What Do We Read?

A stack of twelve-teen books from the library sit on my desk. Which ones do I read?

A list of books three pages long, three columns wide, size 10 font, Times New Roman typeface is saved on my computer in alphabetical order. It’s been growing at a rate much faster than that which the strikethrough lines have been inching their way through titles since my second year in undergrad. Which ones do I read?

I have a file in my drawer of hanging files for writing related things that says “fresh ideas.” In there are upwards of twenty pieces of chit paper from the receipt printer at the restaurant that have handfuls of favorite book titles written by dozens of co-workers since 2005 to the present and counting – books these individuals who I come to love think I should read. Which ones should I, then, read?

***

It’s been years since I’ve seen the movie American Psycho.  I guess I don’t remember distinct series’ of scenes like you sometimes do from movies you watched years ago that made an impact.  I remember the cover -  Christian Bale’s character, a rich face sliding out from behind a gleaming knife blade and all of it rising from a dark, ominous background.  I remember him living a lie.  I remember addiction in everything.  And too much of everything.  But I never did read the book.  Maybe with intention, maybe not.  But I also didn’t believe in much of anything then – and that plays a part.

Bret Easton Ellis was recommended to me by a friend more recently, however, and I reevaluated my reasoning for abstaining from this literature…any literature for that matter.  Let me break for a moment to be very clear.  I love to read. Love.  Love.  Love.  Forget time management and graduate school and the fact that lately, I’m notoriously tired despite the twelve hours of sleep I’m getting each day.  I still worship the written word and have upwards of nine items on hold in the South Suburban Library System at any given time.  I consider my reading palette vast and open-minded and I try to keep it that way intentionally.   I enjoy reading about things that I don’t know about; after all, isn’t part of the fun in it all the fact that we are humbled by the thrill of learning more than we know?  Okay, since we’re all clear on that, we can return to our regularly scheduled program.

Ellis writes novels like American Psycho based primarily on a style called social satire.  There are a number of views on this style and even more nuanced views when Ellis’s particular work comes into play, none of which I am going to spend any time slicing and dicing.  I explored them and if you care, you can – but you won’t.  Because this was my little project and research component to make a relatively small personal decision about my own reading habits.  And it worked, and I did, and Ellis got the boot.

Most of my skepticism is in the fact that I don’t really buy into Ellis’s concept of social satire as a justification for how he breaks the rules of literature.  I’ll use another author here as a foil.  I think my favorite author is David Foster Wallace.    He recently died tragically by suicide in his forties, a brilliant man.  Wallace broke all the rules.  They do say in writing that you have to know the rules in order to break them.  And that you have to follow them for some time before gaining the respect to prance around as an acclaimed rule-breaker.  Both true  to the deepest degree of Wallace.  My historical background of Ellis isn’t strong.  It’s weak, in fact.  But those who talk him up to me attach Rules of Attraction to his name as a foundational work – you know, one that will cause recognition to bloom in hesitant faces.  Rules of Attraction follows no rules.  From what I’m learning about Ellis, he’s not a guy who cares one lick about following literary rules.  Maybe he just has his own plan to follow and it’s a smidge out-of-context with the American literary scene.  He seems a bit self-obsessed and it crawls into his novels about every third publication, so maybe that’s a factor.  I’m not sure.  But he’s too rebellious of a genre and an art that I respect for me to support his riots.

In essence: Ellis produces this piece of artwork (his novel, American Psycho) that claims to be a social satire on the era of excess that the 1980’s spends its days spiraling towards.  The novel is a hit with a huge crowd of folks for its brilliance in capturing the overwhelming concept of excess hidden behind a day-to-day facade.  The form and shape that excess takes in Ellis’s novel borders literary pornography, with violence in detail far beyond a plot-driven need.  The excess that society has derailed into is disgusting, true to a fault.  But Ellis does not capture this.  Ellis fails to socially comment on excess, but instead adulterates the literary functions that artists with his gift are offered with the pen and the page.  Using violence, or any other display of excess, I think Ellis could have depicted a rise above this pattern of social demise and cleverly commented on American excess in the 80’s.  Instead of commenting on the nation’s patterns, he participates shamelessly in them.

