This Blog is Free. Thank God.

Since I’m too broke to travel, I’ve been spending most of my free time hanging out at the Nap Castle, attending to money-saving tasks like posting stuff on Craigslist and taking naps and accompanying Frida on arm-stretching tug-o-walks around the ‘hood. My one indulgence this month was the Northwest Comedy Festival at the Mount Baker Theater, which was a gigantic break from worrying about money and picking up dog crap. I was also introduced to the absolutely hilarious troup Sidecar, now my three favorite people on the planet.

I’ve been low-budget-finishing my Anne Frank Room, the 10x20 space above my garage that with one more coat of paint, some carpet, and a heater, will be my new writing studio. Before James drywalled it, the room looked like it does above. It's looking more finished (and smelling a little fumey) now that I've painted it. Stay tuned...the next blog post should feature the "after" photo!

I figure that I've painted about 80,000 square feet of wall space in my home-owning life, and every job has been made easier by David Sedaris--I've listened to all of his books, some more than once, while painting. Besides the fact that laughing out loud is free and it makes jobs go faster, another advantage is that I've come to associate painting with humor and specifically with Sedaris, making painting something I now dread at least 37% less than emptying the cat box.

This is probably the first post I've written specifically endorsing an audio book, but if you're going to enjoy David Sedaris, the very best way to do it is to listen to him read his own work. Writers who read their own stuff--especially humor--always sound so much better to me than audio books read by actors. Writers know their own words, the places to emphasize ideas or phrases, and best of all, their comic timing is perfect. Actors reading other people's books always sound like they're trying too hard to be dramatic or entertaining.

In the Anne Frank Room this weekend, I listened to Sedaris's latest collection, When You Are Engulfed in Flames, and it eased the tedium and helped me ignore the lack of heat.I've spent so many hours hearing about him and his family that it feels like I'm being kept company by a a cast of friends while I work. Every Sedaris collection, and this one is no exception, features self-deprecating tales of his past and current life. The best thing about his writing is his ability to transform universal scenarios with such fine, personal details--his parents leaving him and his siblings in the care of an eccentric babysitter for a week, for example, in "The Understudy." I know I've had a weird babysitter before. Hell, I've probably been the weird babysitter.

One of my other favorites is "This Old House," about Sedaris's time as a tenant in the boarding house of an eccentric "antiques" collector, a woman who also rented to a schizophrenic man and shared Sedaris's love of the past. Since I'm now sharing my own home with renters (neither of whom is schizo, as far as I can tell), I can see myself as my roommates might--or as they might someday, if I continue sharing my space until I'm as old and crusty as Sedaris's landlady. Since my current housemates are awesome, that wouldn't be such a bad thing.

Given the current economic struggles many are facing, it's a good time for therapeutic projects: scrubbing out the refrigerator, yardening (I recent ripped out some ivy and scrub encroaching on my lawn...it felt fantastic) and maybe, if you can afford it, brightening a gloomy space with a fresh coat of paint. If you don't have the energy or inclination for those, reading is free...and fun.. and your three-year-old nephew will love it!

Enjoy Yourself. It's Later than You Think.

It may seem like a weird time to think about road-tripping, given that the weather is still unpredictable, the roads are in wintery disrepair, and most of us are still months away from anything resembling a vacation. And yet, what better conditions for fantasizing of a get-away? Before I built the Nap Castle, I owned (moment of silent remembrance) the Vanbulance, a fully-equipped Volkswagen camper van; a dream-on-wheels that was going to take me across the country during the summer of 2007. I had a map in my office stick-pinned with destinations, a book about natural hot springs I planned to visit, and a list of people I hoped to see and books I wanted to read along the way. Very little of it came to fruition--I lived in the van for a week during construction and spent a night at a campground where my next door neighbor and his buddy peed on their campfire to put it out. I now must live vicariously through the road-trips of others.

In Michael Zadoorian's new novel, The Leisure Seeker, John and Ella Robina, a long-married couple, take off in their aging motor home to travel Route 66 from Detroit to Disneyland. But this trip, unlike many others they've endeavored is unique: it is positively the last one they will take together. In their 80's, the Robinas are both suffering the cruel effects of old age. John is in the middle stages of Alzheimers, experiencing fewer lucid moments each day, and Ella is stricken with rapidly progressing cancer.

