It's Complicated

Finally the curse has been lifted and I have read some books that have nothing to do with work. Yea!
Life With My Sister Madonna by Christopher Ciccone with Wendy Leigh.
Oh, to be Madonna's pet brother. Seems like a shitty job, but class, who wants a shitty job? Shitty people do! Give them a life they were never intended to lead, a pen, some paper, and a ghostwriter (is that you Madonna?), and you have a hilarious, sad, gossipy, petulant, occassionaly enlightened rag of a book. Like this one, for instance.

Life With My Sister Madonna is not a terribly difficult book to read; I read it in under 24 hours. The author does, however, provide some insight into a strange filial relationship based on the common responses most people have toward their siblings: love, hate, jealousy, pride, spite, indifference. But this man happens to be the brother of Madonna and she apparently drives him mad-and doesn't care! He is humiliated to be in her shadow yet he craves her presence. He is innocent where she is damned. She leeches his creativity and then abandons him. Madonna is a tyrant? Get out!

I would be more inclined to empathize with Christopher Ciccone if he didn't whine quite so often, or demand so much from his sister. He loves her lifestyle-houses, parties, celebrities-but he wants her to pay his way. He is jealous of her lovers, husbands, and friends yet his own possessiveness of her is perfectly legitimate. Madonna, for her part, doesn't really treat him as an equal or as family or as a friend-she's controlling, manipulative and nasty to him. At the same time, there is something endearing about it all; they are family after all. However strange and creepy his affection for her manifests itself, or however much she is blinded by her ego, Christopher is protective and kind and human towards her. Good for a snapshot of a unique American family.

The Children of Men by P.D. James. This book was published in 1992 and was recently made into a movie starring Clive Owen and Julianne Moore. I remember the trailer and thinking, "Blah. Another futuristic/Euro/crime/action film. Never seen that before." The book features all of these labels but it is soooo much better (and radically different) than that trailer appeared to be.

The story begins with Omega, the end of times. There has been a mass infertility epidemic in men across the globe, the last generation to be born are now in their twenties, and Humanity is dying a slow and certain death. Our narrator and unlikely hero is an Oxford professor of History and our setting is England 2021. Through his quiet acquiescence, his calm reasoning and stoic pity we are guided through the pathetic and meaningless last days of our species but there is a catch. He is also the cousin of the "Warden of England" who as the most powerful man in England is the keeper of peace, security, and is the embodiment of rational government. The Warden also keeps a tight reign on the number of the elderly, criminals, and potentially fertile citizens. See if you can guess where this is going. You might be right, but then you might be surprised how this story unfolds. Trust me, it's never boring and the ending is killer. Good for civil conspiracy fun.

Beauty and the Beast

I have had, as of late, a difficult time finding a book to read. I have tried everything but nothing suits me. I can only place the fault on the last book I read.
I chose Pigtopia by Kitty Fitzgerald by pure circumstance; I liked the cover illustration. I read this short work of fiction because I had to (stuck on the airplane/at the airport). Pigtopia is the story a deformed man and teenage girl, their unlikely friendship, their even more unlikely crime, and of his death. Jack Plum, the freak, bears a likeness and connection to swine which causes him to pig-speak and pig-think the world. Holly, the girl, is prudish, selfish, experimental and vain. They meet because of his love and her curiosity but this isn't a love story. There is a terrible Mother, an absent Mother, and very bad friends for this pair to contend with, along, of course, with pigs.

Caught as I was, I had to finish the story and now it's been over 30 days without another book of any satisfaction. Jack and Holly commit one of the most shocking acts I've read in a long time, and I am too sensitive to ugliness for my own good. Good for judging books by their covers.