Published!

You can see stages and versions of this piece all over my website, ’cause I’ve been messing around with this idea of perspective within a travelogue for many months now.  Over the summer, I began reading this clever and creative literary magazine online and submitted what was my best effort of Driving West at the time.  Check it out here, under the “Postcards” division of “Frostwriting” – Driving West.  Browse around a little and see what the magazine has to offer, the website boasts and easy-to-navigate platform, to boot.

The funny thing about publication (as impermanent or as international as it may be) is that is carries some sense of finality.  As if every change to the piece hereafter is a post-production change, an after-the-fact, last-minute tweaking of sorts.  I don’t entirely believe that to be true.  But I also don’t think works should be allowed the freedom to go on forever.  I’m becoming more of an advocate of balance, is that alright?

In this case, I’ll still claim impermanence.  I haven’t taken another deep look into the concept of perspective in travelogue, not to the extent that my full desire for the piece has been flushed out.  But the funny thing about that is: I thought I’d always feel the way I did when I penned the first twenty-seven and a half drafts.  And if you spent time with me these last three years, I might have had you convinced.  I was pretty sure I’d feel this way forever.

Well, publishing doesn’t mean permanency.  I guess that’s all I’m trying to say.  Check out my little publication victory and hopeth me that it’s not the last. 

 

Confession

We wait tables.  It’s a tough industry.  But fun.  Frustrating.  Sometimes we try and try and try to stand out and be countercultural.  To rep the King.  Represent.  Speak the truth.  Love it out.  We want to fit in.  We give and give and are hurt when we are not loved.  We are exhausted and pretend it’s only that we’ve been on our feet all day.  We gamble.  Give away what we earned if it’s not fair and we’re the only one.  We sweat, groan, spill, smile when we are broken.  But fail and frown.  Try.  We try.

We tend to love the ones who drive us crazy.  This is not easy and so we go crazy.  Get angry.  We play games, neglecting our job, sometimes we swear.  We laugh at jokes we’d never make, live comfortably in a world we didn’t create.  Disappointment sucks us dry.  We try.  We follow or break rules meant for thieves.  We speak with disrespect and roll our eyes when the world doesn’t go our way.  We suggest and hug and force and lie.  We pray selfish prayers.  We try.  We forget and don’t care, yell and ignore.  We lose our temper sometimes on a Thursday afternoon.

We are me.

Do all things without grumbling or disputing; so that you will prove yourselves to be blameless and innocent, children of God above reproach in the midst of a crooked and perverse generation, among whom you appear as lights in the world, holding fast the word of life, so that in the day of Christ I will have reason to glory because I did not run in vain nor toil in vain.

Philippians 2:14-6

On Choice

Then there was the day I thought about writing about decisions.

Because they are tricky little things, decisions.

But my good friend Anne did it instead.

And did it thought-provokingly well.

So just read this: OR I MIGHT

Chicago Spots: Bricks

My friend Julie really likes dive bars, you could say, more than the average bear. When she walks into a dive with character that impresses her low-maintenance list of must-haves her eyes widen and she makes ohh-ahh sounds. This happened when we descended a stone staircase with an iron rail into a covered grotto sort of entryway where the underground doorway of Bricks was hidden. Inside, the bar was maybe ten stools long, made of black bricks and mortar. There were four tables opposite the bar against a natural exposed brick wall with carved window holes that opened to the other room of the small restaurant. Julie was gushing in a silent sort of way and after about twenty minutes, it was rubbing off on me. This place really did have true character.

One half price bottle of Pinot Noir complimented our pocketbooks and our meal.  Flavors on both the house salad (Julz) and the spinach salad with bacon (and tomatoes instead of eggs) were exquisite.  The pizza was timed perfectly, coming out in a nice lull after we’d polished off each of our salads.  A delightful Hispanic lady was refilling our waters like it was her job (which, it probably was) and our waitress, who was very pregnant was filling us in on the short history of the place and surrounding venues. 

