Lamb is Christopher Moore’s Fluke

The first book I read by Christopher Moore (whose name, I confess, makes me think of the dreaded two-headed beast Listopher Bennemoore) was Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ’s Childhood Pal. I loved it. I loved how smart and irreverent it was. I thought I loved Christopher Moore. As it turns out, I really only loved that one book. I’ve now read three additional Moore books, the latest being Fluke: Or, I Know Why the Winged Whale Sings. As with so many of my recent reads, this was from the Laura and Nate Olsen Mountaintop Lending Library, but unlike Julie and Julia, I can’t give this one an unequivocal thumbs-up. Fluke, focused on the underwater adventures of a couple of whale researchers, complete with an Atlantis-like society, mysterious creatures from the sea, and jokes about whale sphincters, was a fast read requiring little intellectual involvement. This is a good thing for people who can’t focus because, say, they’re obsessed with an impending move (or something). In that sense, it was the perfect book for me right now. But like Bloodsucking Fiends: A Love Story and The Stupidest Angel: A Heartwarming Tale of Christmas Terror, Moore steers Fluke straight into the land of the absurd, and it all gets a little too silly for my very literal brain. Moore is a serviceable writer and seems to more than satisfactorily serve the niche who is looking for the over the top. For me, though—I like my whale butt jokes with a pinch of realism.

Congratulations, Josh and Todd!

It was a wedding weekend! On Friday, Josh and Todd tied the knot in front of a small group of family and friends near their home in New Jersey. I felt so lucky to be there with them as they made their commitment official after seven and a half years together. I've never been to a wedding so small, and while I can understand how and why many weddings grow, there was something incredibly special about having an intimate group present for the exchange of vows.

Saturday we gathered again for a larger celebration at the Red Cat. I've heard Josh and Todd talk about this restaurant many times but had never been there myself. After Saturday's feast, though, I can definitely see why they return time and again. Everything was delicious, from the salmon tartar appetizer to the amazing spinach and egg risotto that came with my entree to the blackout cake. More special, though, were the toasts friends and family gave to honor the grooms. Josh's childhood friend Holly made me cry! Both days were wonderful, and it is always inspiring to see two people who are so right for each other. Congratulations, Josh and Todd!

Mastering the Art of Reading About French Cooking

So as I mentioned in yesterday’s project ponderment post, I’ve been reading Julie and Julia: My Year of Cooking Dangerously by Julie Powell. Laura was kind enough to lend it to me while I was at her house last month, and all told, it’s a very good read. Adapted from Powell’s blog, the book, as expected, has a very conversational tone. Self deprecating and funny, Powell pulls the reader into her very relatable world from the first page. Her horror at realizing she’s pushing thirty and works an extraordinarily unsatisfying job, her concerns over starting a family, her misery over uncomfortable shoes and long subway rides—they all felt familiar. What’s more, she makes her wholly individual response to all these universal fears and frustrations also feel universal. I will never ever, even if I live to be a thousand years old, cook my way through Mastering The Art of French Cooking. It’s not who I am, and it’s not going to happen. But Powell’s skills as a writer allowed me to see this as a reasonable step in jumpstarting your life. By the end of Julie and Julia, I was right there with Powell, believing that future happiness really DID hinge on completing The Project. In all fairness, I knew that she did finish and that there was a happy ending right around the corner. I was holding the proof in my hands, for Pete’s sake. But that knowledge didn’t detract from the emotional heft the story carried.

The only misstep was Powell’s inclusion of imagined scenes from Julia and Paul Child’s life together. It felt like something her editor made her do, and though each scene is very short, I hurried through each, eager to get back to Powell’s outer borough kitchen, her manic swings from jubilation to meltdown, her fights with and love for her husband, and her musings on just how sucky an office job can be and how cooking changed her life. Her experiences and heart are the real story here, and well worth reading all on their own.

Self Improvement Project Needed

Friday night I went out with a co-worker I’ve recently become friends with. She told me in confidence about a new business venture she and a couple of friends are trying to get off the ground. It marries her writing and journalism ambitions with an idealism she holds while still filling an important market niche not currently being served. It sounded like a plan with every possible ingredient for both success and personal satisfaction, and I was happy for her. She came in my office yesterday and said that in her excitement on Friday night, she now realized, she didn’t ask me about my “pipe dreams.” I tried to look thoughtful as I wracked my brain for a good answer, and the sad fact was that I didn’t have one. I have no big pipe dreams, no goal that I working toward or even just talking about.

