Alexandra477

The Heaviest Christmas Present.

Many years ago, I got an extra special Christmas gift from my father. He was so excited about it that he began calling me in early November to gloat. The man has an enviable knack for superlatives.

“I really did it this year,” he told me. “I got you what might be the greatest present of all time. I just don’t know how I’m gonna top this one.”

It continued like this for days, and then weeks. “I mean, Al, I’ve outdone myself. I almost don’t want to give it to you, because that’ll be it. It’ll be the year I gave you this, and nothing else will measure up.”

He also said that shipping said wünderprez would be a major undertaking, the likes of which I’d never seen. What can it be? I wondered. Can you actually FedEx a horse? And then a large brown box, the heaviest one I’ve ever encountered, arrived on my doorstep. I thought maybe it was a compact barbell system for the basement, or a Thomas-Jefferson-era fruitcake. Or maybe a compact horse.

Finally, Christmas rolled around and I opened it. And he was right. It was the most marvelous gift a person like me could ever hope to receive.

Let me explain. Growing up, I was obsessed with The Far Side. “Obsessed” isn’t a strong enough word to describe my commitment to the brand. Let’s just say I wrote a college entrance essay about it in 1993. One of the topics was “If you could meet anyone, living or deceased, who would it be?” Abraham Lincoln? Bo-ring. Mother Theresa? Yawn¹. I wanted to meet Gary Larson for breakfast, and I feverishly scribbled to my first-choice school about it². You see, every Christmas throughout my childhood, my dad gave me a flip-a-day Far Side calendar. This way, I could greet each dawn with a snort and a chortle. Unbeknownst to me, The Complete Far Side was created in 2003. It’s a double-volume, 1,272-page compendium of every Far Side cartoon from 1980 to 1994. It weighs 18 pounds.

These annals of dark humor live in my kitchen, lest I need a zap of hilarity at a moment’s notice. Thanks, Dad. And Mr. Larson: that waffle invitation was an open one.

1 No offense, MT. We good?
2 They let me in. High five to my fellow sordid homey in the Admissions office.

Emily Barr.

Many years ago, my dear friend Kristin told me about a British author named Emily Barr and a book called Backpack. Kristin has smashing taste in prose, so I bought it. And I read every page of that thing so hard it should’ve turned to pulp. Since then, I’ve ravaged every novel that Ms. Barr, a former travel columnist, has ever written. I just finished her latest work, The First Wife, in less than three days¹. When I read a Barr Book, the world basically (and gloriously) stops, and I basically (and gloriously) can’t do anything else until I complete it. As with books by Isabel Allende, Laura Esquivel, David Sedaris, and Laurie Notaro, I scribble the release date of every forthcoming Barr treasure in my planner and pre-order it. Her books are only available in the United Kingdom, so I always have to ship them across the pond. If you like pithy thrillers about strong (or soon-to-be-strong) women, have an obsession with Europe, Asian, and/or Australian travel, and love learning new British catchphrases, you just might enjoy Emily Barr half as much as I do.

1: I also just finished Tina Fey’s new memoir Bossypants, which was hilariously bright and candid.

   

The Lacuna & Water for Elephants.

My favorite quality in protagonists is the willingness to jump into a life-altering situation without knowing where it will lead. Unknown quests take readers on a great ride, allowing us to burrow in journeys of self-discovery (or antidiscovery). Historical fiction books about guileless main characters often reveal massive depth of soul. Plus they’re really, really fun to read.

In The Lacuna by Barbara Kingsolver, Harrison Shepherd hovers between the United States and Mexico, never quite belonging to either. He serves as an assistant to Diego Rivera, a cook, a federal art transporter, a personal secretary to Leon Trotsky, a close friend of Frida Kahlo, a wildly revered novelist, a closeted homosexual, and a societal outcast. His success and subsequent downfall stem from being in the wrong place at the right time. He never fits in, so he acquires tools to build a secret guidebook to life that pertains only to him. The newly orphaned and under-experienced Jacob Jankowski of Sara Gruen’s Water for Elephants is torn between the tragedy of “normal” life and the pageantic, lascivious world of The Benzini Brothers Most Spectacular Show on Earth. Like the fast-moving circus train upon which he leaps, Jacob careens into his capacity for mental strength, integrity, and romantic love. Both Kingsolver and Gruen shape the billowing progress of their leading men with fluidity and poise. Few things, after all, rival characters with character.

The Book That Took Me 11 Years To Read.

I recently finished reading White Teeth by Zadie Smith. Even though I bought a copy in 2000 when it was first published, I couldn’t manage to tackle its layered complexity. So after several years and multiple attempts, I stashed it in the bookcase. Until a couple of months ago when I read it, relished it, and subsequently had my socks blown clean off. Without giving away one morsel, I will say this: It’s astoundingly and feverishly written. It profoundly captures the voices of numerous characters. And it baffles me to the core that Ms. Smith wrote it when she was 24 years old. I look forward to marveling at how she owns every word of her two remaining novels.

   

Laurie Notaro At The Columbus Performing Arts Center.

“We’re all friends here,” famed author Laurie Notaro said last night to a giddy crowd of multi-aged women. And I believed her. After reading every one of her books, I do feel like she’s my pal. Laurie made her first trip to Columbus as part of the Thurber House Evenings With Authors series. She read excerpts from her new book Spooky Little Girl, which was released nationwide on Tuesday, and portions of her unnamed forthcoming essay collection.