We were able to get a medium pizza with half of two varieties.  The bricklayer was artichoke spread, red peppers, cilantro and mozz.  It was tasty, but the flavors were pretty mild all around.  The peppers were the most bold flavor on this side of things and I might have preferred the artichoke the be more dominant.  The other side was a heat-something-or-other clever title but we took the “heat” off by getting it without jalepenos.  Barbeque chicken, bacon, and gouda are the ingredients I remember.  The chicken was delish, the BBQ sauce, a bit sweet, but I didn’t taste the smoked gouda as much as I wanted to.  We wondered if the jalapeno flavors actually would’ve fit well on this half, and were happy we didn’t order them.

The atmosphere is what sold me on this place.  Chicago is a city that’s known for its pizza, let’s be honest.  I am a lover of the deep dish, even in light of the billboard on Wells that says, “Deep dish pizza is an imposter.  If you can’t pick it up, it’s not a slice of pizza.”  Or something like that.  I’ve had better thin crust, but not at a more ambient, underground location. 

Bricks is a GO, even if you just get salad and drinks.

Chicago Spots: The 3rd Coast Cafe

Truth: Some places don’t do well with large groups, or question mark groups (which is what Tuesdays usually bring for me and my non-committal friends) but The 3rd Coast had a ball with us.  They weren’t crowded (evident by our duelling male waiters, always racing to fill our coffee and take our orders) yet they were playful instead of hovering over our shoulders while we chatted.  Plus two.

Our waiter made a tall claim from the get-go. What should we try, we asked.  Anything with bacon, he said.  Our bacon is the best bacon in the world.  I’ll shoot straight with you – I had to hold back from making a series of smart comments at this point.  Of course it isn’t.  All bacon tastes the same, and that’s about 1/2 as good as most breakfast sausages, in my meat-loving opinion.  I ate my thoughts and two pieces of bacon when it came about thirty minutes later.  He was right and you should go there even if it’s just to eat bacon – thick, crispy, lean, long pieces.  Plus thirty seven and a half

Even aside from the bacon, the food stood out.  The menu – on first glance – didn’t start me salivating.  It was pretty regualr, save for a few odd items among which were Norwegian Lox (which, as I suspected was akin to smoked salmon) and Smoked Polish Sausage (which I ordered and was delighted to clean the plate).  Plus three and a quarter for the orignality of the lox, plus niner for my sausage. 

Blythe suggested that we order a homemade scone.  She always wants one when she comes here, but then has a craving for a bagel with cream cheese and regrets her last minute pregnancy-style urge.  So we ordered a raspberry scone as a sort of breakfast appetizer.  Good choice.  It wasn’t break-your-teeth hard, but thick dough, kind of crumbly and sweet.  Delish plus a minimum of six (seven for those who had whipped cream with their bite.)

I was tempted to break into the extensive list of ales, but since it was barely noon, I decided that breakfast should stay breakfast at this creative combination spot.  I’d come back in the evening to check out how the thick cherrywood benches and tables shift loyalties with a late night crowd. 

Third Coast Cafe: Try it out, unique, GO.  I’ll let you do the math.

Flick Picks: Into The Wild

The same man who recommended this book and movie to me told me yesterday that the movie advances slowly. My watching of it confirmed his warning but didn’t destroy the experience. In a way, it almost fit the nature of the film better than I expected. The film documents an adventurous college graduate, Christopher, who runs away from an abusive, materialistic life ruled by his high-society parents to live alone in the wild.

From the limited knowledge I have of cinematography, I was impressed by camera angles, stop and go scene edits, spit screens, and brilliant shots of the wilderness. Even the choice of scenes to encapsulate a fast forward, such as the depiction of three weeks in the wild by showing a fire, a shower in the river, and eating a rodent were especially clever and unique.

The sequencing of the film, however, was all over the place. The timelines were chaotic, the settings were woven haphazardly with past and present monologues by more than one character. More than anything, the mis-sequencing of his life distorted some of the very themes I think the story means to convey, those of relationship and family, choice and circumstance, and truth. The distortion of these themes bothered me the most.