So now I feel like I need some kind of goal: something to give me a purpose beyond just cranking out marketing materials for Columbia and reading contemporary fiction. The timing of this mini existential crisis is particularly interesting, because I’m almost finished reading Julie and Julia (a real review to follow). I think Julie Powell’s dramatic belief that if she didn’t finish her self-assigned project she’d have a totally empty life has gotten under my skin more than I realized. There is something curiously powerful about the belief that just living day to day isn’t enough. I have (for once) a job that I’m pretty happy with. I am excited about my new apartment. My friends and family are happy and healthy. My social life is a success. And yet, I’m plagued by the idea that I need to be doing something more.

The challenge is that I have no idea what to do. I claim to want to take classes, but as each new semester starts, the idea of spending three nights a week in class is never as enticing as it is after it’s too late to sign up, at which point I wistfully remember what it’s like to learn and be part of challenging discussions and thought-provoking debates. We all know that I’m not going to sauté and broil my way through Mastering the Art of French Cooking. So what should I do? I’m taking suggestions and open to all ideas. Should I learn to cake decorate? Should I start doing yoga every week? Bring on the ideas, people.

Who's Your Homeless Friend?

Not me! I signed a lease on a new apartment this morning. It's a "duplex studio" which is real estate speak for a loft studio. Luckily, this one comes equipped with very high ceilings. Whereas most loft studios have a little crawl space that anyone with even minor claustrophobia could use for nothing but storage, this one has an actual almost upstairs room. There will surely be much bumping of heads at first, but the upstairs is fairly roomy and will give me a great chance to separate my living and sleeping space like a real grown up.

I move in on October 30th, and there is a lot of packing to do before then. I'm starting to collect boxes from work today and hope to give lots of clothes and shoes to Good Will as I go through the back of my closet.

An apartment-warming event will have to follow once I get myself slightly settled in the new digs.

Celebrity Sightings Galore

This weekend proved both very busy and very fun--and the celebs were out in full force. Saturday I spotted Miranda July in the gallery section of Chelsea. She was standing outside the silliest and most expensive clothing store I've ever been inside of, and I'm choosing to believe that she was in the neighborhood to take in some art and not to spend $1495 on what can only be described as a fucking ugly shirt at Jeffrey.

As much as I love a literary star sighting, my evening's second elbow-rubbing with fame was even better. I've told most of you the story of bumping into my favorite Daily Show correspondent, John Oliver, on 8th Avenue while on the phone with Jen several months ago. I acted like a fool, saying hello to him as if we were buds while recounting to Jen every thing that happened:

"Jen! I just saw Daily Show correspondent John Oliver!"
Waving frantically.
"Hi, John!"

Not my coolest moment.

Well! Apparently my antics made an impression. I was winding up my Saturday night by people watching and eating a much needed alcohol-absorbing slice of pizza. Who should walk by but John Oliver. We made eye contact, and he waved to me. I'm telling you, HE waved to ME. He clearly was charmed by my earlier display of excitement over seeing him and now wants to be my best friend. I played it cool and just waved back before calling Jen to recount the whole thing to her voice mail.

Into the Wild

Last night I saw Into the Wild, Sean Penn’s movie adaptation of Jon Krakauer’s book of the same title. Both tell the true story of Christopher McCandless—or Alexander Supertramp, as he called himself. McCandless (played by Emile Hirsch) led a financially privileged life until his college graduation when he donated his life savings (in the neighborhood of $25,000) to charity and walked away from his life. He wanted to be free of material possessions and became obsessed with the idea of living off nature in the Alaskan wilderness. In the spring of 1992 he completed his hitchhiker’s journey and began to do just that.

Penn’s film jumps around chronologically, wisely intermixing McCandless’s solo experiences in Alaska with the more populated adventures he had as he traveled the country in preparation for his great adventure. By all accounts, in both the book and the film, McCandless was extraordinarily charismatic, meeting and bonding with both locals and other tramps. He seemed to inspire love and affection in people with not only no effort but a bit of disdain for the importance other people place on personal relationships. Unfortunately, Penn takes his idolization of McCandless a bit too far, with two memorable crucifixion poses struck by Hirsch: standing atop a mountain, arms outstretched as he takes in the view and floating down a river, arms outstretched soaking in the sun. Penn even goes so far as to have one of the other tramps ask McCandless, “you’re not Jesus are you?” This deification, along with Penn’s penchant for over dramatization (such as a wilderness shower scene where McCandless’s hair washing is detailed in slow motion, as if in a Pantene commercial) are the few missteps in this slow but absorbing movie.

Emile Hirsch, who I’ve previously seen only in such sub par movies as Alpha Dog, truly owns this film. His portrayal of a man whose actions are so difficult to understand was subtle, honest, and powerful. And the movie, though slow in the beginning, is utterly captivating by the time we reach the tragic finale. This one’s worth a trip to the theatre.