H went to play poker with friends tonight.
While I generally would rather read a book than watch a movie, I do have a small stash of old favorites, comfort movies, as it were.
Thye include “Moonstruck,” “Love Actually,” “The Parent Trap,” “Bridget Jones’ Diary,” and “Roman Holiday.”
Every once in a very great while, I will add to the collection. Recently I purchased a sure-to-be-godawful DVD called “Stick It!”
Its tagline caught my fancy: “It’s not called gym-nice-tics!”
I mean, c’mon, that’s FUNNY.
Plus, long long ago, in a galaxy far far away, when I was young and thin and shorter, before my seventh-grade growth spurt that put me at five-eight, I was a gymnast.
Not a particularly good one by any means – I spent an awful lot of time trying to learn to do an aerial (never succeeded) and a back extension (successful). I could do front handsprings but not back handsprings. I finally managed a back hip circle on the bars just before I grew half a foot.
I was gymnastics-obsessed - spent my seventh summer cartwheeling in my poor mother’s living room and jumping around on the front lawn pretending to be Nadia Comaneci. I amassed quite a clipping collection about Olga Korbut, Nadia, Ludmilla Turischeva, Tracee Talavera, Julianne McNamara – I knew all the names, all the big stars and the up-and-comers. I even subscribed to US Gymnast for a while.
I took lessons at a teeny little gym called Sunburst Gymnastics. I went once a week, for an hour, and then to gymnastics camp (half-day) for a week in the summer.
I competed in one meet, and I still have my medal (in fairness, I should tell you that everyone who competed got a medal, if you managed to do your back somersaults, and kick turns on the beam). Like everyone else in the gym, I sewed all my ribbons and patches to my leotard, and I wore little white anklets with colored pom-poms on the backs, and I will tell you right now, I HATED wearing grips on the bars, I only used chalk. I longed –yearned, I tell you - for calluses on my palms, and rips on those calluses.
My first floor routine was to the theme from Pink Panther (I could probably still do it if I had to – ba dum, ba dum, ba dum ba dum ba dum, ba dum ba DUMMMM, badadaDUM), second level floor was to Nadia’s Theme (natch), and the level three floor routine was to “Evergreen.” I never got past level three, sadly.
So. Did I watch this movie tonight? No, I did not. Because it was all the way UPSTAIRS and I was all the way DOWNSTAIRS and I am LAZY.
[WARNING: non sequitur approaching]
So I popped in “Bridget Jones.”
My favorite moment: when Mark Darcy kisses Bridget at the end, and she says, “Wait a minute. Nice boys don’t kiss like that.” And he growls, without even opening his eyes, “Oh, yes, they fucking do.” And then he wraps her in his overcoat.
The funniest moment: the fight scene between Daniel Cleaver and Mark Darcy.
The most heart-wrenching moment: when Mark meets Bridget’s friends, and is all shy and sort of awkward and cute, and then he flashes that gorgeous, elusive smile…sighhhhh...
The most cringe-inducing scene: Bridget’s speech at Mark’s parents’ ruby anniversary party. Or maybe when Bridget shows up at what she thinks is a tarts-and-vicars party in a Playboy bunny outfit, and everyone else is dressed normally…or when she answers the phone, “Bridget Jones, wanton sex goddess," and it’s her mum...or...or...let’s face it, I love Bridget because she’s real. She fucks up. A lot. She says stupid things and acts like an ass. But she means well, and loves her mum and dad, and sticks by her friends. I would want her to be my friend. And tonight, for just a few hours, she was.
But she stole my boyfriend, just so you know.
Showing posts with label Portrait of the Burger as a Young Cow. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Portrait of the Burger as a Young Cow. Show all posts
Saturday, June 16, 2007
Thursday, June 14, 2007
"We are like mechanics working on a car. We know what we are doing, it is a routine." - Katrina Firlik
To the salesperson at my B&N: Ok, OK, I give up! I LOVED The Kite Runner but I was willing to wait for the paperback of A Thousand Splendid Suns until you waxed lyrical about it AND noted that my member discount makes it only fifteen dollars! All right, I’ll come back and buy it.
