a complaint, leading to a gush that will end in a question

...but will begin with an update.

For all of you who have been kind enough to inquire, yes our water is back, as is our cable and our Internet connection. Consequently, I'm back to my old sweet smelling, dry-eyed, reasonably well-informed, emotionally balanced self. Actually, I 'm even better than balanced. I'm feeling downright smiley and content and just plain good about being me. Yay me.

But considering how frustrating my day was, this happy state of being is really quite a feat. Which now, you lucky dog you, brings me to the complaint.

We took July off, but resumed our epic task of rewriting the 9th grade English curriculum today. As expected, that "that one woman who insists on raising her hand each and every time she wishes to speak" continued to give me fits, but on top of that the district's head curriculum writing lady (aka - Little Miss Pointless Tangent) decided to come oversee us. I realize I'm getting paid nonetheless, but thanks to her we spent six hours in a freezing room with little more than a course objective to show for it, and time wasted at work when I could be wasting it at home is a supreme annoyance to me. It would be putting it nicely to say that I wanted to pick her up by her protocols and forcibly remove both her and her verbosity from the room, but since that would take levels of violence, bravery and heroism which I do not possess, I instead put my head down somewhere around eleven and started writing notes like a fifteen-year-old high school student. Apparently, I just got paid roughly $25/hour to compose two failed blog posts, one horrible poem, a grocery list, and the layout for a utopian city I have dubbed "Maggieville." And since today was basically a wash and consequently we have to go back and do it all again tomorrow, I suppose that means that several of you can expect a rambling e-mail in your future. Start bating that breath now, baby. I will promise, however, to spare you both the poem and the hard sell to join my utopian experiment. Yay you.

And since one of those aforementioned blog posts was (sort of) about Simon Pegg, in a roundabout way this all leads me to the gush.

By the power of grayskull was Hot Fuzz ever awesome. So maybe there weren't any zombies and unlike the tight little package that was Shaun of the Dead it does take a bit longer to get to the point of the story, however it was a very fun spoof of buddy cop flicks that was both smart and funny and I loved it. Hang in there - Netflix will deliver it eventually. Yay Netflix.

And finally, I'll end with a question which, by the way, has nothing whatsoever to do with any of this.

I know that many of you listen to podcasts, so do you mind sharing which ones? I'll be resuming my daily commute soon enough and am getting a bit tired of the same old playlists. Sorry, I know you've probably already given me recommendations but I've since forgotten them, so if you have any to contribute please do be a peach and toss a few in that red thing below labeled "comments." Um, yay... comments?

2007: midterm report: one book and one movie that, as only the best teacher's pet could do, knew exactly how i like it and delivered

I know you've all been waiting with breath properly bated, so I'm happy to admit that your agony is over. Please allow yourself to exhale because here it is - my final 2007 progress report. You're excited I know, but do try to contain it. People are staring.

Favorite 2007 Film Release Thusfar: Grindhouse


1408 was fantastically suspenseful. Knocked Up was hilarious. 300 was visually arresting. But Grindhouse...well that baby was all three, and furthermore an experience unto itself. Quentin's half was fine, but Planet Terror (Robert Rodriguez's contribution) was spot-on perfect, and Freddy Rodriguez made me laugh so hard that I would have been embarrassed if I weren't so shameless. The faux movie trailers between the two full-length features were alone worth the price of admission. (My personal favorite was Edgar Wright's contribution - a bootleg copy of which can be viewed down below - but I do so have a thing for that cheeky little wanker.) I count myself lucky to have caught this in the theater because I can see how something will be lost in translation watching the DVD at home, but if this sounds like your thing (and be warned, this is a movie that's certainly not for everyone) I'd still recommend you add this sucker to your queue immediately as soon as it's released.


(DON'T!)

Favorite 2007 Literary Release Thusfar: The Dead Fathers Club by Matt Haig


Of all the books I've read so far this year, this is the one that hit me in the most places. (It's also the one that I wrote the most in while reading, which is usually telling.) One may be tempted to ask whether another version of Hamlet is really necessary, but while he borrows heavily from Shakespeare's tragedy, Haig brings plenty of himself to the table making his novel, although a retelling, a quite original one. A poignant black comedy that rarely stops for punctuation, Haig perfectly captures the voice of a sad, anxiety-ridden boy who is ridiculed by his peers and faces impossible expectations in language that is beautiful in its simplicity. I guess it's technically a young adult novel, but an incredibly sophisticated one at that. I don't think it's gotten much press on this side of the pond and I can see why it wouldn't be for everyone, but I for one loved this book. Someone* please read it.

*Steve - I know I lent this to you, but I don't think it's your thing. I do, however, think it might be Paul's thing, so please feel no guilt at all should you decide to pass and send it over his way. Just for the record...

books: 14 down, 10 to go: the raw shark texts

Life, the Universe and Everything is, in my humble opinion anyway, pretty ambitious subject matter for a novelist’s debut, but such is the focus of The Raw Shark Texts by Steven Hall – one of the weirdest books I’ve read in quite some time. The novel begins with a man (the Second Eric Sanderson) choking, lying on the floor and with no memory of who he is or how he got in that state. Thanks to a letter addressed to him by the First Eric Sanderson, he is led to a psychologist who informs him that he is suffering from a very rare psychological condition – a psychotropic fugue “thought to have been the result of prolonged emotional trauma stemming from the death of his girlfriend Clio Aames, who drowned in a scuba diving accident while the pair were on holiday in Greece.” While Dr. Randle proves to be only marginally helpful, it’s from her that he learns that he’s been suffering from this condition for the past two years, and in that time has had eleven recurrences, each one erasing more and more of his memories.

