So Katy’s mom (that’s Katy in the middle), who’s friends with my mom, who I’ve known for about forever, just sent me an article about her fabulous daughter and her ultra-cool band The Jolenes.

I dare you to listen to “Ice Cream” and then not buy their new cd. Go ahead, try it, I totally dare you! They’re like pop rocks candy — all sugary spunk and fireworks, plus look how cute they are!

Btw, I think it’s funny that totally cool, rock-pop, chick hipsters have moms! Moms who send people their articles and work at engineering firms with my mom, and live in the same small town I lived. Which means rock star Katy and I went to the same high school, ate in the same cafeteria, went to the same lame dances, had Mr. Sandoz for Driver’s Ed.

Anyway … Check them out now … funk, soul, rubber …

Match the first lines to the books from which they came (listed out of order below), email your brillliance to me, here, and win a signed first edition of this. May your fleece be white as snow.

1. “It was always with Sarah this way and that way all over the place, or maybe I never saw enough to understand.”
2. “Once I was young and had so much more orientation and could talk with nervous intelligence about everything and with clarity and without as much literary preambling as this …”
3. “Exactly when and where was the poet conceived?”
4. “Let the reader be introduced to Lady Carbury, upon whose character and doings much will depend of whatever interest these pages may have, as she sits at her writing-table in her own room in her own house in Welbeck Street.”
5. “Lily heard the shot at seventeen minutes to one.”

[The Way We Live Now, Anthony Trollope; Life is Elsewhere, Milan Kundera; Run River, Joan Didion; Maybe, Lillian Hellman; The Subterraneans, Jack Kerouac]

[Note: All resemblance to actual dinners served last night, and actual comments made on them are purely coincidental. I.e., note to A.: it didn't really go down like this. I seriously was tired last night! It had nothing to do with the parsley, just gave me the idea.]

She didn’t want to care; she loathed herself for caring.

“What do you think?” She said it quickly, whaddoyouthink, off-handedly, she hoped. She made sure she was looking down, the paper in front of her, so he would think it absent-minded like talk of the weather. She hated herself for having to ask, for caring, she hated Howard for making her ask.

There was one tick; one tick too much, she could count it, tick – before he answered. It’s good,” he said. Dammit. “It tastes like parsley.” Parsley, the pause. The night was done.

The recipe had said this — said it exactly, these exact words — scallops, a hint of lemon, tossed with pasta, a perfect summer meal!  Exclamation and all. (The recipe had, in fact, promised the parsley would lighten the traditional pesto, a detail Ellen took note of, considered a clever thing, a teaser; a coy twist that would pay off. Umm, what is that flavor? It’s different, I can’t quite place it)

Shed even copied the photo, put the pasta in the colorful bowl, garnished it with basil sprigs from the herb garden. The one they’d given her for her birthday. The one they’d all lost interest in once the leaves started to curl, showing ragged little holes. Fuck all of it, Ellen thought. She hated the newspaper, she hated the Tuesday recipes, she hated Betty Rosebottom with her quick summer meals and exclamations. She hated the photographer who’d gone to such great effort; whose own wife surely served pasta in colorful bowls that did not go unnoticed.

She would not withdraw yet, she couldn’t, it was too close to the reply, to the remark on the parsley. She would be exposed; he’d think her needy. And then with strained and saintly patience he’d recite a myriad of other dishes he loved, she couldn’t bear it. He couldn’t be faulted, after all, for tripping clumsily through her invisible course. And she couldn’t be faulted for leaning so desperately toward his approval. Just as an observer couldn’t be faulted for thinking it pathetic, the whole thing.

No, she’d shut down gradually, she’d claim a headache, she’d go upstairs within the hour. She’d refuse him sex in subtle ways that he wouldn’t mistake; the worn nightgown and colored tube socks; a weighty book opened up to the middle and balanced on her chest.

Don’t forget first-line Thursday tomorrow! First one to match up the first lines with their books and email them in wins. Last week Helen from New York won a blender (on its way, check your mailbox!) Tomorrow’s winner gets a signed first edition of this timeless masterpiece.