To Jessa Crispin of Bookslut: I have just requested Joanna Kavenna’s Inglorious from the local library. I did not run out and buy it, because you and I, while I admire you greatly, do not have similar reading tastes. And I have to save my money for Hilma Wolitzer’s newest book, Summer Reading. (Although, now that I mention it, I remember liking The Doctor’s Daughter but I don’t remember a damn thing about it.) I trusted you, Jessa; don’t let me down.
To every single goddamn reviewer: I do not like Dom DeLillo. I do not like him in a box. I do not like him with a fox. I do not like him in a house. I do not like him with a mouse. I do not like him here or there. I do not like him anywhere. The first chapter of Underworld was the single most overrated, jaw-achingly boring chapter I have EVER read. I wanted to muscle through it because Rogue Librarian gave me the book as a thirtieth birthday present, but I COULD NOT DO IT. I will not like Falling Man either. I promise you. Leave me alone already.
To my dearest Suse: your copy of Animal Vegetable Miracle is finally winging its way to you over thar in Oz. I even signed it, love. (So you can’t return it, sorry.)
To a fellow Laurie King fan (um, Peg, that’d be you): I just bought Art of Detection in paperback last night and am so excited! Share my excitement! You know you want to!
To Nando Parrado: I am very sorry you had to eat your fellow teammates to survive, but your bravery and strength are astounding. I am very much looking forward to reading Miracle in the Andes, although, I must tell you how utterly bizarre I find it that it was shelved in Sports>Soccer.
To my Intro to Critical Reading prof (on whom I harbored a mad, obviously unrequited, potentially embarrassing crush): It was only my infatuation with your brains that made me read The English Patient and it is entirely your fault that I now believe Michael Ondaatje to be one of the most amazing living writers, and almost entirely your fault that I will have to buy his newest book Divisadero, rather than borrowing it from the library. I hope you’re happy, Mr Smarty-Pants.
To my dad: Hey, Dad, do you remember how you used to worry that the weight of my measly two bookcases stuffed full of YA paperbacks was going to compromise the structural integrity of our house? I am currently attaching to my bedroom walls floor-to-ceiling shelving that will probably hold over five hundred books, and so far my house is still standing. I really think you were worrying over nothing.
To Pokemon et al.: You may think you’ve insinuated your cute, spiky, yellow self into Primo’s affections, but *I* hold the purse strings, little fellow, and I am not too sure about you and your cadre of adorably dorky monsters just yet. Although I admit that calling the handbook The Complete Pokedex is really kinda clever, and I may grudgingly admit you to my house. Just don’t even consider bringing Tentacruel or that snarky little Sneasel with you.
To Frank Vertosick: I loved When the Air Hits Your Brain but Katrina Firlik’s Another Day in the Frontal Lobe appears to be the up-and-comer in brain-surgery-for-consumers lit. I do wonder about those pristine white sneakers she wears on the cover, though. Which brings me to this:
To everyone who watches CSI and/or any of its thousand and one spin-offs: You enjoy your TV, I’ll be lying on the couch reading Gil Reavill’s Aftermath, Inc.. I have a cast-iron stomach, so I may well be eating Chubby Hubby ice cream while reading. The best thing? No commercials. I prefer my gore uninterrupted, thankyouverymuch. Now pass the ice cream.
To Jessa Crispin of Bookslut: I have just requested Joanna Kavenna’s Inglorious from the local library. I did not run out and buy it, because you and I, while I admire you greatly, do not have similar reading tastes. And I have to save my money for Hilma Wolitzer’s newest book, Summer Reading. (Although, now that I mention it, I remember liking The Doctor’s Daughter but I don’t remember a damn thing about it.) I trusted you, Jessa; don’t let me down.
