First things first. I now have one of these (!):
And it is wonderful. I’m kind of obsessed with it, actually. It’s pretty much the sleekest, fastest, prettiest machine I’ve ever laid eyes on.
Anyway! So there’s a book review in the latest issue of the New Yorker that really got my goat. It’s James Wood’s scathing critique of Paul Auster’s latest novel, Invisible, and of his entire body of work, which, according to Mr. Wood, is an endless stream of unimaginative novels that uses the same predictable plot twists and forced dialogue. I’m not arguing with Wood’s conclusion — I’ve only ever read one of Auster’s novels, The Brooklyn Follies, which was as quick and easy to read and as it was to forget. Nonetheless:
- Is it really necessary to reveal the entire structure and plot of a novel when you review it? Not that I have any intention of reading Invisible, or any of the other books mentioned, but if I ever did there certainly would be no reason to now.
- At some point, a book reviewer has to make an executive decision: “Do I want to sound like a cranky old windbag, or not?” James Wood may detest Paul Auster’s fiction, but he sure has read a LOT of it. If he can’t find something nice to say about his work, then perhaps he should just stop reading it.
- Excessive name-dropping: WTF? I’m not sure I’ve ever read a review of a book in the New Yorker that doesn’t refer to about fifteen other authors. These dropped names often serve no purpose, it seems, other than to prove the reviewer’s literary cred.
- Forgive me, but does this mean anything to you? “[Philip] Roth’s narrative games emerge naturally from his consideration of ordinary human ironies and comedies; they do not start life as allegories about the relativity of mimesis, though they may become them. [José] Saramago and Roth both assemble and disassemble their stories in ways that seem fundamentally grave. Auster, despite all the games, is the least ironic of contemporary writers.” Translation: “I have more education than you do, and Auster isn’t as talented as Roth or Saramago. Also, the cartoon you see on the next page doesn’t make any sense to me either. Just pretend you get it — everyone else does.”
If there is something that can be said in five words, the New Yorker will say it in twenty and weave in at least seven that you’ve never even heard of. It’s simultaneously humbling and infuriating.
And on that note, I think I’ll go back to ogling my beautiful new laptop…
For the first time in the five years I’ve had this blog, I can finally say this about the World Series:
THE YANKEES WIN! THHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE YANKEES WIN!!!
That is all.
(Don’t hate me; I’m a New Yorker.)
I am officially old — and not just because I’m about to buy a house. Consider the following:
- On an airplane, I was seated next to a teenager and her father. As we were waiting to take off, the girl, maybe 14 or so, noticed my crossword puzzle and she mentioned that she finds them too challenging. We chatted for a bit about that, and then I asked her if she happened to know the name of the actress in My Big Fat Greek Wedding, who was making a cameo in one of the across clues. “Oh, I can’t remember,” she said. “You could –” she cut herself off, like she was thinking better of what she had to say. Then, in the same way an American traveler asks a foreigner if they speak English, she said: “Do you text?” Yes, I responded, I text. “Because you could text CHACHA for the answer.” Yes, folks. It is true. I look too old to know how to text.
- At a bar, my friend picked up a pitcher of beer and a couple of cups. “Laura!” he called. “The bartender needs to see your ID.” I got up from the table and headed to the bar. Halfway there, I made eye contact with the bartender, who then said to my friend: “Oh, okay. Nevermind.”
I have to face it. I no longer exude youthful exuberance. I am OLD.
It’s a lovely fall day here in Portland, one of those days too beautiful not to spend outside. So I load up Calla and my friend’s dog, River, into the car and drive them over to the huge off-leash dog park in St. Johns, where they’ll be in heaven and I’ll be basking in the lovely autumn sun.
The park is huge — a few acres, at least. Dogs and muddy tennis balls are everywhere. River, who is part labrador and all about fetching, immediately finds two worthy tennis balls and bounces around the park in a proud victory lap. (Calla, meanwhile, sniffs the perimeter and moseys around aimlessly — her favorite pastime, other than farting.)
I throw the tennis ball for River until my shoulder hurts and she loses interest. She gallivants off with the pack of dogs; Calla continues to sniff, stopping occasionally to eat a stick I’ve thrown for her (another favorite pastime of hers). Forty-five minutes elapse.
Enter The Cranky Lady. She’s got three or four dogs and a Chuckit. River loves Chuckits and can spot one from a mile away, so naturally, she comes barreling over. Problem is, none of The Cranky Lady’s dogs are particularly interested in chasing her launched tennis ball, and, even if they were, River is part greyhound and could outrun them with her legs tied together. Ever the toy thief, River collects the deposited tennis ball and runs off.
“Give me back the damn ball!” I hear her yell.
OK, whoa. You’re at a dog park, lady. Yeah, it can be annoying when another dog steals your dogs’ ball, but it’s kinda what happens when you go to a dog park. Especially when your dogs aren’t inclined to retrieve.
But I don’t want to step on anyone’s toes, so I intervene. I call River and tell her to drop it, which she does right away. I pick up the ball and walk it over to The Cranky Lady.
“I’m sorry!” I say, as politely as possible. “River is a bit of a Chuckit thief.”
“It’s OK,” she says, perfectly pleasantly. And then: “You don’t play with her?”
UM.
WHAT.
DID.
YOU.
JUST.
SAY?!
ARE YOU KIDDING ME?
There are few things I despise more than pleasant-sounding yet passive-aggressive jabs. ESPECIALLY at a stranger, about whom you know nothing and are basing your judgment on nothing but assumption. I don’t PLAY with her? Seriously? I’ve been dogsitting River since Wednesday and have spent MANY HOURS throwing frisbees and sticks and tennis balls for her, over and over, until she collapses in the grass in exhaustion. And, I have spent the last half hour PLAYING with her. And now she’s PLAYING with other dogs — believe me, this dog is by no means neglected. So there’s really no need for that “I’m a more attentive dog owner than you” condescension.
But I don’t say any of that. “Uh, I’ve been playing with her for a while and now she’s just doing her own thing,” I say. “Besides, she’s only interested in other dogs’ balls.”
This is true. The frisbee I brought to entertain her couldn’t be of less interest at the moment.
“Oh,” she says, with that holier-than-thou tone. “I guess we’ll move.”
And she walks away. River goes back to playing with the other dogs. Calla continues to sniff, and chase after the occasional stick when the mood strikes.
The Cranky Lady leaves fifteen minutes later.
I stay an hour and a half.
So who doesn’t play with their dogs?
HINT: It’s not me.
By the way, the dogs are now sound asleep.
I love September—the fresh fruits and veggies are out of this world. A couple of weeks ago I harvested these delicious beauties:
Calla is a watermelon connoisseur. So she was very interested in mine:
But she needed a closer look:
“Smells good to me — crunch.”
Thief!!