Meanwhile, does anyone know if Barbara Walters boinked Castro? No prize for the answer, just wondering. And also please direct your attention to Richard’s insightful comment on the last post proclaiming my brilliance. More tk.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

(Oh, one more thing. I love everything about these guys — their name, the concept, the excellent writers they find. I subscribed then forgot to pay, I think, because I only got a couple issues … but my e-letter came today plugging one of their writers, and it reminded me why I love them and also why you, too, should send them a check to get your own neatly-bound individual short story in the mailbox each month.)

  My brilliant writing cohort Mark, sent his summer reading list, finally. Read the whole thing, it’s delightful, but first allow me to spoil the ending … my favorite.

“I will resist reading anything in Oprah’s Book Club, even if she returns to recommending classics that had previously done quite well for many years without being anointed, thank you very much (sorry, Elie).

But I’ll make an exception when she picks yours.”

(Okay, here’s the rest.)

My Summer Reading List

Considering how relentlessly literacy was pushed at me as a child, it’s surprising I am willing now to read anything more elaborate than the backs of cereal boxes. I was by nature an enthusiastic reader, but this was deemed insufficient. It started in fourth grade, with the book reports. I loved books; I hated book reports. I suppose that having kids write book reports was to engender a love of reading, to teach the skill of writing, and to develop critical thinking, but in my case it failed in all three.

The main objective was to encourage kids to read, or at least force them to. I didn’t need any prodding; I read for my own enjoyment. But the prospect that every book I read might require a flurry of follow-up paperwork was almost a disincentive.

As far as teaching writing and critical skills, forget it. There was a stupid formula you had to follow: “Did any of the characters change in some way?” “Explain how a character confronted and solved a problem.” “What lessons did you learn from the story?” Finally, you had to wrap the whole thing up with cheery dust-jacket-suitable copy and a cliffhanger: “I really liked this book. Will Huck find his father? Will slavery be abolished? Read the book and find out!”

This tidy format seemed to not apply to the books I read. In the stories I read, things tended to start out badly, and then get worse. The characters learn nothing. In the end some planet explodes or everybody dies and a million years later space travelers arrive and scratch their heads (or whatever) and try without success to figure out what happened.

With some of the more competitive kids and parents, a book-reports arms race was on. You were expected to turn in a minimum number of book reports each school year. I rigorously adhered to this limit. (The word “slacker” was not in widespread use in 1964, but you get the idea.) Other kids did not.

“You read lots of books, why don’t you write more book reports?” asked my mom. “Barbara Smith [her real name] turned in 40 book reports.”

“We only have to do eight.”

“But don’t you want your teachers to know about all the books you read?”

“If they’re so damn interested, they can read the books themselves,” I said. (I had started to read books in which characters talked this way.)

Barbara Smith ended up as high-school Valedictorian and went to Harvard Medical School. At college, I almost flunked out of English Literature and had to beg the professor to let me drop the course.

Thus I developed a simplistic, literal-minded approach to literature. I read mostly to be informed or entertained: what is a book, anyway, but TV without the sound and picture? But at least my education didn’t make me a complete illiterate.

Herewith, my Summer Reading List: (after the jump)

more »

Meghan Daum writes about Nebraska, plus Batwoman is a lesbian.

Julia Stiles is all set to make The Bell Jar a movie

Owen Wilson: funny, cute plus reads Graham Greene.

Francine Prose writes about reading, like a writer. “… it’s like Harold Bloom, but written by and for human beings.”

Sigh. And I am bored. That’s all. If you have boredom remedies, send them to me here. Hurry, pa-leeee-eze!

I came down to my office tonight to work and blew it off to hear KISS.  Shannon who owns the coffee shop across the street, started taking drum lessons last fall and then put together a band (my neighbor Julie is lead vocal; the bass player is ten years old).

She has a big garage door that opens onto the street so anyone driving by, or sitting in my office, gets a free show. She’s also a Kiss freak, so the rule is all Kiss songs. Kiss. You know .. Those feisty little kids who knocked out timeless classics like, ”Let’s Put the X in Sex” and “Lick It Up”. Big shoes, long tongues, heavy makeup …

Anyway, two things about this. First, an Australian artist named Brett Whitely said “art is the thrilling spark that beats death – that’s all.” Isn’t it though? I mean we middle-classers pretty much take the same route: eat, grow up, marry, have babies, work work work, retire, die. Just like ants. It’s a bore sometimes — maybe most of the time — but then, all it takes is a song, a dance … a movie/play/good book to thrill us a little, let us connect with something bigger than our own flimsy plights.