To every single goddamn reviewer: I do not like Dom DeLillo. I do not like him in a box. I do not like him with a fox. I do not like him in a house. I do not like him with a mouse. I do not like him here or there. I do not like him anywhere. The first chapter of Underworld was the single most overrated, jaw-achingly boring chapter I have EVER read. I wanted to muscle through it because Rogue Librarian gave me the book as a thirtieth birthday present, but I COULD NOT DO IT. I will not like Falling Man either. I promise you. Leave me alone already.
To my dearest Suse: your copy of Animal Vegetable Miracle is finally winging its way to you over thar in Oz. I even signed it, love. (So you can’t return it, sorry.)
To a fellow Laurie King fan (um, Peg, that’d be you): I just bought Art of Detection in paperback last night and am so excited! Share my excitement! You know you want to!
To Nando Parrado: I am very sorry you had to eat your fellow teammates to survive, but your bravery and strength are astounding. I am very much looking forward to reading Miracle in the Andes, although, I must tell you how utterly bizarre I find it that it was shelved in Sports>Soccer.
To my Intro to Critical Reading prof (on whom I harbored a mad, obviously unrequited, potentially embarrassing crush): It was only my infatuation with your brains that made me read The English Patient and it is entirely your fault that I now believe Michael Ondaatje to be one of the most amazing living writers, and almost entirely your fault that I will have to buy his newest book Divisadero, rather than borrowing it from the library. I hope you’re happy, Mr Smarty-Pants.
To my dad: Hey, Dad, do you remember how you used to worry that the weight of my measly two bookcases stuffed full of YA paperbacks was going to compromise the structural integrity of our house? I am currently attaching to my bedroom walls floor-to-ceiling shelving that will probably hold over five hundred books, and so far my house is still standing. I really think you were worrying over nothing.
To Pokemon et al.: You may think you’ve insinuated your cute, spiky, yellow self into Primo’s affections, but *I* hold the purse strings, little fellow, and I am not too sure about you and your cadre of adorably dorky monsters just yet. Although I admit that calling the handbook The Complete Pokedex is really kinda clever, and I may grudgingly admit you to my house. Just don’t even consider bringing Tentacruel or that snarky little Sneasel with you.
To Frank Vertosick: I loved When the Air Hits Your Brain but Katrina Firlik’s Another Day in the Frontal Lobe appears to be the up-and-comer in brain-surgery-for-consumers lit. I do wonder about those pristine white sneakers she wears on the cover, though. Which brings me to this:
To everyone who watches CSI and/or any of its thousand and one spin-offs: You enjoy your TV, I’ll be lying on the couch reading Gil Reavill’s Aftermath, Inc.. I have a cast-iron stomach, so I may well be eating Chubby Hubby ice cream while reading. The best thing? No commercials. I prefer my gore uninterrupted, thankyouverymuch. Now pass the ice cream.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
“Adventure must start with running away from home” - William Bolitho
Yesterday afternoon, after spending my lunch hour reading the interesting-but-didactically-written Portrait of the Burger as a Young Calf, I chanced upon a copy in the free-exchange shelves of Edward Abbey’s Desert Solitaire.
You know me; you know I love to read about Arctic exploration gone awry, shipwrecks, sailors adrift at sea, mountain climbing accidents, wilderness survival stories – if something extreme or insane in the outdoors can be attempted, and even better if something goes wrong in that attempt, I am all over it.
But good writing about the great outdoors is ok, too – I love Bill Bryson’s books, and have a soft spot especially for any kind of climbing writing (after I read Eiger Dreams, I pretty much wanted to marry Jon Krakauer and bear his children).
I snagged Desert Solitaire and then, in a typically obscure tangent, I had to do a bit of research to come up with the name of the man idolized by Christopher McCandless in Into the Wild. (John Wesley Powell, by the way.)
While trying to find out that factlet, I stumbled across this list, thereby guaranteeing many pleasant hours of outdoorsy reading for the summer months ahead:
Outside Magazine’s Best Adventure Books of the Last 100 Years:
1. Wind, Sand & Stars. By Antoine de Saint-Exupery (1940).
I read this, a long long time ago, while sick in bed.
