Showing posts with label popular culture. Show all posts
Showing posts with label popular culture. Show all posts
Twelve minutes of fun
If you've got 12 minutes--and who doesn't?--watch and listen to The Ultimate! It's about a roller coaster that kills people in a dystopian future.
Something Annoying about the South
I opened up Tom Franklin's Crooked Letter, Crooked Letter just now. I've been looking forward to reading it. I enjoyed Poachers, his short story collection, and I'd heard this book was better.
But I was stopped cold before I even began, reminded of Something Annoying about the South, by Franklin's epigraph, which was this:
M-I, crooked letter, crooked letter, I, crooked letter, crooked letter, I, humpback, humpback I.
--How southern children are taught to spell Mississippi. (emphasis mine)
I grew up in northeast New Jersey, Bergen County to be exact, and my father taught me that ditty (except it was hunchback, not humpback). And he was born in a house just a few blocks from the house I grew up in and his parents were German. So no southern influence there.
It's like the woman I met at a party when I first moved down here who said, "That just gets me so riled up." What she was riled up about I don't remember, but I do remember that she looked at me and said, "You probably don't even know what 'riled up' means, being from up north." She followed this with a pitying look, sorry that I didn't come from such a rich oral tradition.
That got me riled up! We speak the same language, north and south, share an American culture. The south isn't some rarefied bastion of unique and folksy phrases that don't exist "up north." I can understand you. We have the same vocabulary. It's the same shit, just with different vowel sounds.
Get over yourselves already and have a glass of sweet tea. Bless your hearts.
PS Still looking forward to the novel.
But I was stopped cold before I even began, reminded of Something Annoying about the South, by Franklin's epigraph, which was this:
M-I, crooked letter, crooked letter, I, crooked letter, crooked letter, I, humpback, humpback I.
--How southern children are taught to spell Mississippi. (emphasis mine)
I grew up in northeast New Jersey, Bergen County to be exact, and my father taught me that ditty (except it was hunchback, not humpback). And he was born in a house just a few blocks from the house I grew up in and his parents were German. So no southern influence there.
It's like the woman I met at a party when I first moved down here who said, "That just gets me so riled up." What she was riled up about I don't remember, but I do remember that she looked at me and said, "You probably don't even know what 'riled up' means, being from up north." She followed this with a pitying look, sorry that I didn't come from such a rich oral tradition.
That got me riled up! We speak the same language, north and south, share an American culture. The south isn't some rarefied bastion of unique and folksy phrases that don't exist "up north." I can understand you. We have the same vocabulary. It's the same shit, just with different vowel sounds.
Get over yourselves already and have a glass of sweet tea. Bless your hearts.
PS Still looking forward to the novel.
Monroeville Mall, Heck Yes
Monroeville Mall, PA, the historic location of Romero's Dawn of the Dead. Not the 2004 remake with fast zombies, but the 1978 original in all its incredibly gory, non-CGI splatter.
I finally got there. I was in Monroeville last weekend for a wedding and there was no question: I had to visit the mall.
And you know what? It looks like every other mall. At first I was disappointed but then I realized that was precisely the film's brilliance. It should look like any mall! Because when the apocalypse happens, it's gonna be everywhere--in our back yards, schools, houses--and in our malls. There are already a lot of zombies at Hot Topic anyway--why not add a few flesh-eating ones?
I had heard there's a special store with zombie memorabilia at the Monroeville Mall. Unfortunately it wasn't clear from the directory where it was--there was no Zombie Nook listed--and we didn't have time to walk the whole mall in search of it. I believe I will regret that decision more than my decision not to have children.
I did find one zombie though, riding the escalator which, in my imagination, is the same exact escalator as in the film.
Oh wait, that's not a zombie. That's me!
PS If you want way more pics than these and actual comparisons with the film, check out this guy's blog post.
Potato Chips: Crispy Windows to the Soul
Yes, this post is about potato chips, but also so much more. Let's say it's about potato chips as metaphor. How potato chips reveal who you are--economically, spiritually, politically.
Sounds ridiculous when I type it, but I went to college in the early 90s. Semiotics and deconstruction were all the rage. I wasn't taught to enjoy a good book. I was taught to rip it apart for underlying sexism, racism, and imperialism!
But I had a personal revelation at Krogers. Yesterday I bought potato chips. I feel compelled to assert here that I don't usually buy potato chips. We have guests coming, a family with a kid, and I thought they would enjoy potato chips. The fact that I felt compelled to clarify that I'm not the kind of person who regularly buys chips reveals something itself.
So anyway, I put the fancy Cape Cod cracked black pepper and sea salt chips in my basket. Because that's what hipster-foodies-"smart folks" who are against the corporate system eat, right? I mean, if they must eat chips.
And then I realized--I don't like them. They're too thick. Darn it, I like Lays' Sour Cream and Onion Potato Chips! They are an undemanding chip. Their dust is delicious. They are thin and crispy. And I will not feel guilty for my tastes any longer.