The Summer Reading Begins

Now is a very good time for some innocent escapism...it is hot and muggy outside, my children are pushing their boundaries again, and there is nothing on the boob tube. Let's jump in:

All the Available Light: a Marilyn Monroe Reader, edited by Yona Zeldis McDonough. This isn't another biography of Marilyn, rather a collection of essays from a varied group of authors who attempt to define the why of Norma Jean's enigma. Needless to say, I think Marilyn is an interesting choice of a national sex symbol in a country that flatly denies Sex a brain or heart and apparently I'm not the only one. I think I liked Gloria Steinem's The Woman Who Will Not Die the best of the clinical examinations; she was frank in her personal response to Monroe and bold in her judgement assessments. Sir Lawrence Olivier's The Prince and the Showgirl did quite well in explaining his (male) baffled response to her humanity in contrast to her iconography. The essays, like our collective conscience, range from lust to outrage, from dreams of rescue to shrugs of irreverence and brings us back where we began: looking at the American Mona Lisa and wondering why she smiles. Good for Marilyn.

A Cup of Tea, by Amy Ephron, is a frilly bit of old lace stained with blood. This little book, a study of class and passions, is set in WWI era New York. The story, staging, and characters comes across as old fashioned, but appropriately so, and modernity assumes the villains' robes. The main character, Rosemary, is a flip society girl whom on a whim rescues a homeless women from the street, a homeless woman who is beautiful and mysterious and independent-everything Rosemary is not. Of course her fiance falls for this woman and has a passionate affair with her, but marries Rosemary and leaves for the war anyway. What happens between this point in the novel and the conclusion is where Modern and Victorian standards clash, and the ending shouldn't be too hard to swallow for anyone familiar with melodrama. A Cup of Tea is a slight read, but the period details are well done and I liked it's skimming nature. Good for corseted flight.

Last, and the most enjoyed, is Nectar: A Novel of Temptation by Lily Prior. It is an extremely effusive, funny and lush tale about an albino woman and the irresistible smell she emanates. As it is set in Italy, there is much sex, food, weeping, singing, beauty, ugliness, praying and slapping of faces in operatic grandeur. Prior's characters are so ridiculous, and the scenes in which they are set are so ravishing that I was completely thrown off base with every chapter. True, it was a little exhausting, the line between satire and stereotype was crossed once or twice, and I did not love the characters at all, but it was a very amusing story. It was like drinking wine with diamonds in the glass in a field of honeysuckle while George Clooney sucks your toes. Good for being very naughty and very nice.

Born Taking a Nap

I used to think that Steve Martin was really, really funny. It's not in your face, farts-n-barf, let's laugh at the drunk/woman/handicapped fare that's making the rounds today, but it's still pretty good.
Funny, yeah? So when did Steve turn into a boring old man? I think it was around here somewhere:
That's the biggest laugh of the whole film, Bowfinger. A film he wrote. He also wrote an autobiographical novel, Born Standing Up, in which he recounts his rise and fall as a stand up comedian. Here are the not so funny nuts and bolts of making a comedy genius: he is a boy, he is a young man, he is an old man. Ha ha ha. I couldn't read it all, to be honest. I found other things to be more important, like searching for coins in the depths of the couch so that I could buy Bratz tattoos at Wal-Mart. My supply had run terribly low. Good for sleepy times.

A little while ago, at a dinner party, a friend of mine asked me if I had read Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert yet. I said no, she said you must, and I have now read it. Was my time wisely spent? Will I see the film version of it starring the beautiful Julia Roberts? Did I even get to pray, or love? No. I wanted to like this book, a memoir of a woman's' journey of self discovery in Italy, Indonesia and India wherein she follows the dictum's of the title in order. All I came away with was a more fervent fear of age and wisdom. Gone is ignorance! Farewell impulse! Woe the day! Good for for most, excluding me.