2. (Tie) The Worst Journey in the World. By Apsley Cherry-Garrard (1922)
This has been on my TBR list for so long, it’s shameful.
2. (Tie) Journals. By Meriwether Lewis and William Clark (1841)
I have a good friend who read these right after she read that giant book about L&C released a couple years ago, and recommended it to me. Like every dutiful and good librarian, I have a penchant for primary sources: Daniel Defoe’s Journal of the Plague Year, Owen Chase’s and Thomas Nickerson’s The Loss of the Ship Essex, Sunk by a Whale, and Rachel Calof’s Story.
3. West With the Night. By Beryl Markham (1942)
I own this but have not read it. And for whatever reason, I ALWAYS confuse Markham with Amelia Earhart.
4. The Snow Leopard. By Peter Matthiessen (1978)
I have not read this, but I have read and thoroughly enjoyed Mathiessen’s book about great white sharks.
5. Desert Solitaire. By Edward Abbey (1968)
I own it now.
6. Endurance. By F. A. Worsley (1931).
Own it, have read most of it.
7. Sailing Alone Around the World. By Joshua Slocum (1900)
How did I miss this?
8. Into the Wild. By Jon Krakauer (1996)
OK, Christopher McCandless was an extremely foolish young man, but it’s a terrific read.
9. Coming into the Country. By John McPhee (1976)
10. Arabian Sands. By Wilfred Thesiger (1959)
11. Touching the Void. By Joe Simpson (1989)
I own this, but have not read it as I ration my mountain-disaster reading; otherwise I start to get bored. I know, juvenile when I am reading about people in mortal peril but that’s how it goes.
12. The Mountains of My Life. By Walter Bonatti (1998)
13. In Patagonia. Bruce Chatwin (1977)
Own this.
14. Arctic Dreams. Barry Lopez (1986)
Own this.
15. A Short Walk in the Hindu Kush. By Eric Newby (1958)
This looks FABULOUS.
16. Tracks. By Robyn Davidson (1980)
This one is for all you dear Aussies.
17. The Long Way. By Bernard Moitessier (1971)
18. Running the Amazon. By Joe Kane (1989)
19. Young Men and Fire. By Norman Maclean (1992)
This one reminds me of another that piqued my interest, Eric Blehm’s The Last Season.
20. The Great Plains. By Ian Frazier (1989)
21. Kon-Tiki. By Thor Heyerdahl (1950)
A true classic.
22. My Journey to Lhasa. By Alexandra David-Neel (1927)
23. (Tie) Alive. By Pier Paul Read (1974)
Read this, was positively blown away by it. In fact, Nando Parrado’s personal account, Miracle in the Andes, is out in paperback, and I have to go buy it right now.
23. (Tie) The Perfect Storm. By Sebastian Junger (1997)
I read this at the shore one summer, shortly after seeing bits of the movie. Wow. I followed it up with Linda Greenlaw’s The Hungry Ocean, but her writing was not nearly as captivating as Junger’s.
24. A Walk in the Woods. By Bill Bryson (1998)
This is the first Bill Bryson I ever read; I liked it very much but I think In a Sunburned Country (about Australia) is probably my favorite of his.
25. Old Glory. By Jonathan Raban (1981)
This is the only one that doesn’t look all that interesting to me – it smacks too much of Mark Twain. Yawn.
I also found this list of National Geographic’s 100 Best Adventure Books. Many of the titles on the two lists coincide, and I own several more on the NG list. It’s always more fun to go used-book shopping with a goal; now I have one, list in hand.
You know me; you know I love to read about Arctic exploration gone awry, shipwrecks, sailors adrift at sea, mountain climbing accidents, wilderness survival stories – if something extreme or insane in the outdoors can be attempted, and even better if something goes wrong in that attempt, I am all over it.
But good writing about the great outdoors is ok, too – I love Bill Bryson’s books, and have a soft spot especially for any kind of climbing writing (after I read Eiger Dreams, I pretty much wanted to marry Jon Krakauer and bear his children).