The meat of the film comes in two places that I see. One is in the contrast between the relationships Christopher (who names himself Alexander) forges on his was to this idealistic Alaskan adventure, the hippie couple in the trailer, the old man Ron in the desert and his time alone in Alaska, trying to survive and taking journal notes. The other is the foundation of the run-away, the abusive home life that unfolds for the viewer as we watch him get further from home and hear his precious sister narrate his absence. Both plot lines are well developed and engaging throughout.

I’m left feeling completely devastated in the wake of Christopher’s story. He died from physical exhaustion and malnutrition. But what breaks my heart is that he spent his last adventure, the only thing he’d ever wanted to do, slipping into the truest of mental and emotional depression. He said to the man who wanted to be his grandpa, “You’re wrong if you think the joy of life comes from human relationships” probably months before his Alaskan death, yet the movie made it seem like one of the very last things he wrote was, “Happiness only real when shared.”

The story is one I hope you read, see, or hear in some fashion. The movie in this particular variety, I could take or leave: Two Thumbs

Pittsburgh, PA: FRIENDS

This post was first: Pittsburgh, PA: FOOD

This post was second: Pittsburgh, PA: FANFARE

Nothing more than an endnote, folks. I pretend to review the things I do, but I always have something more to say. And the six and a half people I write-to-read likely have me figured out.

I had a Pittsburgh friend. His Pittsburgh house fell on him when he was small; a four step brick porch on a seven year old waiting to watch the Steelers game. He used to catch fish on the Ohio River, hang posters of Mario Lemieux in his bedroom, dream about sharks and gorillas. His girlfriend won’t let him talk to me anymore, so Pittsburgh’s mine now.

My Terrible Towel Meets Harry Potter

The Terrible Towel Goes to School

My gal’s Cincinnati crew formed a beautiful backdrop for my reclamation of a city I’d never been to. The Body, as it always should, lifted me up and out of habits and patterns that I didn’t need…never needed. Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania is my own set of inside jokes, road trip anecdotes, and memories in photograph. In the wake of jealousy, such a nasty thing, I win.

Welcome to the Strip District!

Pittsburgh, PA: FANFARE

This post was first: Pittsburgh, PA: FOOD

The incline is kind of like the world’s first roller coaster. Shaky and slow, cords pull massive cars up the hill to overlook this city of three rivers. Heinz field and Pirates Stadium are directly on the Allegheny River. I couldn’t see Mellon arena; it’s on the other side of that tall black skyscraper, the name of which I’ve forgotten in the fanfare, the one next to the one with the garden on the wall, seriously.

From the top of the Incline: Pittsburgh's Rivers

For less than ten bucks, I kayaked the Allegheny in tandem with my dear friend Lindsey. The water dripped non-stop from the ends of the paddle into my lap. But we did cross the river twice without being chopped up by a motor boat. And the variety of bridges never ceased to be beautiful and complex. We got pretty speedy by the last leg of the trip. And very good at crashing into others.

Linsdey and Linda setting up a crash test, probably on Alex

The Cathedral of Learning is the tall, white stone castle on the University of Pittsburgh campus that looks like Harry Potter’s Hogwarts on the inside. It’s cold and gothic, footsteps and breaths reverberate through the walls, ringing inside iron cast gates and light fixtures. The classroom simulations of learning environments from other countries were locked, but we did run down thirty-six flights of stairs in lieu of touring the world. You learn a lot in this activity, more than you’d expect. Kyle, Laura, Dr. J and I collectively recommend it.

on the University of Pittsburgh, hanging out

An additional ten points goes to said Cathedral in respect for the evening use of its bathrooms. A buncha ragtag river-wading, football-punting, lost-dog-chasing, coffee-hunting kids transformed into a good-looking sweater-sporting clan in under twenty minutes. Impressive, to say the least. Sweaters and all, we attended a cabaret late night theatre show for five bucks (steal!). The mystery theatre was interactive, featuring our fearless leader as the evening’s announcer and my gal’s little sister as the coffee mug-wielding winner of guessing the whodunit. Who would’ve guessed?