Ex Libres

Ah, books. Let's get started, shall we?
Tom Cruise: the Unauthorized Biography, by Andrew Morton, isn't a bad read. For all of the shoutin' you'd think there would be a fire, but you would be wrong. By all accounts, Mr. Cruise is a man. An extraordinary man, perhaps, but just a man. Tommy comes off as any actor you might have met before: somewhat devoid of personality, needy, afraid to be alone. I got the sense that Tom Cruise found a formula and stuck with it, be it relationships, work, family, his own persona, etc. Who hasn't done this? Granted I lack his egomania, his tireless ambition, and his religion, which is a little on the crazy side.
Andrew Morton is apparently in hiding after publishing this book; I can only assume it's because he will go on an on about Scientology. As the real villain of the piece Scientology looms behind every decision in Tom's life, scheming diabolically while twirling it's mustache. There are many, many claims about this "cult"( Tom Cruise can move things with his mind!?!). I can't say with any surety that this religion has committed the scary, oppressive, very, very wrong actions Morton has accused it of because the author has a rather tarnished reputation himself. What I can surmise, however, is that Tom Cruise likes control and playing pretend and Scientology is all about those things. This is a biography that sketches out a bizarre, often hilarious/pitiful life. Good for incredulous voyeurism.

If I know anything about China, it's that the Chinese are absolute traditionalists-so far as any one thing can be applied to a mulitude. Many novels seek to display the tug of war between duty and identity set in China (see Tan, Amy), but this one has a little twist. Snowflower and the Secret Fan, by Lisa See, is about the lifelong relationship harbored by two women, Snowflower and Lily, in Imperial China. Lily is a poor but compliant and Snowflower is willful and spoiled; their respective circumstances change in the course of the novel. Together they endure foot binding (this is a wonderfully painful passage to read-yikes), contracting husbands, new families, babies, rebellion and at last old age and death but they do so primarily through a secret language used by females called nu shu (the girls write passages on a fan that they share). As the reader, you are inundated by the mundane aspects of their lives; the feminine labors of house and family are exotic yet rote. It's the traditions and expectations of that bind the girls (particularly filial obligations) and bring out their character. Lily, our narrator, subjugates herself to conventions and eventually loses herself in them. Snowflower, less inclined towards custom and made of stronger stuff, seeks nothing but friendship and companionship. Of course you know what happens, but it's a good and satisfying read nonetheless. Good for instruction.

Gunns, Germs, and Steel

It is not a secret that a good man is hard to find. Let it be said that Tim Gunn is a good man. He, along with Kate Moloney, has published Tim Gunn: A Guide to Quality, Taste and Style, an exquisitely stylish yet practical how-to tome. There is effusive language, dishy asides, and an immaculate collection of must haves. The authors speak to the reader not as one addresses a wayward, unenlightened child but as one speaks to a flower yet to blossom. That's right, this book will have you making such analogies as you type in your ballet flats, charcoal slacks and blouson top. I can't recommend it more; if you like him on PR or if you were fortunate enough to catch his own show (Tim! Loved the Magic Closet!!), then you should do yourself the favor of reading his book. Good for delightful, chic instruction.

I am Madame X, by Gioia Diliberto, is germinated in the identity behind of one of Art's more enduring portraits. It's set in Paris, bien sur, and the lady in question is a questionable lady. She's an American, penniless, beautiful and yet somehow (here's the metaphoric wink wink) she captures the heart of powerful men, becomes a fixture of high society, and sits for the talented but difficult John Singer Sargent. Diliberto is an adequate writer, her stage is filled with enough Parisian grandeur and pomp for most appetites. Her characters fall a little flat, however. Her Madame X is somewhat listless and boring if not beautiful; her life's work, little domestic details such as parties and lovers, alternate between voyeuristic and offhand objectivity. If the questions of beauty, morality, and identity are going to be asked from someone with a famously doubtful character, why not plump up her failures or successes instead of relying on her ennui? Good for beaches, or rainy afternoons.

