That's What She Said

I'm a sucker for collections of articles that I probably would never have read when they were first published online or in magazines, mostly because the only magazines I ever look at are of the craft porn variety (you know, those with lots of pictures of cool projects I'll probably never get around to doing).

But there are collections of articles and essays that are published every year that catch my attention for whatever reason--sometimes because of the editor (Dave Eggers and the Best Nonrequired American Reading, for example), occasionally because of the provocative cover, most frequently because of the topic. Such is the case with Best Sex Writing 2010.

Now I know there are people out there yawning and thinking boorrriinnnggg, who wants to read about sex? so you folks can go back to studying biscuit recipes or the latest issue of Cat Fancy and I'll continue writing for that segment of the audience interested in sex. You know who you are.

Despite its tantalizing cover, this collection of essays isn't as prurient as it appears; although a few of the pieces are specifically about their authors' sexual experiences and/or interests, most are more intriguing, more political, and more about social issues related to sex than they are about exciting the reader. Nevertheless, there is a lot to be intrigued by and educated about in this collection.

Of particular interest to me were the articles about teen sexting, which is a big issue at the high school level and a concern of teachers and parents; another about sex ed and the failure of abstinence-only programs; a reassuring article by a guy who appreciates women's bodies, even the imperfect ones, and one about the crazy trend of plastic surgery on women's private parts. Yikes.

Here's my challenge, reader friends: find a book that you thought you'd never read, or one that makes you uncomfortable or a little sheepish or that you might have to hide from your kids. I think you'll find it oddly satisfying...

This is My Story, and I'm Sticking to It

"Ms. Belben, have you read Moby Dick?" a student asked me today. "Nope," I responded gleefully. Stunned, he stared at me for a minute. "Why not? You're a librarian! It's a literary classic!" I shrugged and gave him a variation of the same response I gave my roommate the other day when he expressed shock that I had not read Lolita. "I have read thousands of books," I told Q., laughing. "I prefer not to be judged by the ones I haven't read."

I also prefer not to be judged by the books I have read and have not blogged about, since my blog has been hibernating since Veterans' Day. I wish I had some witty or impressive explanation for that, like being too busy training for the Ms. Olympia contest, or having spent the past two months studying manuals on exciting new sexual techniques, but I can't claim anything of the sort. I've been reading, but I've also been lazy (BTW, if you haven't seen the first three seasons of Friday Night Lights, they're awesome). Also, I handmade 90% of my holiday gifts this year, and it's hard to sew and read anything, let alone Moby Dick.

Perhaps if I had a clone, one that I could program and assign some of my tasks (wrangling the chickens and cleaning up after Frida come to mind), I would get more read and written. But I don't have a clone, and I don't want one. I don't think the world wants one. And after reading the amazingly well-written novel Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro, I'm more than a little frightened at the prospect of cloning, anyway.

When I originally began reading Never Let Me Go, I was following the advice of several writers (I think Steven King was one, but I can't remember) who placed the novel on their "best of the decade" list without going into detail about its plot, so I thought it was just another book about thirty-somethings reflecting on their years in an exclusive British boarding school, and all of the juicy secrets and liasions that permeate the lives of a bunch of teenagers living together.

But Ishiguro has created a much darker, much more sly world beneath the reminiscence-of-boarding-school facade. In this case, the students at Hailsham are, in fact, wards of the state who have been bred specifically to be used as donors for diseased and injured people. These children are the products of a society that has made the preservation of existing human life paramount, and its populace has become so accustomed to medical advances that it is a foregone conclusion that an amputation, a cancer, a failed organ will be replaced in what has become a fairly routine system. But the kicker is, the children don't know who or what they are--all they've ever known is life at the secluded school, and they haven't been told anything about what will become of them.

What makes this novel so stunning, so absolutely incredible and unforgettably powerful is the subtle, creepy, and truly masterful way Ishiguro subtley unveils the truth about the children's conception and their fate. Narrated by Kathy B., the story unfolds gradually but not slowly, as the 30-year-old narrator recalls the friendships she shared with others at Hailsham, specifically Ruth and Tommy. In retracing the development of their complicated threesome, she also exposes, piece by piece, the quiet clues the students pieced together through the years about the true nature of their existance. Without resorting to graphic description or gore, Ishiguro makes the culture that led to these characters' fate absolutely believable and horrible to contemplate.