Against the wishes of their children and their doctors, Ella and John kidnap themselves from their hospital beds, forgo further treatment for their ailments, and traverse onward to live out their last days together on the road.

What follows is more than the travelogue of a trip--it's a scrapbook of marriage and family, and a very funny one at that. As they journey westward, the Robinas encounter typical vacation woes: mechanical problems, criminals, bad road conditions, and crummy food (John has a penchant for McDonalds). But their trip is far from usual; in addition to the usual discomforts, both are increasingly ill abnd forgetful.

But the hazards of the road, their illnesses, and their children's worry don't stop the Robinas from continuing their journey and they definitely don't stop them from maintaining the status quo of their marriage: some bickering, a lot of humor, and a deep affection for each other and their shared history.

While I don't necessarily want to travel the country in a 1970's camper van with a crabby old man who wets the bed, I do want to grow old like the Robinas do: with a sense of independence and adventure, and a goal to make the most of the last of my life.

Way More 80's Crap Than I Care to Reveal...

A long time ago, in a place that might as well be a galaxy far away, I did some writing about a high school detective named Veronica. There was a lot of down-time on that job, and I spent some of it doing research that might help my character solve her mysteries more easily. I read about tarot, psychic readings, Catholic symbolism (long story, but the dish of Saint Christopher medals in episode 202, Driver Ed, was my idea), STDs, and a bunch of other stuff that sometimes turned out to be useful, but mostly not.

One thing that would’ve helped me help Veronica is Sam Gosling’s book, Snoop: What Your Stuff Says About You, but it wasn’t published until 2008, and by that time, I was back here, helping high school kids learn important skills such as including a “Table of Contents” at the beginning of their papers instead of a “Table of Context.”[1]

In Snoop Gosling delves into the science behind the messages that our stuff—and the things of others—says about who we are. How does the arrangement of our books reveal our personalities? What do we give away about our innermost selves in the geegaws and knickknackery displayed in our homes, offices, classrooms, and cars? How can we “read” others by looking at their surroundings? What does it mean that I have a set of South Park finger puppets and a unicorn-on-a-stick in my office at school?

Surprisingly, the messages you intend to send when you arrange your tchotchkes aren’t always the ones your observers pick up on, and you can’t always trust what you see when you make guesses about others’ lives based on their stuff. But you can learn some useful tools for understanding people and their personalities, and Gosling’s research and entertaining presentation shows you how.

But his book isn’t just (or really) about snooping on a subversive level. If you want to rummage through your acquaintances’ bedside tables and bathroom cabinets, be my guest, but there are some easier and more valuable things you can learn just by looking and listening to the indicators they display right out in public. And I’m not talking about the friends who have the Vietnamese Love Swing[2] in their rec room or whatever.

Everyday, ordinary, preferences tell us more about people than do the things they hide. Studies have shown, for example, that “music consistently trumps books, clothing, food, movies, and television shows in helping people get to know each other.” Keep that in mind when you’re snooping: you can learn more from the CD collection than the bookshelf.

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[1] Honest to God, someone really wrote that.
[2]Just for the record, I have no idea what a Vietnamese Love Swing is, nor do I know anyone who has one. I don’t think.

Are George and Lennie Mice?

The best thing about working in a library is that you can tell people to be quiet anytime you want and it's completely legitimate. Even if you just want them to shut up because you can't hear your Pandora, no one questions you. People have preconceptions about libraries that lend themselves perfectly to my desire not to listen to them talk about their lives.

Unfortunately, people also have other notions about libraries that are guaranteed to make me ponder hari-kari. Chief among these annoyances is the belief that libraries are places where one person talks to another person in a fearful whisper. I absolutely loathe whisperers, mainly because I can't hear what they're saying, but also because their timidity seems to imply that they must tiptoe around and be careful not to disturb me, lest I go berserk and poke their eyes out with a bone folder. Which I've only done like once, and that was on a day when I was even crabbier than I am right now.

Every profession has its annoyances, and my theory is that they stem not from the actual acts committed by the annoyers, but by the sheer repetition of those acts. How many times do kids have to walk through the alarm system and simulate its "beep beep beep" noise before I've legally earned a paid mental health leave of up to one year? And when I tell someone they have an overdue book and they say, "I've never even heard of that book," shouldn't it be permissable--in fact, required--that I throw something at or near their head? My job, as delightful and rewarding as it is, requires me to answer and/or respond to a wide array of asinine questions. I've detailed them here.