Pearl S. Buck can rightfully take her place in the pantheon of American writers. She is confident, spare, and compassionate. I loved the Good Earth, and so I read The Mother thinking I would have more of the same. I did. It took some time settling into her prose which comes off stiff and old fashioned; the characters speak as though they lived in Jolly Olde pre-revolutionary China. This is a minor complaint, though. The Mother (we never discover her name) is a loving sketch of a woman, abandoned by her pretty and selfish husband, who must take up the mantle of responsibility for her children. She changes as she does so, becoming less a soft girl and more of a steely woman even as her interior girl pops up now and again to wreck havoc. The Mother falls into various traps as she struggles with her difficult circumstances, and like all Buck books there is an unexpected plot twist that levels the playing ground for all of the characters. Good when one needs substance, or a book report for Comp.

The Bookseller

When they were younger, my parents had a variety of kooky money making schemes. There was the construction company that my dad ran; good for the family larder, not so great for quality dad time as dad was never home. Also under this heading: my mom as full time career gal. Good for Rosie the Riveter morale, but bad for parental patience when the father figure is absent (see above). Then there was the dad as college student poverty days, dad as cattleman/child labor boss, dad as a high school art teacher who could finally bond with children even if they were not his own. Ah, childhood. My favorite, as well as the briefest of these episodes, was the bookstore. My parents are bookphiles, a good and great thing for people to be. I am one myself.
It is difficult for second hand booksellers to make a profit, a lesson as a family we learned first hand. Books are lovable but not bankable. Knowing this as I do, I cherish the independent bookseller. I'll choose a preowned book before a new one, simply because I know of the struggle people endure just to open the doors to business. I do not, however, like this feeling of loyalty to be taken advantage of. Point in case, Gardners. One million books! An acre of store space! Eccentric employees! This is literally an emporium of used books. Everything under the sun can be found here if one is diligent in their search, and I am nothing if not ruthless in my quest for an exceptional personal library.
Today my library may shed a tear because today I was ripped off by Gardners. I was overcharged for the last time today ($8.95 for a chewed up copy of the Tao te Ching. Shameless!). I have carried the cross of affection too long for this store, arguably the best and certainly the largest of its kind in Tulsa. I am overcharged every time I go in there. I don't mind a little padding because (see above) I love books, but come on! Enough already. Damn it. This means I'll have to start buying new books, which means less books. What does the Tao say to comfort me in my distress?
Men are born soft and supple; dead, they are stiff and hard. Plants are born tender and pliant; dead, they are brittle and dry. Thus whomever is still and inflexible is a disciple of death. Whoever is soft and yielding is a disciple of life. The hard and still will be broken. The soft and supple will prevail.

The Bluest Eye

Have you ever seen a Devil's Claw? According to Wikipedia, "Harpagophytum procumbens, most commonly Devil's Claw, is a plant of the sesame family, native to South Africa. It got its name from the peculiar appearance of its hooked fruit....Devil's claw can be used externally to treat sores, ulcers, boils and skin lesions."

I only bring up the devil's claw because it grows wild where I grew up; now and again my sisters and I would be walking along a cow path in the pastures and one would be clinging to our socks unbeknownst to us. They're ugly as hell, and tough to extract from footwear, but we kept them nevertheless in mason jars or ziplock bags once we got home again. The devil's claw has a powerful form and is a wonder to behold, for all it's ugliness. The Bluest Eye is like that.

Now, as a white person, I was a little put off by the insistent, pervasive, and hateful attitude of the characters toward my my kind. I was not, on the other hand, surprised by it. I suppose I'll never never be black in this life thusly I'll never, as Obama's minister so eloquently put it, be called a nigger. Even so, I am in possession of an imagination, and rage is good to purge. Like vomit, or enlightenment, a bowel movement, an orgasm, or the tiniest bubble of epiphany this book gives, and gives, and gives some more. Until the end. Then the dear little being who wants the bluest of all eyes is destroyed. Like a pig to slaughter. Ah, I know this happens everyday, but it's rarely this well done. The author is a custodian, a medium; how else can it be done? Surely this work isn't hers. People don't choose difficult, albeit honorific, journeys like this do they?