Cultural critic and author Chuck Klosterman, a writer I consider an idea guru, has said that he doesn't think fiction has much importance anymore. "I don't think novels are shaping the way people think about the world, regardless of their merit as art." I would beg to differ with Mr. Klosterman on this point. Even if, as he points out, the best-selling novels are about wizards and vampires, I still think those shape how people see the world. Fortunately, though, there is other fiction out there that is also forcing us to reckon with the bigger, more realistic possibilities of our medical and technological advances--Never Let Me Go is one of them.

It's almost not entirely a coincidence that I'm writing about Where Men Win Glory: The Odyssey of Pat Tillman by Jon Krakauer on (or around) Veteran's Day. I would be writing about it anyway, eventually, so why not now? Even though I'm not quite done reading it, it's well worth recommending, and far more appropriate for a solemn national holiday than the other two books I just read, one entitled How Sex Works and the other a young adult novel in which the plot hinges on a scene where the narrator craps his pants.

If you're unfamiliar with the story, Pat Tillman was a professional football player who, following the 9/11 attacks, gave up his $3 million contract and joined the Army with his younger brother, Kevin. The two trained together and became members of an elite force, were sent to Afghanistan, and Pat Tillman was killed. Investigations into his death revealed that he had been accidentally shot by an American soldier and that the incident was covered up by the military.

Krakauer has a talent for delving deep into the backstory when he writes; Into Thin Air, Into the Wild, and Under the Banner of Heaven all provided thorough examinations not only of the individuals he wrote about, but the circumstances and politics surrounding their situations. His story of Pat Tillman's life and death is no different. Krakauer begins with an explanation of the conflict in Afghanistan, including the formation of the Taliban, that involved a lot of names and words that are really hard to spell and pronounce and which I will never remember. However, it did provide me with a better understanding of why the U.S. got involved.

The best parts of the book, however (and probably the reason most people will read it) are the details about Pat Tillman, his life and personality, and his almost unfathomable decision to give up his life's dream to go to war. Tillman was, as Krakauer clearly illustrates, a charismatic, intelligent and sometimes inscrutable character who doesn't fit the NFL stereotypes. Details about his life come mainly from his widow, Marie Tillman, who worked closely with Krakauer in writing the story and who continues to do work in memory of Pat Tillman.

I haven't finished reading Where Men Win Glory yet. I'm stuck on the portion about the Tillmans' relationship, their deep love for one another, and the affection that Pat Tillman wrote about regularly in letters to Marie and his own journals. The tragedy of his death is magnified by this fully realized portrait of who Pat Tillman was not just unto himself, but in the lives of those who were deeply affected by his charisma, humor, intelligence, and eventually, his death.

Short, Sweet, Easy to Eat

Nicholson Baker has long been one of my favorite writers, every since I read his weirdly wonderful novel The Mezzanine years ago. In his latest novel, The Anthologist, Baker's protagonist is Paul Chowder, an anthologist charged with writing the introduction to a collection of poems. Chowder, however, has a severe case of writer's block, and can't seem to manage to eke out the 10-12 pages he needs to write. Instead, he finds himself explaining poetry--what it is, how it works, why it's wonderful.

Why it's wonderful is because Nicholson Baker is writing about it, and he has a gift for language unsurpassed by any living writer, in my opinion. Even non-poetry lovers will appreciate his humor and insight, and they'll learn some things about poems in the process, and a great deal about the art of writing, too. This is one of those books where I found myself sticky-noting passages to return to later (of course, half those sticky notes fell off when I was reading in bed and got stuck in my hair while I slept, but nevertheless).

The irony, of course, in Paul Chowder's life, is that for all the time he spends explicating the art of poetry, he could have easily finished his assignment (not unlike some high school students I know who spend more time complaining than researching). Thank god he doesn't, because his observations are much more interesting. One of my favorites is his criticism of haiku, a poetic form that I've never really liked. And here it is, the reason why, perfectly articulated: "This is the kind of poetry that makes perfect, thrilling sense in Japanese, and makes no sense whatsoever in English. That's what [the teacher] should have told us. This form is completely out of step with the English language. Seven syllables, eleven syllables, five syllables? Come on, how does English poetry actually work. It doesn't work that way. I don't know Japanese, but haiku in Japanese had all kinds of interesting salt-glaze impurities going on that are stripped away in translation."