Bring on the corporate chips! Embrace who you are! Next thing you know, I'll be eating Kraft Mac-N-Cheese.
Who's with me?
Sounds ridiculous when I type it, but I went to college in the early 90s. Semiotics and deconstruction were all the rage. I wasn't taught to enjoy a good book. I was taught to rip it apart for underlying sexism, racism, and imperialism!
But I had a personal revelation at Krogers. Yesterday I bought potato chips. I feel compelled to assert here that I don't usually buy potato chips. We have guests coming, a family with a kid, and I thought they would enjoy potato chips. The fact that I felt compelled to clarify that I'm not the kind of person who regularly buys chips reveals something itself.
So anyway, I put the fancy Cape Cod cracked black pepper and sea salt chips in my basket. Because that's what hipster-foodies-"smart folks" who are against the corporate system eat, right? I mean, if they must eat chips.
And then I realized--I don't like them. They're too thick. Darn it, I like Lays' Sour Cream and Onion Potato Chips! They are an undemanding chip. Their dust is delicious. They are thin and crispy. And I will not feel guilty for my tastes any longer.
Bring on the corporate chips! Embrace who you are! Next thing you know, I'll be eating Kraft Mac-N-Cheese.
Who's with me?
First-draft Terror
Just finished the first draft of Mindkiller. And now I'm terrified. Going to wait a few days before I tackle first revision--let it sit for a bit--and I already know there's a lot to do and what to do, so that's good. No worries...yet.
What scares me is what am I going to do for the next few days!? Since school let out a month ago, I've been writing 4-6 hours a day, depending on if I decide to swim or fish in the afternoon. That's a lot of time to fill.
I'm thinking of making a bean-art portrait. Or gluing things together in a shitty assemblage. Or going to a lot of matinees. Or finally reading 2666 (after I finish Freedom). Or revising a short story I wrote a year ago.
Or I don't know what. Any suggestions?
What scares me is what am I going to do for the next few days!? Since school let out a month ago, I've been writing 4-6 hours a day, depending on if I decide to swim or fish in the afternoon. That's a lot of time to fill.
I'm thinking of making a bean-art portrait. Or gluing things together in a shitty assemblage. Or going to a lot of matinees. Or finally reading 2666 (after I finish Freedom). Or revising a short story I wrote a year ago.
Or I don't know what. Any suggestions?
New Age, New Mexico
I'm not much of a believer, especially in the supernatural. Healing crystals, auras, astrology, vibrations of the universe, positive energy, bah humbug, I say.
Which is why it was strange to find myself at a Cycle of Fifths Crystal Bowl healing session. Or not so strange when you consider I'm in New Mexico visiting relatives--one of whom conducts Cycle of Fifths Crystal Bowl healing sessions--and I'm open to new experiences.
We get to her studio, which is decked out in incense, scarves, pillows, books by Rumi, and some hammock thing that's supposedly for yoga but looks more like a marital aid. It smells good in there. There are three patients besides me.
We lie on giant mattresses with little lavender pillows on our eyes. The bowls are on the floor, surrounding us, six or seven of them. The healer places pillows under our necks and knees and I am very comfortable. Then the crystal bowl music begins! The notes reverberate in my ears, echoing on each other, sometimes as loud as a guitar amp. The bowls are in perfect harmony, wonderfully tuned. I lie there and enjoy the concert, which lasts half an hour and is unusual, like nothing I've ever heard. It ends with chimes, a rainstick, and a Chinese gong.
After is where the experience goes outside of my realm. One guy saw visions but of what he didn't say. A woman's third eye opened and it was red. Someone else saw their late mom as pure white light!
Me? My lavender eye pillow made me sneeze, so I had to remove it. I think my third eye was crusted over with dried mucus. Or maybe I don't have one. The music was lovely though.
Which is why it was strange to find myself at a Cycle of Fifths Crystal Bowl healing session. Or not so strange when you consider I'm in New Mexico visiting relatives--one of whom conducts Cycle of Fifths Crystal Bowl healing sessions--and I'm open to new experiences.
We get to her studio, which is decked out in incense, scarves, pillows, books by Rumi, and some hammock thing that's supposedly for yoga but looks more like a marital aid. It smells good in there. There are three patients besides me.
We lie on giant mattresses with little lavender pillows on our eyes. The bowls are on the floor, surrounding us, six or seven of them. The healer places pillows under our necks and knees and I am very comfortable. Then the crystal bowl music begins! The notes reverberate in my ears, echoing on each other, sometimes as loud as a guitar amp. The bowls are in perfect harmony, wonderfully tuned. I lie there and enjoy the concert, which lasts half an hour and is unusual, like nothing I've ever heard. It ends with chimes, a rainstick, and a Chinese gong.
After is where the experience goes outside of my realm. One guy saw visions but of what he didn't say. A woman's third eye opened and it was red. Someone else saw their late mom as pure white light!