It's funny that you find those old devil's claws after they find you. Now and again I'll read this book just like now and again I'd look at those twisted black roots. I shook them out of their confinement on really windy days just to watch them sail back into the prairie. I'll likely take this book to my bookseller in the end. They were never mine, you know?

The Namesake and the Good Body

I stumbled upon The Namesake after watching the trailer of the adaptation by Miss Mira Nair. I think it was before Once: a good movie incidentally. The winner of the Pulitzer Prize, this novel centers on a Bengali family as they adapt, in two generations, to American Life. Reading this novel I am reminded of John Updike; the Rabbit books or maybe S. Clear, erudite and objective, the book offers a glimpse into a world I've seen but never engaged in. The author sculpts her people carefully and slowly and I am curious to see how she concludes their stories. As for the film, I love Nair's palette. Vanity Fair was beautiful and thoughtful, and it gave poor Becky Sharp a little heart.
I found the Good Body completely by accident. The cover alone sold me, as I am a sucker for good humored references to the female form. It is a short book about the authors obsession with her body and other women who attempt to guide her to acceptance. Eve Ensler is best known for her Vagina Monologues and for sitting next to Jane Fonda when the actress said "cunt" on national television. I've never seen the Vagina Monologues. This little text is delightful in it's willingness to dish on our (female) bodies and how we (women) deal with it across the world. It's spirit is kind.

White Oleander

Better late than never!
White Oleander is a really good book. I confess I saw it on Lifetime TV, and I never watch Lifetime, but I suppose the odds were in their favor to show something that wasn't humiliating their viewers. and there it was. I miss Michelle Pfieffer. She was everywhere in the 80's-mid 90's and then poof-gone. The girl who played the lead was good too, but I'm not familiar with her.
The book is so pretty and sad. I love it when authors use sensory adjectives and this one is rife with them. I loved the desires and failures of the mother and daughter, how the writer framed their separation, and how she left everything open at the end. I want to read it again because I read it in two days and it deserves something besides a binge, but I'll wait a month or two until it's spring and I can read outside. I wonder if oleanders will grow in Oklahoma?

The Golden Compass

I will be honest and state that I never heard of this book before someone forwarded me an email warning me to safeguard my children against the film version. All I gathered from this little epistle was that Hollywood is corruptive, evil, and that somehow the devil had his hand in this business. I can't describe how disappointed I was in my friend for being so narrow minded and believing that I would likewise share her opinion. So many people are absolutely rabid when it comes to a perceived threat against their faith. I am rabid when I perceive a threat against my freedom from faith.
I was born here and raised here in the Christian faith (a Baptist, no less) but I have found that organized religion, any organized religion, is inherently flawed. Religions are just too human. Why would God or Goddess or whomever is in control (should such a thing exist) hold us in such high esteem? I do not believe that we humans are good or bad any more than I think of sparrows as good or bad. I don't know what happens after we die, nor where we came from before we were born. But to ask me to consider the dictates of one groups' interpretation over another in regard to a Divine Figure whose will can never be seen, heard, felt, or understood is asking too much of me.
By the by, the book is intelligent and well written. I haven't finished it yet, but I am engaged by it. You can go to the Golden Compass website and "find" your daemon (the physical manifestation of the soul). My daemon is an ocelot. Meow.

Contextualizing Context

I'm enjoying George Trow's Within the Context of No Context although it is not the walk in the park I thought it would be. I do like the way he creeps up on the subject as though it was a wild animal, which is fitting. American culture can be so difficult to pin down. It's not as though we as Americans are invited to consider ourselves to be joined in a unified identity. The institution of rights or freedom begs disparateness. There are exceptions, of course. War unifies Americans very quickly if only for a moment. Joy in triumph, because Americans like to win. But our culture? Trow is either right or wrong on this one, but I can't judge him just yet.
Some favorite quotes thus far:
The most successful celebrities are products. Consider the real role in American life of Coca Cola. Is any man as well loved as this soft drink is?

The message of many things in America is "Like this or die". It is a strain.