Turns out that my job, as a high school librarian, is, in part anyway, to train the people who will leave this institution and go into the Real World to torment the underpaid and overworked employees of the nation's public libraries. At least that's what I've discerned from reading Scott Douglas's memoir, Quiet, Please: Dispatches from a Public Librarian. You do not have to be a librarian to appreciate his story, just an appreciator of workplace humors. Seriously, if you like The Office, you'll appreciate the interactions Douglas has with the quirky cast of personalities who work with him at the small Anaheim library where most of his story takes place.

Weird patrons, finicky co-workers, and bizarre requests and problems are all a part of being a public librarian, and Scott Douglas makes hilarious work of his daily duties, which include not just answering stupid questions and chasing away misbehaving teenagers, but also fetching people who've fallen asleep in the bathroom, confiscating contraband, and requesting that masturbators take their um, handiwork, elsewhere. These are all things I've had to do in my own job (in addition to asking students to please not ninja-kick each other) so I'm obviously training the students well for their future library lives. Either way, this is a highly recommended read--one of the funniest books I've read this year.

When I'm Sixty-Four

I've been in Mexico four days and somehow can't seem to get Beatles songs out of my head. The cars and bars blast musica latina, 80s tunes, and a crapload of Air Supply, but Amy and I keep singing about returning to Puerto Vallarta to retire. We've modified the lyrics of "When I'm Sixty-Four" to accomodate our optimism about being nonegenarians at Playa de Los Muertos, and I keep humming "Paperback Writer." Hmmm.

If one IS a writer of paperbacks, there is a good chance that your work will end up in a cafe like Una Pagina del Sol, where travelers can trade used and/or crap books for credit towards purchases on other used and/or crap books traded in by other vacationers. Pagina (which just for the record, is pronounced pah-hee-nuh, NOT pa-JI-nuh) is located at 299 Olas Altas, on a busy corner in the Zona Romantica, ideal for watching tourists and just steps from Los Arcos, a large, clean hotel with easily accessible banos. "Going to Los Arcos" has become code for "the coffee just kicked in, and I'm going to appreciate the privacy of a clean bathroom."

The cafe/bookstore is frequented mainly by local ex-patriates and tourists, but not the kind wearing fluourescent bracelets who arrive on gigantic air-conditioned buses. We sat and watched as a terrified trio of these visitors huddled on the corner, waiting 25 minutes for the bus to return them to their hotel in Nuevo Vallarta, the land of Costco, Walmart, and gated security. 25 minutes! "Waiting for the tour bus" is our new synonym for wasting precious time in the midst of a beautiful life. It is the opposite of Saying Yes.

At Pagina, my personal shopper Amy helped me select books that allowed me to utilize my 30 peso credit as well as rid myself of another burdensome $70 pesos. Pagina has delicious coffee, superior licuados, and an unforgettable tres leches cake, but many of the books are of the yellow-paged, spine-cracked Grisham/Steel variety. However, we did find a copy of Deborah Rodriguez's memoir Kabul Beauty School and a 1978 paperback entitled How to Ask a Man by Judi Miller.

Miller's book, published at the height of women's lib, is intended for women who "wish not to be trapped by an old-fashioned dating sytem" and hope to "learn to approach a man--the RIGHT man!" by "bringing dating out of the dark ages!" It has provided quite a lot of poolside entertainment. Besides advising women to ask to see a prospective date's divorce papers, Miller also suggests that women cook for their man-of-interest. "Everyone has her own special recipe to use when a man comes to dinner. Whether it's Beef Stroganoff or Veal Scallopini, make sure you have three or four can't-miss recipes in your repertoire!" Other chapters include "Stopping That Macho Before It Becomes Too Mucho" and "Go Ahead! Pick Him Up!"

Kabul Beauty School, interestingly enough, is also about women's issues; Rodriguez went to Afghanistan in 2001 on a relief mission, and ended up returning there to live when she discovered that Afghan women were in need of professional haircare and that there were many women interested in running their own salons. Because of strict Islamic regulations requiring the separation of women and men for such personal services as hair care, waxing, and make-up, as well as the need for professionals to perform elaborate pre-wedding-ceremony hairstyling and removal rituals, Rodriguez recognized that women in Kabul needed each other, and she opened a school to help train a cadre of beauty professionals. Her story of friendship and love in an unlikely place is absorbing and uplifting, proof that we can all get by with a little help from our friends.