Me? My lavender eye pillow made me sneeze, so I had to remove it. I think my third eye was crusted over with dried mucus. Or maybe I don't have one. The music was lovely though.
On Book Reviews and the Simpsons
As many of you know, my first novel came out last year. And that meant getting reviews, something I didn't think of when I was in the heights of ecstasy--before the book actually existed.Mostly the reviews were fine. Some wonderful ones saying I was a genius! Some lukewarm ones, and some that were downright mean, almost personal attacks, which I found bizarre. Luckily I have a thick skin, thanks to my family, who could get vicious and loud. I recall my mother throwing a phone at my sister once--and this was way before cell phones. Bless our Jersey hearts.
Anyway, after the initial shock of the "bad" reviews wore off (and maybe a few whiskey cokes), I moved on. Mostly.
But there's one thing that has stuck in my craw these past few months, one point that some reviewers made that I feel compelled to clarify.
I love the Simpsons.
To explain: At one point in Brains, Jack, my main zombie, is discussing "rednecks." He says, "The only Homer they knew was Simpson. Their idea of an art film was The Shawshank Redemption and their wives collected Precious Moments figurines."
Many reviewers took this to mean that I, Robin Becker, was taking a swipe at the Simpsons.
I'm setting the record straight: Jack feels superior to that lovable yellow American family. In fact, Jack dislikes many things I hold near and dear. Jack even has opinions that I disagree with.
Why is this? Easy. I am not Jack.
Long live the Simpsons! Over twenty years and counting.
Super-Cooled Quantam-Blog Poems
I came across this poem while perusing the inaugural issue of the Toad Suck Review (website in progress, otherwise I'd link). It's by Perrin Carrell. I love it and I'm hoping that whoever this poem is addressing will find it here on my blog. And that he'll love it too
Blogosphere
Someone I hate has a blog.
I used to love him so I follow
it. Sometimes I read it
and I hate him more. Sometimes
I read it and wish he were in
that chair again, skinny boy
drinking and smoking like a man
wallowing in one thing
or another. Sometimes I read it
and see how we are not so
different. We still love
the same things. We still love
the same people. The great tragedy
is that one of us will die
before the other, and the one
left alive will regret it. The greater
tragedy is that he would have loved
to have read this and never will because I
don't have a blog.
Blogosphere
Someone I hate has a blog.
I used to love him so I follow
it. Sometimes I read it
and I hate him more. Sometimes
I read it and wish he were in
that chair again, skinny boy
drinking and smoking like a man
wallowing in one thing
or another. Sometimes I read it
and see how we are not so
different. We still love
the same things. We still love
the same people. The great tragedy
is that one of us will die
before the other, and the one
left alive will regret it. The greater
tragedy is that he would have loved
to have read this and never will because I
don't have a blog.
Snow Cream
There's been a revolution in Egypt, but I don't have anything new and insightful to say about it. Except it's awesome. Power to the people!
I do have something to say about Snow Cream, however.
First off, Southerners freak out when it snows. A "blizzard" came in Wednesday morning and we got about six inches. Everything closed. In fact, it's Friday and the university where I teach is still closed. Seriously. It's gonna hit 45 degrees today and the roads are, by and large, clear, but I'm not complaining. Five-day weekend!
But there's this delicacy called Snow Cream.
Mark and I went for a walk yesterday and when we came home, our neighbor, Monroe, was gathering snow in a pitcher. We made small talk for a while and then I asked Monroe why he was gathering snow in a pitcher.
"Snow Cream," he said, as if it were self-evident. "You never heard of it?"
I'm from New Jersey and Mark's from Minnesota. Both places have a fair amount of snow, but neither one of us had ever heard of or made Snow Cream. I assumed it was a Southern treat like fried pickles until I looked it up on Wikipedia. They date it to 15th century England.
Here's how you make it: Gather clean snow. Make sure it's been on the ground a few hours. Somehow that makes it purer. Put it in a big bowl and mix it up with a can of sweetened condensed milk and a teaspoon vanilla. Or you can use whole milk, sugar and vanilla. Stir it up real good and serve immediately.
It's supposed to have the consistency of ice cream. Mine didn't. It was like cold sweet milk. It melted as soon as I stirred it. I followed Paula Deen's recipe to the letter. Maybe I didn't add enough snow. I think you need a wheelbarrow of snow.
And now most of the white stuff has melted and what's left is old and dirty. The Snow Cream's moment has passed.
I wonder if they've ever heard of Snow Cream in Egypt?
I do have something to say about Snow Cream, however.
First off, Southerners freak out when it snows. A "blizzard" came in Wednesday morning and we got about six inches. Everything closed. In fact, it's Friday and the university where I teach is still closed. Seriously. It's gonna hit 45 degrees today and the roads are, by and large, clear, but I'm not complaining. Five-day weekend!
But there's this delicacy called Snow Cream.
Mark and I went for a walk yesterday and when we came home, our neighbor, Monroe, was gathering snow in a pitcher. We made small talk for a while and then I asked Monroe why he was gathering snow in a pitcher.