My nephew, Thomas, is just a month shy of his fourth birthday, and has become fascinated by rhymes in recent months, making Paul Chowder's commentary on rhyming especially poignant in a kind of an "a-ha! so that's why rhymes are so much fun!" kind of way. "The tongue is a rhyming fool," Baker writes. "It wants to rhyme because that's how it stores what it knows. It's got a detailed checklist for every consonant and vowel...and somewhere in there, on some neural net in your underconsciousness, stored away, all these checklists, or neuromuscular profiles, or call them sound curves, are stored away, like the parts of car bodies, or spoons, with similar shapes nested near each other...what rhyming poems do is they take all these nearby sound curves and remind you that they first existed that way in your brain..." Well, that's probably more complicated than anything Thomas understands, but it works for me. Chances are, it works for you, too.

Catchup Is Delicious

I returned recently from a quick weekend trip to San Francisco, where I met up with my parents, aunts Barbara and Marjorie, cousins, and good friends Steve and Amy. The time with them really made me thankful that despite its assorted weirdnesses (Aunt Barbara's collection of seasonally attired Barbie dolls, for example, and my dad's trunk full of glow-in-the-dark ephemera), my family and its extensions have really good juju.

Besides traipsing around Chinatown, Haight, and NorthBeach, I also read a lot. On the plane, on BART during an extended tour of Oakland (I took the wrong train at one point), and at SeaTac during my three-hour layover waiting for a flight home to Bellingham (and yes, I realize I could practically walk home in that amount of time. Thanks, Horizon!) At any rate, here's a wrap-up of some of the best I've read recently:

This is Where I Leave You by Jonathan Tropper

Quite possibly the funniest book I've read this year, Tropper's novel features a family with a little more baggage than mine. The four adult siblings gather to sit shiva for their recently dead father, and bring a load of issues, resentments, and current FUBAR life scenarios with them. Narrated by thirty-something Judd (whose wife has recently left him for his boss), this novel brims with spot-on dialogue, loads of physical comedy, a simple plot that nevertheless twists and surprises, and intelligent insights that had me folding down corners. "You can sit up here," Judd muses, "feeling above it all while knowing you're not, coming to the lonely conclusion that the only thing you can ever really know about anyone is that you don't know anything about them at all." Amen.

Songs for the Missing by Stewart O'Nan

If you're a regular reader of this blog (and who isn't, really?), you may be familiar with my appreciation for missing person stories. I love the intrigue and the tension of stories about people who've vanished, and Stewart O'Nan's latest novel, Songs for the Missing, has both, plus a whole lot more. The plot revolves around the disappearance of Kim Larsen during the summer before she's about to leave home for college. Like The Lovely Bones, the story focuses on the impact of the mystery on Kim's family and friends, and their struggle to cope with their bewilderment, grief, and (for some) sense of guilt. Could not put down. Gripping, with a satisfying ending.

Accidentally on Purpose by Mary Pols (Memoir)

Mary Pols, at 39, gets pregnant after a one-night stand with a much-younger guy, decides to write a book about it, the book gets optioned for a TV show and she probably has way more money now. As much as I liked the story and Pols' writing, I couldn't help but feel a little sad throughout, because even though her adorable and sexy baby-daddy carries through on his promise to stick around and help raise their son, he isn't a partner in every respect, and despite his love for their boy, he doesn't love Mary, and that emptiness echoes throughout the story. It's enough to make a person rush out to Fred Meyer and buy condoms.

Juliet, Naked by Nick Hornby

The protagonists of Hornby's novel, Annie and Duncan, have been together for fifteen years, but their relationship is ending, in part because of Duncan's obsession with a reclusive musician named Tucker Crowe who hasn't recorded an album in 20 years.

When Annie intercepts a recording that has been sent to Duncan by a fan of his Tucker Crowe fansite, she discovers it is a raw recording of the songs on Crowe's most famous album, Juliet. In listening to it before Duncan does, she violates his trust, angers him, and their relationship ends--not entirely to Annie's disappointent. She's grown weary of Duncan's obsession, wants to have a baby, and is ready to move on with her life. So she contacts Tucker Crowe herself, and the two strike up an email friendship...and that's when things really get interesting.