The puzzle of Sanderson’s condition begins to take form when he returns home and is immediately inundated with letters, strange coded messages (a video of a flickering lightbulb, for instance), and dictaphones, all addressed to him from his pre-amnesiac self. Through this odd correspondence, Sanderson comes to understand that over the past several years he’s suffered repeated attacks from a Ludovician – a highly territorial conceptual shark that feeds on memories and language. The story that follows is an odyssey, moving him back and forth through time and planes of reality, to discover how to destroy the shark and save himself.

And if all of that sounds terribly confusing and odd, than that’s because it is.

Perhaps more than anything I’ve read so far this year, this novel made me work, and I appreciate that. Reading this book was an experience that was equal parts romantic, weird, and downright confusing - maneuvering through the jargon was a chore for me at times - however after the second reading (yes, I read it twice), I found myself appreciating it and its eccentricities more and more. It’s clear to me that readers will either love or hate this book, and there’s certainly plenty to criticize - the often-times vapid dialogue, for instance - but I’m a woman who’s willing to forgive a writer many things if the story itself is a solid one. Finally, it has an ending that begs to be discussed, so Paul (and anyone else feeling so inclined) - let’s.

Up Next: The Big Girls, by Susanna Moore

books: 9 down, 15 to go: the dead fathers club

The Dead Fathers Club (Matt Haig of The Guardian) is a retelling of Hamlet, where the protagonist is a 11-year-old boy named Philip Noble whose recently deceased father appears to him as a ghost, claims that Philip's Uncle Alan killed him to usurp his position of "king of the CASTLE," and demands that Philip kill his uncle so that his death is avenged, he can avoid "The Terrors," and move on to the afterlife. The novel is macabre, funny, poignant, and (to me, anyway) unputdownable. At times, it reminded me of The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time as well as Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, which are two other books that I also enjoyed more than a little bit. But please don't think that all the comparisons mean that Haig's writing style is unoriginal. I didn't feel that way at all. I loved this book both for its highly engaging story as well as the fact that Haig has a simple, beautiful way with words that would often give me pause. I highly recommend it, and although I suppose it's technically a young adult book I see how it really would appeal to most anyone. Unless, that is, you are a person who is terribly sensitive to correct punctuation usage since Haig, like my freshmen, simply cannot be bothered most of the time.

To conclude, here is a passage from The Dead Fathers Club that I was particularly found of. Enjoy.

I woke up and it was still dark. There was sound of a train far away and it was like the world was doing a sigh. Sometimes when you wake up you are in a different time like you have gone in a time machine and the time I was in was before Dad died.

Everything was normal and Dad was in bed with Mum in the next room sleeping with his arm flopped over her and I was thinking about going to see Derby with him on Saturday. It was going to be good and my thinking was getting faster and less sleepy and pushing me through time until I was in this morning.

Then I knew Dad wasnt in the next room and he was not taking me to the Football and when I remembered a heavy feeling came into my brain.

In the future there will probably be scales that can weigh how heavy memories are and it will be like when Mum and Renuka went to Weightwatchers. People or special doctors and Brainwatchers will say This memory is very heavy you need to lose weight in your brain.

Then they will tell you to exercise your brain in the right way to make it lighter.

My brain was so heavy this morning I didn't think I would be able to get it off the pillow without shaking out some of the pictures in my head of Dad. Like the picture of him when he flicked water on me and Mum when he was in the swimming book in Rhodes and we were dry on the sunbeds...or the heaviest picture of all which was when we went to Sconce Hills in the snow and his face was red and cold but his hands were warm in his woolly pattern gloves and I was still little enough not to be scared of holding his hand and he was dragging the sledge.

He was looking down at me and his words made clouds in the air and snowflakes turned into rain on his nose and his words said Come on Ill race you to the top... And then when we were at the top we both crunched onto the snow on our backs and laughed clouds up to the sky and I sat on my elbows and looked at him lying in the snow and felt the most happy ever but then I cant remember anything else because the picture is snow and melts in my brain.

Up Next: Heart-Shaped Box, by Joe Hill

thou shall not make some noise for detroit

I found this little gem on A Special Way of Being Afraid, a blog which you really should be reading by the way. So start already. As for the song, like so very many things that are British, I love it. The artist goes by Dan Le Sac vs Scroobius Pip, a name which is a mouthful, ridiculous, and completely awesome. I've watched this video something like fifteen times since yesterday and I can't get lines like:

"Thou shall not judge a book by its cover. Thou shall not judge Lethal Weapon by Danny Glover."

"Thou shall not shake it like a polaroid picture. Thou shall not wish your girlfriend was a freak like me."

"Thou shall not use poetry, art or music to get into girls' pants. Use it to get into their heads."

out of my silly little head. I happen to find it awfully catchy and terribly clever but please, judge for yourself.