"Snow Cream," he said, as if it were self-evident. "You never heard of it?"
I'm from New Jersey and Mark's from Minnesota. Both places have a fair amount of snow, but neither one of us had ever heard of or made Snow Cream. I assumed it was a Southern treat like fried pickles until I looked it up on Wikipedia. They date it to 15th century England.
Here's how you make it: Gather clean snow. Make sure it's been on the ground a few hours. Somehow that makes it purer. Put it in a big bowl and mix it up with a can of sweetened condensed milk and a teaspoon vanilla. Or you can use whole milk, sugar and vanilla. Stir it up real good and serve immediately.
It's supposed to have the consistency of ice cream. Mine didn't. It was like cold sweet milk. It melted as soon as I stirred it. I followed Paula Deen's recipe to the letter. Maybe I didn't add enough snow. I think you need a wheelbarrow of snow.
And now most of the white stuff has melted and what's left is old and dirty. The Snow Cream's moment has passed.
I wonder if they've ever heard of Snow Cream in Egypt?
Don't Delete That FB Account
Lately there's been a lot of hating on Facebook. That movie. The money Zuckerberg donated to Newark schools. And then this latest email announcement, whatever that is. I saw someone call it Markxism in a recent post on, well, Facebook.
A lot of people I follow on Twitter hate FB--not just recently either, not just part of the anti-Zuck zeitgeist, but for a while now, over a year. I've heard it called a waste of time, an invasion of privacy, and more importantly, an ineffective way to "market" yourself and your books. Someone even asked, on Twitter, if FB resulted in sales and concluded no. And then concluded it was time to delete their account.
I completely disagree.
Part of my opinion may be because I'm not good at tweeting, as chronicled in an earlier post. (Yes, I linked to myself, mirrors within mirrors.)
But it's more than my lame tweeting. I love Facebook. First of all, my family's on it. I see photos of my sister in Miami, my mom in Virginia, my niece in upstate New York. I learn about their daily lives. I even like to hear what they're having for dinner. And I've lived all over the country, had a variety of jobs, and attended a bunch of schools. I made a lot of friends along the way, and they're all on FB. I "see" them regularly. And I'm thrilled to do it. The social networking side works for me.
On the business side, on the purely commercial side, FB has resulted in publicity for Brains. First off, most of the readers of Brains contact me via Facebook. They "friend" me and send me FB messages about how they loved the book. And photos of them and the book. That's how I found out about this fabulous couple who dressed as my main characters for Halloween.
But old friends have resulted in surprising publicity too. A grad school friend who's now a marketer in SF contacted me about a cool project, a high school friend who writes for a paper wrote a profile, and a former student made the Brains trailer. Recently I was on PBS and the producer communicated with me exclusively via FB (except for a phone call or two). My friends and family keep on reposting news about the book--signings, reviews, etc. I've gotten way more of those than retweets. Actually, it's a wonder they're not sick of me yet, but unlike the (mostly) anonymous followers on Twitter, they actually know me and so are a little more forgiving.
Maybe FB works for me because I was perfectly happy to see pictures of my friends' beautiful babies on FB, to find out where they wound up living and who they married, to reconnect with them--simply for its own sake. I was active on FB before Brains came out. That they were able to help me out after its release is a little lagniappe. A bonus.
So I say this to you writers who want to delete your FB accounts--reconsider! Especially if you keep up with old friends from your many different incarnations--fellow students, co-workers, bandmates, lovers, roommates, roommates' lovers. They might be able to help you out a bit with marketing--but even more important than that, they help you remember your life.
A lot of people I follow on Twitter hate FB--not just recently either, not just part of the anti-Zuck zeitgeist, but for a while now, over a year. I've heard it called a waste of time, an invasion of privacy, and more importantly, an ineffective way to "market" yourself and your books. Someone even asked, on Twitter, if FB resulted in sales and concluded no. And then concluded it was time to delete their account.
I completely disagree.
Part of my opinion may be because I'm not good at tweeting, as chronicled in an earlier post. (Yes, I linked to myself, mirrors within mirrors.)
But it's more than my lame tweeting. I love Facebook. First of all, my family's on it. I see photos of my sister in Miami, my mom in Virginia, my niece in upstate New York. I learn about their daily lives. I even like to hear what they're having for dinner. And I've lived all over the country, had a variety of jobs, and attended a bunch of schools. I made a lot of friends along the way, and they're all on FB. I "see" them regularly. And I'm thrilled to do it. The social networking side works for me.
On the business side, on the purely commercial side, FB has resulted in publicity for Brains. First off, most of the readers of Brains contact me via Facebook. They "friend" me and send me FB messages about how they loved the book. And photos of them and the book. That's how I found out about this fabulous couple who dressed as my main characters for Halloween.