A Postcard from PV

A brief blog from the sunnier section: I'm on a sabbatical from the snow and rain, reading my way around Puerto Vallarta, where it's a surreal 80 degrees. I'm working on an article for the spring edition of Village Books' Chuckanut Reader, so I assume that all of my expenses on this trip are write-off-able, even if I am writing nothing about Mexico.

The topic for my upcoming piece in the CR is "light reads for dark times" and I'm focusing on smart humor to uplift and entertain us through economic hard times and other crap that sucks the fun out of life. So far, I haven't been able to add anything new to my list, but have been actively eliminating potential suggestions. For example, I didn't even have to read I Hope There's Beer in Hell by Tucker Max, because one of my travelmates (who asked not to be named so as not to be associated with the book) hated the book so much that he even refused to trade it in for credit at La Pagina del Sol, the favorite cafe/bookstore of the trio.

Apparently, Max writes proudly, exclusively, and in exhaustingly disgusting detail about his excessive drinking, mistreatment of women (including his "standards" regarding who he'll date), and his obnoxious attitudes about sex and just about everything else. One of those books that seems like a fun idea when you buy it at the airport, and then later just feels like a huge embarrassment. Perfect for chopping up and making some sort of craft project out of. Or something.

On the flight, I read most of Shauna Reid's memoir Adventures of Diet Girl because 1) I'd read a review of it thta made it sound funny and similar to Wendy McClure's weight-loss memoir, I'm Not the New Me; 2) like McClure's book, Reid's began as a blog about her amazing weight loss, and 3) I liked the cover. Reid's story is uplifting and fun, and her accomplishment is worthy of commendation, but the book feels too much like it was lifted directly from the blog without any further embellishment--no real subplots or suspense, and frankly, the writing is average and not particularly unuique. However, if your New Year's resolution includes shedding some excess flesh, consider this one as part of the overall motivational package. I certainly do, although for now, I'm off for some chilequiles. The workouts will have to wait...Adios y feliz ano nuevo!

Snow and Strippers

Snowbound for days, you would reasonably assume that I did nothing but read pile after pile of books, gleefully thankful that my mini-van was undriveable, work unaccessible, and the outside world an unreachable, distant memory. Not so much.

During my houseboundness, I spent way too much time napping, a solid amount of hours watching DVDs (season 4 of LOST) and only a limited number of minutes churning through the tower of books that threatens to fall from my bedside table and crush me in the wee hours of the night before Frida has a chance to wake me up for her ass-crack-of-dawn pee.

When I wasn't sleeping or watching Matthew Fox (!!!), I read one highly recommendable work of fiction, The Garden of Last Days by Andre Dubus III. A few years back, I risked alienating some of you by enthusiastically promoting Dubus's novel House of Sand and Fog, a book which, apparently, has the ability to really piss a lot of people off and provoke arguments among otherwise peaceable friends.

Good news! The Garden of Last Days threatens to do the exact same thing, and I know most of you will read it anyway. Like House of Sand and Fog, Dubus's new novel revolves around a circle of loosely connected characters whose fates intertwine by chance. Just as in the earlier novel, readers will love and hate these people, peeking through their fingers to watch as they repeatedly take steps to insure that their lives will be hopelessly screwed up. Yet even as we watch their lives devolve in a series of bad decisions, their stories are impossible to abandon.

The action takes place in Florida, in the three days preceding the 9/11/2001 attacks. A single mother struggling to save for a home and stuck without her usual babysitter must bring her three-year-old daughter to work with her at The Puma Club for Men, arranging for another of the dancers to watch her daughter. At the club that night is Bassam, a Muslim man preparing to sacrifice his life for his religion. Also in the audience is AJ, a young father whose wife has recently kicked him out of the house. The unlikely confluence of these individuals at this place on this night makes for an unforgettable, gripping read.

It's unlikely that many readers would expect to sympathize with a stripper, a wife-beater, and a 9/11 conspirator, and yet Dubus so completely realizes these characters' lives, their hopes, dreams, doubts, and passions, that it is impossible not to understand what motivates them and moves them to live as they do. Certain to inspire much discussion and thought, this is one of the most powerful novels I've read.