This is what planes, trains and airports are good for: getting me caught up on the towering pile of bedside table books...and now I am. Almost. Honest.

Born to Pun (Sorry)

Runners are in the headlines lately, what with Usain Bolt's record-setting time and the recent investigation into the sexuality of South African phenom Caster Semenya. Also, since Mayor Pike has offered Jon Stewart a key to the city, it seemed like a good time to recommend a book about running that I learned about from watching The Daily Show. (On a totally unrelated tangent, how many books do they recommend on Fox "News"?)

Born to Run: A Hidden Tribe, Superathletes, and the Greatest Race the World has Never Seen grew out of an article Christopher McDougall wrote for Outside magazine about the Tarahumara Indians of Mexico. The Tarahumara, who live deep in the isolated Copper Canyons, have developed an amazing talent for running extreme distances--over a hundred miles a day, in some cases.In addition, they have escaped major diseases that afflict others in the Western world, such as cancer, diabetes, and obesity.

Intrigued by stories of these runners, and curious about what they could teach him about running and living healthfully, McDougall ventured into the Copper Canyons to seek El Caballo Blanco, a mysterious white man rumored to live among the Tarahumara and know their secrets.

What follows is part mystery story, part adventure, part history lesson, part physiology 101, and altogether absorbing story of the Tarahumara, the history of ultramarathoning and the obscure and unusual group of people who train for and compete in these incredible tests of endurance.

What I Did This Summer by Cathy B.

Summer for me, is partially officially over, since I signed up to teach a three-week summer school program for incoming ninth-graders who need a little extra boost before beginning their regular high school courses. Lest you think I’ve completely lost my whole entire mind, know that 1) I’m getting paid for this gig; 2) it’s only 4 hours a day, 4 days a week; 3) it’s kinda fun, and 4) frankly, I wasn’t doing anything else anyway.

I define my existance, in large part, by how I spend my summers. Referring to “the summer I_______” helps place my life’s trajectory in a timeline. “The summer I was in L.A.,” “The summer I went to school in San Diego,” “The summer I nannied Wyatt,” these are all statements that allow me to pinpoint where/when/what I was at a given point in time. This summer, ’09, is notable for the following (and I am NOT bragging): it is, in no particular order: the summer I joined Facebook, the summer I nearly wore a dent in the chaise on my front porch, the summer I….frak. I can’t think of anything else. This summer may be notable only because it is the first summer I did typical summer stuff: laid around in the sun, slept in, avoided responsibility and read 8 billion books. Dreamlike in its simplicity and yet somehow unfulfilling. Teaching summer school is a welcome break from a life of relentless leisure. Seriously, one more nap and I was going to have to get prescription Neosporin for the bedsores.

I did manage to get a couple of projects done, and again, I’m not bragging, I’m just saying. One day I touched up all the divots in the paint around the house. Very satisfying. I washed the baseboards. I finally labeled that row of perplexing light switches in the living room. I put up towel-hooks and a bottle opener next to the hot tub. I planted lavender, basil, rosemary, and mint (only the mint died). I made serious progress on the soda-can art thingy (undefinable) I’ve been working on since 2004 and hung window frames for “privacy” in front of the hot tub. I bogarted the neighbors’ sewing machine and sewed pockets in the roommate’s sweatpants. I made a few greeting cards that also involved sewing. I did not make any more wine gift-bags from the sleeves of the shirts of a now-forgotten ex-boyfriend. I did not make any voodoo dolls. Honest.

Knowing that I'll have less time to do it later, I also spent some of my summer making some of my Christmas gifts. I got a little help from my most recent favorite craft book, The Big Ass Book of Crafts by Mark Montano. I can't tell you the specifics on the projects I completed, because you might be among the eventual recipients, but let's just say that Montano has 150+ ideas, some of which will remind you of the 1970's (think macrame and glued-on pasta), but most of them are creative, fun, and not too time-consuming. Most don't require any special tools, skill, or artistic flair, and many can be adapted for kids, which, if you're at the end of summer and you have children, will probably come as a blessed relief. Something to occupy them...and use up all those popsicle sticks. Craft on!