But old friends have resulted in surprising publicity too. A grad school friend who's now a marketer in SF contacted me about a cool project, a high school friend who writes for a paper wrote a profile, and a former student made the Brains trailer. Recently I was on PBS and the producer communicated with me exclusively via FB (except for a phone call or two). My friends and family keep on reposting news about the book--signings, reviews, etc. I've gotten way more of those than retweets. Actually, it's a wonder they're not sick of me yet, but unlike the (mostly) anonymous followers on Twitter, they actually know me and so are a little more forgiving.Maybe FB works for me because I was perfectly happy to see pictures of my friends' beautiful babies on FB, to find out where they wound up living and who they married, to reconnect with them--simply for its own sake. I was active on FB before Brains came out. That they were able to help me out after its release is a little lagniappe. A bonus.
So I say this to you writers who want to delete your FB accounts--reconsider! Especially if you keep up with old friends from your many different incarnations--fellow students, co-workers, bandmates, lovers, roommates, roommates' lovers. They might be able to help you out a bit with marketing--but even more important than that, they help you remember your life.
Shoe Pron
A couple of posts back I asked for shoe recommendations. A few people responded--and they all recommended Fluevogs! Which happened to be the shoes I wanted.I was ready, primed. fluffed and pumped for those shoes. On the Saturday of my panel, I took the subway to Soho and found the store. It was small and stuffed with adorable funky shoes. To be fair, I already knew I was going to buy a pair before I even walked in. It was an easy sell because I was determined to come back to Toad Suck, Arkansas with a pair of expensive New York shoes, by gum!
After I brought the shoes home, things got crazy. We had a glass of wine and somehow the laces came undone! Oh Fluevogs, I love you.
Twitter and Me
Twitter has never worked for me. I couldn't figure out what I was doing wrong, why I never gathered that many followers or even spent much time on it. Overall I just didn't get it.
Until now...maybe.
Those of you who are successful tweeters will think this revelation is as astute as saying "there is no spoon" when, duh, this reality is an illusion and everyone knows you're The One anyway, so just get busy. But what I realized is this: You have to actually talk to people for Twitter to work. Not only that but you have to talk to strangers. Strangers!
I discovered this because of Sean Ferrell. Today I logged onto Twitter and someone had tweeted something to him that was vaguely congratulatory. Don't ask me what or who it was; I don't remember. But I wanted to know if Ferrell had won a prize or sold a book, mainly so I could writhe on the floor in a fit of self-loathing and jealousy if he had. Instead of scrolling back through a bunch of tweets, however, I clicked on his name to go to his homepage and see if I missed anything.
By the way, I rarely go to Twitter homepages. I mean, why would I? Quite possibly, that is another Twitter misunderstanding on my part.
Ferrell's feed had many messages to many people. Not just his pithy and humorous observations about lunch, but all kinds of communications with @ signs to named individuals, making my small attempts at conversation pale in comparison. And then I realized this is why he has 800 followers and I don't. The clouds parted, a light bulb showed up above my head, etc. etc. The whole experience was instructive and humbling. Talk to people? So simple! So pure! What could be more human?
But honestly I can't promise I'll change my ways and suddenly become a chatty Kathy replying to all sorts of comments. Mainly because I don't always have a witty comment at hand and I'm not one to say something just to say something. But I learned, gosh darn it, and doesn't that count?
I could be wrong about this though. Maybe that's not how you make Twitter work better. Maybe talking only works at cocktail parties. Maybe we should go back to smoke signals.
Until now...maybe.
Those of you who are successful tweeters will think this revelation is as astute as saying "there is no spoon" when, duh, this reality is an illusion and everyone knows you're The One anyway, so just get busy. But what I realized is this: You have to actually talk to people for Twitter to work. Not only that but you have to talk to strangers. Strangers!
I discovered this because of Sean Ferrell. Today I logged onto Twitter and someone had tweeted something to him that was vaguely congratulatory. Don't ask me what or who it was; I don't remember. But I wanted to know if Ferrell had won a prize or sold a book, mainly so I could writhe on the floor in a fit of self-loathing and jealousy if he had. Instead of scrolling back through a bunch of tweets, however, I clicked on his name to go to his homepage and see if I missed anything.
By the way, I rarely go to Twitter homepages. I mean, why would I? Quite possibly, that is another Twitter misunderstanding on my part.
Ferrell's feed had many messages to many people. Not just his pithy and humorous observations about lunch, but all kinds of communications with @ signs to named individuals, making my small attempts at conversation pale in comparison. And then I realized this is why he has 800 followers and I don't. The clouds parted, a light bulb showed up above my head, etc. etc. The whole experience was instructive and humbling. Talk to people? So simple! So pure! What could be more human?
But honestly I can't promise I'll change my ways and suddenly become a chatty Kathy replying to all sorts of comments. Mainly because I don't always have a witty comment at hand and I'm not one to say something just to say something. But I learned, gosh darn it, and doesn't that count?
I could be wrong about this though. Maybe that's not how you make Twitter work better. Maybe talking only works at cocktail parties. Maybe we should go back to smoke signals.