Laurie’s warmth and easy smile immediately reminded me of Annabeth Gish. She was relaxed, gracious, and lightning-witted. Instead of talking to us, she was confiding in us. We were all in her attic with a towel shoved under the door and a pack of contraband cigarettes. There was only one other time in my life that I got to see a favorite author, so this was big. The flutterings in my stomach quashed those of going to Jeni’s or winning a bagged goldfish at the state fair. “I’m freaking out right now,” I kept whispering to my boyfriend.

You know how they say guests on The Daily Show shouldn’t try to be funny, because their “jokes” will just tank that much more epically against Jon Stewart’s? I think Laurie could pull it off. She gloriously recounted Ambien hazes and familial absurdities. She lamented underappreciated Halloween costumes, such as Anna Nicole Smith in clown makeup, Ann Coulter eating a baby sandwich, and Bette Davis’ character from What Ever Happened To Baby Jane? My boyfriend, who has never read any of Laurie’s books, was the evening’s loudest cackler on more than one occasion.

In person, you see Laurie’s strength and kindness. She respects her fans and believes in the graceful power of serving as sidesplitting neo-feminist. During the question and answer session, she awarded inquirers with homemade tin bookmarks from a baggie in her purse. Each woman prefaced her question wit heartfelt remarks about how Laurie’s books have unequivocally inspired them. I didn’t ask a question or stand in line to have my copy of Spooky Little Girl autographed. Those types of situations make me squirrely and typically result in blushing, sweating, stammering, and sometimes fainting. Instead I took with me Laurie’s mantra about writing. She said that she writes quickly and doesn’t look back, so as not to kill her natural magic with scrupulous rehashing. Now that was some sage advice from a true friend.

 

David Cross Owes Me Kleenex.

Forty-six. That’s the number of times I laughed out loud reading David Cross’ new(ish) book “I Drink For A Reason.” I’ve been a fan of his for years and couldn't wait for his authorial debut. When I wasn’t wiping my nose or eyes with my sleeve from laughing too hard, I was marveling at his precocity. The guy is a genius. Similar to Jon Stewart, he has enough foresight to build hilarious jokes that are crammed with real information. This 236-page compendium of random lists, salty musings, and loving hate letters rivals his bits about Squagels and electric scissors.

To start off, he dedicated the book to himself. (“For me. I couldn’t have done it without you.”) Then he proceeds to ladle acerbic gravy all over Bill O’ Reilly, James Frey, and Larry the Cable the Guy. But it's his colossal ire toward Jim Belushi that's more memorable than a Serta visco elastic pillow. One encounter with “The Belush” (a.k.a. “Beluminator,” Bubbaloosh,” and “Belulu”) at the Stardust Casino in Las Vegas was enough to plague the tepidly talented actor with penchants for passed-out babysitters, Whasssuppp Budweiser ads, and cross-dressing strippers. And as someone who writes music reviews, I gleefully recoiled while reading the chapter “Top Ten CDs to Listen to while Listening to Other CDs,” in which David galvanizes Pitchfork reviewers for being “very, very precious and often overly verbose.” After excerpts from actual album reviews he inserts his own creations, like “Only the Proletariat Flosses” by Screaming at the Mirror and “Elegant Nuisance” by ButterFat 100.  

If you like to laugh, appreciate The Onion, were born between 1965 and 1978, shun FOX News, and admire Tobias Fünke, please: Read this book.

 

 

 

Hipsters & Algebra.

We swung by a little hipster neighborhood gathering the other night. Amidst the sea of tattoos and messenger bags I saw this book:

The title alone made me sweat doofy uncool bullets. Poser alert. In high school my pre-calculus teacher sent home a note dissuading my parents from enrolling me in real calculus. In college I was advised to take “Discreet Mathematics” to fulfill my one math requirement. It was comforting to meet a few other people who also counted with their fingers.

I could squeeze into a pair of skinny jeans and throw on sunglasses covering all but my chin, but I still won’t be able to tell you why 3x + 1 = 10.

Boy Bands & Chuck Klosterman.

I just finished Chuck Klosterman’s latest book (and first novel), “Downtown Owl.” It takes place during the early 80’s in a fictional North Dakota town “where disco is over but punk never happened.” According to the dust jacket it’s a “darkly comedic story of how it feels to exist in a community where rural mythology and violent reality are pretty much the same thing.”

It made me grateful for not living in a two-traffic-light town or having a nickname like Baby Ass Jam.

Perhaps the most amusing part of “Downtown Owl” is a hypothetical fistfight between a stocky maniac who (intentionally) burned his arm multiple times with the cigarette lighter from his Barracuda and a superstar athlete who’s as dumb as he is large.

When diving into Chuck’s books I take my time and reread every sentence. The man makes me guffaw like no one’s business and his syntax is pure wizardry. I accosted him a few years ago at the Newark airport; we were on the same flight so I slinked over to him and blubbered “You’re so awesome, I’ve read all of your books.” It wasn’t unlike a fourth grade girl at a Jonas Brothers concert.

Devouring Twilight.

Yes, I’m in my thirties. Most of the time I act like an adult but sometimes it’s like so super cool to like get caught in a teen trap, you know? I recently ravaged all four books in the Twilight saga (or as my boyfriend likes to call it, “Teen Vampire Lust”). I haven’t been this besotted with a series since Flowers in the Attic. Naturally Amazon has added me to its teen paranormal email list, and naturally I haven’t unsubscribed from it. Last night I rather enjoyed watching the first "Twilight" movie despite its morbid reviews. It wasn’t nearly as riveting as the book but it provided a beautifully saccharine adolescent escape. The sequel “New Moon” hits theaters this November and I’m unashamed to admit that I’m looking forward to it.

Signed,
The Girl Who Used To Stay Home To Watch Roswell.