It’s not the half of what Pittsburgh has to offer, but these are affordable and fun gems of a city with deep history and modern upgrades. Let’s be honest, it could’ve been any city. It’s almost always the people.

Pittsburgh, PA: FOOD

Beverage
I met a gal who buys more Starbucks than I do. She speaks loudly and laughs with a wonderful, contagious laughter. There are probably tens of millions of these people, but only a handful I know personally. And few with such an incredible “cool” factor. Starbucks practically sponsored this road trip as I drank my way to middle-class success with soy pumpkin spice lattes, soy white mochas, and raspberry white teas with honey at rest stops in Ohio and Indiana. Thank you to Starbucks, and to my new Starbucks-toting friend.

Representin' with the Cinci Crew

Sandwich
Primanti’s is a Pittsburgh legend, they say. I first heard months ago about these sandwiches that have French fries and coleslaw in them. My wrinkled brow and smug pout weren’t exactly open to the tasting. But the frequent mentioning of such a sandwich had me itching to try one upon my first-ever arrival to Pittsburgh, PA. OgleSchedule (kinda like iCal for the Mac users among you) said lunch on Saturday would be the perfect opportunity.

The line at Primanti’s was out the door, maybe half a block when we showed up post-Allegheny-River-kayaking. The place was total chaos. Grandmotherly women cleared tables and threw piles of customers in the seats, and then they’d bustle around to take drink and sandwich orders. Sometimes, they’d just holler from behind the bar “We gitch ‘yinz yit?”

The menu was plastered to the wall, and pretty much required a meat selection. There were Penguins and Stillers tacked to the wall and I had my Terrible Towel in my purse, ready for anything. Kevin is a Pittsburgh-er. He ordered double meat. Me too, sweet sausage and a water. My job is done. The rest of everything gets tossed on the sandwich and they mark the double meats with a French fry.

My First (of many to come) Primanti's Sandwiches

First bite was all it took. Sold to the sandwich.

The sandwich was twice as tall as the height of my open mouth – and if you’ve met me this is telling. I had to bite off the meaty part and then the coleslaw-y part, trying to combine the flavors into a chipmunk bite. Would’ve been an attractive first date, I bet. The whole process of eating could’ve used a strategic planning committee. But, boy, was it delicious. I don’t typically like coleslaw, but this was sweet and crunchy. I thought the fries would be a soggy mess, but they were seasoned and well-cooked. I had a dream about the sausage – will that convince you that it’s good? I wasn’t even remotely hungry until late morning of the following day, but since Sunday afternoon, I’ve been in perpetual craving.

For those Michigan friends of mine, my top place to pig out has been Yesterdog for years. Our beloved East Grand Rapids spot has been unrivaled in my mind….until now. Primanti’s may have just broken the mold. Watch out, Yester – competition does exist. And the Travel Channel says that Primanti’s ranks at #7 of the best places to pig out.

Satisfied
A large part of my weekend plan was to arrive early or stay late in Pitt to tour Oakland and eat at Mad Mex, on the recommendation of a former-friend, former-employee. Just a word on why I went home straight from the Ogle home on Sunday afternoon. (1) Truth be told, I was still pretty full from Primanti’s and two Ogle-morning feasts prepared by the Mrs. (2) More importantly, Pittsburgh’s not “I have a friend from…” anymore. I visited in order to spend time with Lindsey, my intern friend from the summer, and was exponentially blessed by her design, engineer, marketing, and pharmacy friends. I was satisfied. The weekend exceeded any and all expectations I may have had. I didn’t need Mad Mex, where I could ask them if they remembered an old bartender. Didn’t need my downloaded Oakland walking tour, or even my self-guided education of old Pittsburgh resident architecture – as much as I’ve become interested in it over these years.

Pittsburgh’s my town now. Home of friends of my friend – Mister Ogle and family, and Mister McNally – both stellar companions in these Pittsburgh adventures of mine. Pittsburgh’s mine, a certain destination on future road trips. Ahh, the taste of freedom.