Do Zombies Dream of Undead Sheep?
Next weekend I'll be headed to NYC for New York Comic Con. I couldn't be more stoked. I grew up in Hackensack, which is just 10 miles off the George Washington Bridge, but my parents retired and moved away from the east coast in 1990. I haven't been back since. It's hard to believe it's been 20 years and I'm curious about all the changes. I hear the city's cleaner. And safer. And I know for sure Times Square is more wholesome than it used to be. Does Danceteria still exist? Probably not.
But more than memory lane, I'm stoked about my panel at NYCC. It's called Do Zombies Dream of Undead Sheep and it's amazing. Besides me there will be Mac Montandon who wrote The Proper Care and Feeding of Zombies, Mira Grant, who wrote Feed, Alan Goldsher who wrote Paul Is Undead, and Richard Kadrey, author of Kill the Dead. Sake's alive! I've read those books in preparation--loved them. I can't wait to talk about zombies and writing with all of them. What's more I'll finally get to meet my fabulous agent Janet Reid, not to mention a few of her minions.
Another thing I'm excited about: I've given myself permission to buy one pair of fabulous shoes! Store recommendations more than welcome.
If you're at NYCC, check out the panel and come over and say hi after. I'll be the one wearing brand new shoes.
But more than memory lane, I'm stoked about my panel at NYCC. It's called Do Zombies Dream of Undead Sheep and it's amazing. Besides me there will be Mac Montandon who wrote The Proper Care and Feeding of Zombies, Mira Grant, who wrote Feed, Alan Goldsher who wrote Paul Is Undead, and Richard Kadrey, author of Kill the Dead. Sake's alive! I've read those books in preparation--loved them. I can't wait to talk about zombies and writing with all of them. What's more I'll finally get to meet my fabulous agent Janet Reid, not to mention a few of her minions.
Another thing I'm excited about: I've given myself permission to buy one pair of fabulous shoes! Store recommendations more than welcome.
If you're at NYCC, check out the panel and come over and say hi after. I'll be the one wearing brand new shoes.
Why I Still Love Romero
I finally got a chance to see George Romero's sixth zombie movie, Survival of the Dead. I was scared to see it, because of all the negative reviews it's gotten. Let's face it: Fans were disappointed and savage in their criticism. People hated this film.
I didn't. Romero is as cynical and pessimistic about humans as ever. And that's an attitude I can get behind. We are the enemies in this movie--we kill each other more than the zombies do and with more malice. The zombies are almost an afterthought, actually. There's some gruesome gore, but it's played for laughs. The characters--even though some of them get bitten and eaten--never seem threatened by or afraid of the living dead, who are slow and stupid and, if you're alert, easy to dispose of. I liked that part of the movie. I'm firmly in the slow-moving zombie camp.
The plot revolves around two stubborn old men who live on Plum Island, which is off the coast of Delaware. Their families have been battling each other for generations and they have different ideas about how to keep themselves safe during the zombie apocalypse. What struck me as odd about that is the patriarchs both have thick Irish brogues. I could have bought it if everyone on the island spoke that way--sort of a linguistic anomaly like New Orleans' Irish Channel--but everyone else talks like an American. This implies that the old guys are recent immigrants. But they're not. Huh. Wha? I was confused.
A group of bad ass military types lands on the island and shakes the order up, all the while fighting zombies and, more importantly, each other. That's the plot in a nutshell.
Like all of Romero's movies, Survival is more about the humans than the zombies. There's almost-hope at the end for survival (get it?), but one of the mean old Irish patriarchs shoots the messenger in the head before she can deliver the good news (which I won't reveal). The moral? Humans suck; zombies eat us; maybe we deserve it.
Overall, this wasn't Romero's strongest offering. But it wasn't kitty litter either. Since he is such a God in zombiedom, the bar is ridiculously high for his work. I just read on ZombiePhiles, for example, that they "pooed themselves" when they heard about the movie. With that kind of expectation, you're pretty much screwed. I'm gonna cut the guy some slack. Why? Because I love him.
Zombies are dead. Long live zombies. I hope Romero makes a seventh film. I will never trash the master.
Formerly Hot: Sexist or Not?
I just ran across the Formally Hot website and found out about the book it engendered as well. Actually, I read about it in this Politics Daily post and went to the site from there.
Formerly Hot is written by Stephanie Dolgoff. She's 43--and, in her words, "no longer who [she'd] always been-a pretty girl who navigated the world partially aided by the advantage of her looks." In other words, she's getting older and doesn't like it.
Dolgoff's been getting a lot of heat for being shallow and furthering stereotypes about what's important for women: youth, beauty, silky hair, smooth skin.