I snagged Desert Solitaire and then, in a typically obscure tangent, I had to do a bit of research to come up with the name of the man idolized by Christopher McCandless in Into the Wild. (John Wesley Powell, by the way.)
While trying to find out that factlet, I stumbled across this list, thereby guaranteeing many pleasant hours of outdoorsy reading for the summer months ahead:
Outside Magazine’s Best Adventure Books of the Last 100 Years:
1. Wind, Sand & Stars. By Antoine de Saint-Exupery (1940).
I read this, a long long time ago, while sick in bed.
2. (Tie) The Worst Journey in the World. By Apsley Cherry-Garrard (1922)
This has been on my TBR list for so long, it’s shameful.
2. (Tie) Journals. By Meriwether Lewis and William Clark (1841)
I have a good friend who read these right after she read that giant book about L&C released a couple years ago, and recommended it to me. Like every dutiful and good librarian, I have a penchant for primary sources: Daniel Defoe’s Journal of the Plague Year, Owen Chase’s and Thomas Nickerson’s The Loss of the Ship Essex, Sunk by a Whale, and Rachel Calof’s Story.
3. West With the Night. By Beryl Markham (1942)
I own this but have not read it. And for whatever reason, I ALWAYS confuse Markham with Amelia Earhart.
4. The Snow Leopard. By Peter Matthiessen (1978)
I have not read this, but I have read and thoroughly enjoyed Mathiessen’s book about great white sharks.
5. Desert Solitaire. By Edward Abbey (1968)
I own it now.
6. Endurance. By F. A. Worsley (1931).
Own it, have read most of it.
7. Sailing Alone Around the World. By Joshua Slocum (1900)
How did I miss this?
8. Into the Wild. By Jon Krakauer (1996)
OK, Christopher McCandless was an extremely foolish young man, but it’s a terrific read.
9. Coming into the Country. By John McPhee (1976)
10. Arabian Sands. By Wilfred Thesiger (1959)
11. Touching the Void. By Joe Simpson (1989)
I own this, but have not read it as I ration my mountain-disaster reading; otherwise I start to get bored. I know, juvenile when I am reading about people in mortal peril but that’s how it goes.
12. The Mountains of My Life. By Walter Bonatti (1998)
13. In Patagonia. Bruce Chatwin (1977)
Own this.
14. Arctic Dreams. Barry Lopez (1986)
Own this.
15. A Short Walk in the Hindu Kush. By Eric Newby (1958)
This looks FABULOUS.
16. Tracks. By Robyn Davidson (1980)
This one is for all you dear Aussies.
17. The Long Way. By Bernard Moitessier (1971)
18. Running the Amazon. By Joe Kane (1989)
19. Young Men and Fire. By Norman Maclean (1992)
This one reminds me of another that piqued my interest, Eric Blehm’s The Last Season.
20. The Great Plains. By Ian Frazier (1989)
21. Kon-Tiki. By Thor Heyerdahl (1950)
A true classic.
22. My Journey to Lhasa. By Alexandra David-Neel (1927)
23. (Tie) Alive. By Pier Paul Read (1974)
Read this, was positively blown away by it. In fact, Nando Parrado’s personal account, Miracle in the Andes, is out in paperback, and I have to go buy it right now.
23. (Tie) The Perfect Storm. By Sebastian Junger (1997)
I read this at the shore one summer, shortly after seeing bits of the movie. Wow. I followed it up with Linda Greenlaw’s The Hungry Ocean, but her writing was not nearly as captivating as Junger’s.
24. A Walk in the Woods. By Bill Bryson (1998)
This is the first Bill Bryson I ever read; I liked it very much but I think In a Sunburned Country (about Australia) is probably my favorite of his.
25. Old Glory. By Jonathan Raban (1981)
This is the only one that doesn’t look all that interesting to me – it smacks too much of Mark Twain. Yawn.
I also found this list of National Geographic’s 100 Best Adventure Books. Many of the titles on the two lists coincide, and I own several more on the NG list. It’s always more fun to go used-book shopping with a goal; now I have one, list in hand.
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