So these girls are doing this band and helping me beat death in my hum-drum little town. There are days I am catatonic from the buzzing. The quiet boredom buzz. The kind only dogs and anxious housewives can hear. The kind that drove one woman mad from staring at the wallpaper. The kind that makes me desperate for someone to scream, or curse, or cry or dance or throw up, anything! I drive to Safeway, I drive home, I drive to the Y, I drive home. I drive to Albertson’s sometimes to break it up. It’s lethal.

But now all of a sudden I’ve got this music through my open window. Art for art’s sake. L’art pour l’art.

Oh yeah, second: Henry Matisse said “creativity takes courage.” Uh, yeah it does! It takes huge courage. I don’t know the ten-year-old bass player’s name, or the guy on guitar, but I know Shannon and Julie and I think they’re brave and beautiful and talented and cool and here’s to their sparkling creativity.

Their first gig is at Old Town Coffee Station on Pine Street, July 29. Sherwood, Oregon. Show up or B Square.

… It is the headline, literally … of this Harper’s collection of letters written by employees of a New Jersey adult shop to a group of Iraqi women.  The letters accompanied special toys the store employees picked out for the women.  Here’s one:

Howdy from NJ!

Hello.  I’d like you to know I personally selected the enclosed vibrator for you.

We have never met and I don’t know anything about you, but I do know the enclosed vibrator is very popular with women in the 21-35 age bracket …

I hope that when you use this vibrator you realize that Americans do not hate you or your country.  We are a kind and loving people who just want everyone to live freely and without oppression.

Live long and prosper.

These two nuggets from Powell’s were too good to pass up.  (Penes, btw, one of two plural options for the male private part):

• Woman freaks out when a billion snakes slither out of her car.

• Ummmm, and a birthday gift for your single guy friends.  (Dude, check out the “You Might Also Likes” on that page!)

[And Rosie haiku-blogs about my in-law.  It's totally cute!]

  … as in Junk in my inbox.  Payday loans, foreclosure listings, HoodiaHoodiaHoodia … coffee – why are they spamming me to buy coffee?  The Elvis Presley Visa, Dyson vacuums, Polarized sunglasses, Groceries For a Year, Waterless Car Wash in a Can, Meet Black Singles, Big Beautiful Women Find Love …

Claire Zulkey has a great half-interview with Michael Pollan today, author of The Omnivore’s Dilemma and Botany of Desire.  (Btw, Claire Zulkey has great interviews every Friday, every single one!  Check out her archives.) 

I’ve been meaning to read Omnivore’s Dilemma, but keep forgetting about it.  I just checked for it on-line at my library — 151 holds!   I know, I know, buy the book.  I’m all about buy they book, trust me, but I can’t buy every single one!

However, rather than wait through 151 other, I’m sure much slower, readers, I’ll probably pick this one up.  I skipped Fast Food Nation (I skip most books that might ask me to change … I’m busy!) but I’ve had my eye on this one.  It looks like a good read — both for Pollan’s straightforward writing style and what he reveals about our lack of creativity.  From the Washington Post review:

“Oil underlines Pollan’s story about agribusiness, but corn is its focus.  American cattle fatten on corn.  Corn also feeds poultry, pigs and sheep, even farmed fish.  But that’s just the beginning.  In addition to dairy products from corn-fed cows and eggs from corn-fed chickens, corn starch, corn oil and corn syrup make up key ingredients in prepared foods.  High-fructose corn syrup sweetens everything from juice to toothpaste.  Even the alcohol in beer is corn-based.  Corn is in everything from frozen yogurt to ketchup, from mayonnaise and mustard to hot dogs and bologna, from salad dressings to vitamin pills.  “Tell me what you eat,” said the French gastronomist Anthelme Brillat-Savarin, “and I will tell you what you are.”  We are corn.”

Vitamins??  Seriously?  Crap.  Watch the Michael Pollan clip on Bill Maher’s Amazon Fishbowl. Asks Maher, “tell us how evil corn is.”  Says Pollan, “we are the corniest people on earth.”  Meanwhile, I am freaking out because I just sent the kids with Michelle to McDonald’s, the corn dungeon!  Bad mom, Bad mom!