I understand the criticism, but have to come out in defense of Dolgoff. And not just because I'm also 43. Denying that a woman can trade on her looks in our culture is naive. And denying that looks are important for most everyone in our culture--women and men--is idealistic. We live in an image-driven society. Sad, but true. Also, sad but true is that a woman's value continues to be partially (not entirely) dependent on the way she looks. That makes it hard for many women--myself included--to let go of the advantages our society gives to the young and pretty. That's a hard truth and I think that's what upsets people. It's not right, it's not fair, it's reductive and superficial. We all know that. But we all also know that women are more than their appearance. We see it every day in the women in our lives--the smart, talented, and creative women who are our friends, sisters, mothers, daughters, and teachers.
Furthermore, Dolgoff's site is humorous. No one would call her a feminist--but she's not trying to be one. She's trying to make us laugh at ourselves. In my book, she succeeded, especially when she wrote that you're formally hot if you've ever "even once pulled the skin of your face back and slightly up to see what you’d look like with a facelift."
Busted. Guilty as charged.
On the other hand, maybe I'm wrong. In fact, I could be a tool of the patriarchy, willingly complicit in my own subjugation, blindly adhering to the impossible standards imposed by middle-aged balding men!
I'll contemplate "the man" later. For now, I'm gonna go slather my face with over-priced anti-aging moisturizer.
Formerly Hot is written by Stephanie Dolgoff. She's 43--and, in her words, "no longer who [she'd] always been-a pretty girl who navigated the world partially aided by the advantage of her looks." In other words, she's getting older and doesn't like it.
Dolgoff's been getting a lot of heat for being shallow and furthering stereotypes about what's important for women: youth, beauty, silky hair, smooth skin.
I understand the criticism, but have to come out in defense of Dolgoff. And not just because I'm also 43. Denying that a woman can trade on her looks in our culture is naive. And denying that looks are important for most everyone in our culture--women and men--is idealistic. We live in an image-driven society. Sad, but true. Also, sad but true is that a woman's value continues to be partially (not entirely) dependent on the way she looks. That makes it hard for many women--myself included--to let go of the advantages our society gives to the young and pretty. That's a hard truth and I think that's what upsets people. It's not right, it's not fair, it's reductive and superficial. We all know that. But we all also know that women are more than their appearance. We see it every day in the women in our lives--the smart, talented, and creative women who are our friends, sisters, mothers, daughters, and teachers.
Furthermore, Dolgoff's site is humorous. No one would call her a feminist--but she's not trying to be one. She's trying to make us laugh at ourselves. In my book, she succeeded, especially when she wrote that you're formally hot if you've ever "even once pulled the skin of your face back and slightly up to see what you’d look like with a facelift."
Busted. Guilty as charged.
On the other hand, maybe I'm wrong. In fact, I could be a tool of the patriarchy, willingly complicit in my own subjugation, blindly adhering to the impossible standards imposed by middle-aged balding men!
I'll contemplate "the man" later. For now, I'm gonna go slather my face with over-priced anti-aging moisturizer.
Brain and Janes Contest
Zombies, vampires, and vampire slayers. That's what I call a Saturday night! Head on over to Janet Reid's rocking blog and enter to win three, count 'em, three books.
In other news, I love everyone today. If you want to hit me up for something, now's the time.
In other news, I love everyone today. If you want to hit me up for something, now's the time.
Summer reading, part 2
Books. I love 'em. Here's a few more I've read this summer.
1. Certain Girls, by Jennifer Weiner. I know! Chick lit! Not my usual genre but I was at my mom's and ran out of material so I picked it up. I wound up finishing it on the plane home. Weiner is a great natural writer. Surprisingly, I liked it and then went to a bookstore and she was all over the place.
2. Scary, No Scary and The Man Suit, two books by Zach Schomburg. Oh my god. Loved them. Zach is a great poet. The poems are funny and surreal and child-like and dreamy. Lots of wolves and legless bears too. Check out a poem here.
3. The Ice Storm, by Rick Moody. So I'm a bit late for this party, but at least I came. This was a fun book...except for the kid getting electrocuted at the end. And all the unhappy suburbanites. And meaningless sex. But there were lots of 70s cultural references and since I was born in 1967, they were extra-funny. After I finished I rented the movie, which was almost as good, but Kevin Kline was way too sexy to be the dad.
4. Dearly Devoted Dexter, by Jeff Lindsay. I've never seen the show, but I'm interested in serial killers. Oooh, dark passenger! I can see why this is a popular series.
5. Pinocchio Vampire Slayer, by Van Jensen and Dusty Higgins. This graphic novel does just what its title says. Pinochio purposefully lies and his nose grows and he stakes vamps with it! Stylish black and white illustrations and a super-quick read. I mean like thirty minutes quick.
I just started Chronic City by Jonathan Lethem but haven't really gotten into it yet. And I'm looking for a good crime thriller. Any suggestions are welcome. There's still a month left before school starts!
1. Certain Girls, by Jennifer Weiner. I know! Chick lit! Not my usual genre but I was at my mom's and ran out of material so I picked it up. I wound up finishing it on the plane home. Weiner is a great natural writer. Surprisingly, I liked it and then went to a bookstore and she was all over the place.
