best enjoyed unadorned and unaccompanied.
You put on the kettle, luv. We'll have a nice hot drink.
October 18, 2005
Cherchez la femme
Is it just me, or are we all mystified about why the government—thanks to everybody's favorite evasion tactic, "executive privilege"—is allowed to withhold information on a supreme court nominee's background? And why the nominee herself seems to be almost proud (see paragraph three of the article) of the fact that nobody knows her opinions on anything?
Call me a bleeding-heart anti-family-values leftist tree-hugging commie, but that seems to run exactly counter to common sense. She's up for a lifetime post on the highest court in the nation. Her opinions on various issues are quite likely, then, to become laws. Laws. You know, the permanent kind that govern every element of our daily lives, including whether or not we have babies. So...it strikes me as reasonable to want to know what she's all about.
Tsk, tsk. Commoners shouldn't ask too many questions, I know. But I'm a little riled up about this one.
Call me a bleeding-heart anti-family-values leftist tree-hugging commie, but that seems to run exactly counter to common sense. She's up for a lifetime post on the highest court in the nation. Her opinions on various issues are quite likely, then, to become laws. Laws. You know, the permanent kind that govern every element of our daily lives, including whether or not we have babies. So...it strikes me as reasonable to want to know what she's all about.
Tsk, tsk. Commoners shouldn't ask too many questions, I know. But I'm a little riled up about this one.
October 16, 2005
No trains coming
I was too traumatized by my epic trip home from the city last weekend to make it to many Litquake events this year, despite the stellar lineup. But I did BART on over Friday night for the Underbelly of the City reading at the venerable Ha-Ra Club. Some overheard snippets for your noirish pleasure:
"I know the human heart is rotten."
"His first 48 hours out of the penitentiary had been a hassle."
"Her eyes were like tunnels—no trains coming."
"He couldn't remember the last time they embraced without a bruise."
"You may be a war hero, but there are people in North Beach who hate me."
"The strangers in me are unreliable. They are often drunk, and they don't look out for each other."
"She was a pretty, short, strong, ample woman."
Noirrrrrrrrrrr.
"I know the human heart is rotten."
"His first 48 hours out of the penitentiary had been a hassle."
"Her eyes were like tunnels—no trains coming."
"He couldn't remember the last time they embraced without a bruise."
"You may be a war hero, but there are people in North Beach who hate me."
"The strangers in me are unreliable. They are often drunk, and they don't look out for each other."
"She was a pretty, short, strong, ample woman."
Noirrrrrrrrrrr.
October 15, 2005
Pescavacutarian
Remember my scary Martha Stewart moment when I got those new couch pillows? Well, excuse me, but I'm having another one.
After tormenting myself for a while by trying to clean my carpeted stairs with the giant free vacuum I inherited when my dad last moved, I decided to go for the yuppie upgrade and order one of those wee handi-vacs. It arrived promptly and proceeded to sit in its box in my bedroom for about six weeks. Anyone out there who thinks I'm freakishly clean can just chew on that for a while.
But today, I discovered I'm the proud owner of the cutest little vacuum Martha and her demented cohorts can imagine. It's shaped like a fish! For real. It has silver bumps for eyes, a gill-like fan on each side, and a mouth-shaped opening where you insert the useful gadgets that do things like clean that annoying crease between the stairs where all the hair I shed goes to hide.
After it gets the job done, my new vacuum looks up with a big fish smile and its chin covered in dust, like a naughty kid you just caught eating big honking spoonfuls of peanut butter right out of the jar.
It's so cute. I love it. Please come by and walk all over my stairs so I get to use it again.
After tormenting myself for a while by trying to clean my carpeted stairs with the giant free vacuum I inherited when my dad last moved, I decided to go for the yuppie upgrade and order one of those wee handi-vacs. It arrived promptly and proceeded to sit in its box in my bedroom for about six weeks. Anyone out there who thinks I'm freakishly clean can just chew on that for a while.
But today, I discovered I'm the proud owner of the cutest little vacuum Martha and her demented cohorts can imagine. It's shaped like a fish! For real. It has silver bumps for eyes, a gill-like fan on each side, and a mouth-shaped opening where you insert the useful gadgets that do things like clean that annoying crease between the stairs where all the hair I shed goes to hide.
After it gets the job done, my new vacuum looks up with a big fish smile and its chin covered in dust, like a naughty kid you just caught eating big honking spoonfuls of peanut butter right out of the jar.
It's so cute. I love it. Please come by and walk all over my stairs so I get to use it again.
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