2. Scary, No Scary and The Man Suit, two books by Zach Schomburg. Oh my god. Loved them. Zach is a great poet. The poems are funny and surreal and child-like and dreamy. Lots of wolves and legless bears too. Check out a poem here.
3. The Ice Storm, by Rick Moody. So I'm a bit late for this party, but at least I came. This was a fun book...except for the kid getting electrocuted at the end. And all the unhappy suburbanites. And meaningless sex. But there were lots of 70s cultural references and since I was born in 1967, they were extra-funny. After I finished I rented the movie, which was almost as good, but Kevin Kline was way too sexy to be the dad.
4. Dearly Devoted Dexter, by Jeff Lindsay. I've never seen the show, but I'm interested in serial killers. Oooh, dark passenger! I can see why this is a popular series.
5. Pinocchio Vampire Slayer, by Van Jensen and Dusty Higgins. This graphic novel does just what its title says. Pinochio purposefully lies and his nose grows and he stakes vamps with it! Stylish black and white illustrations and a super-quick read. I mean like thirty minutes quick.
I just started Chronic City by Jonathan Lethem but haven't really gotten into it yet. And I'm looking for a good crime thriller. Any suggestions are welcome. There's still a month left before school starts!
Toad Suck's Stuck on a Truck
It's come and gone once again, as reliable as the azaleas and right around the time the honeysuckle starts to perfume the air.
Toad Suck's Stuck on a Truck contest. Twenty contestants, forty hands, one truck. Last person standing wins.
This is not a new event. It was immortalized in Hands on a Hard Body, the great documentary about a similar contest in Texas.
But we've got our own right here in Arkansas. It's held during our annual Toad Suck Daze festival. I went Saturday night. I'll admit: I was a little tipsy. I'd been to a Kentucky Derby party, watched a line of storms descend on Central Arkansas, felt fear when the tornado sirens went off, contemplated hiding in the shower, but then realized the party was in a converted concrete factory, so was secure. During a break in the torrential rain, I headed downtown. It was my only chance to eat a corn dog, a fried Oreo, alligator on a stick and funnel cake.
Despite the weather, the Stuck on a Truck pavilion was packed. It was at 58 hours and the contestants were getting loopy, but no one was hallucinating yet. It was tense, humid, thick with rain and the pressure from the storms. There were still a lot of contestants on that truck.
Stuck on a Truck is either about great athletic endurance or tremendous stupidity. It's either about materialism or asceticism. There's denial involved--this year's winner went 91 hours without sleep--but it's all to win a Ford F150, which negates the spiritual transcendence. I'm not sure anyone got any closer to the divine over the weekend. But they sure do look like they're praying.
Literary vs Commercial fiction SMACKDOWN
Because I teach writing at a university, I'm on the front lines of some kind of war. Or battle. Or pissing contest. I'm talking about the divide between literary and commercial fiction. I'm talking about snobbery and entitlement. I'm talking about blood and guts vs. psychological realism.
Many of my colleagues disdain commercial fiction. They openly, actively, look down their noses at it, assuming it's less than literary fiction, assuming that the writers of genre fiction are "settling for" or "easily satisfied" with their trite prose. And if a literary writer does venture into the land of the supernatural, it's not called science fiction! Oh no. That's magical realism.
I understand the position. I went to graduate school. I have my MFA. In that milieu, genre is a dirty word. But my first novel (BRAINS!) is a zombie novel. That's genre. And you know what? I loved writing it. It was fun and it was liberating.
And it wasn't easy. It was as difficult as writing a sensitive novel about the psychological aftermath of a divorce and suicide.
And you know what else? I like both commercial and literary fiction. I don't understand why there has to be a divide. Let's love them both, like you love hamburgers and hot dogs. Apples and oranges. Kickball and baseball.
Romance writers: Embrace your inner Pynchon. Literary writers: Embrace your inner Harris. We can learn from one another.
You know what I feel like right now? Munching on a big juicy brain!
Many of my colleagues disdain commercial fiction. They openly, actively, look down their noses at it, assuming it's less than literary fiction, assuming that the writers of genre fiction are "settling for" or "easily satisfied" with their trite prose. And if a literary writer does venture into the land of the supernatural, it's not called science fiction! Oh no. That's magical realism.
I understand the position. I went to graduate school. I have my MFA. In that milieu, genre is a dirty word. But my first novel (BRAINS!) is a zombie novel. That's genre. And you know what? I loved writing it. It was fun and it was liberating.
And it wasn't easy. It was as difficult as writing a sensitive novel about the psychological aftermath of a divorce and suicide.
And you know what else? I like both commercial and literary fiction. I don't understand why there has to be a divide. Let's love them both, like you love hamburgers and hot dogs. Apples and oranges. Kickball and baseball.
Romance writers: Embrace your inner Pynchon. Literary writers: Embrace your inner Harris. We can learn from one another.
You know what I feel like right now? Munching on a big juicy brain!
