The Big Sign Off. No, really. I mean it this time. OK...one last thing. Or maybe three. But then that's it. I promise.

Before I move on, a few last reviews are pleasantly stuck in my craw that simply must billow forth.  Three reviews total.  Jonathan Franzen's new novel, the film "The Social Network" and the generally undisturbed state of the State of Wisconsin.  On some level I will do a great disservice to everything I've written here over the last nearly 6 years unless I offer something on how I experienced them all.

Franzen's novel "Freedom" has received more advance blather and inspired more critical backflips than any book in years.  I can only imagine what sort of team of publicists his publisher employed on this roll out.  No expense has been spared, no media placement seems too far afield, no advertising crossover will be neglected.  Hello, Orpah.  On steroids.  Yet none of that means a damn thing when it comes to the book itself.  I'd be wasting everyone's time if I tried to sum it up better than the masterful Michiko Kakutani did back a few months in the NYTimes.  But I will offer my own rating - a larded and fried yet not especially fulfilling C.  Skill counts for a lot.  There should be no surprise in my concession that Franzen has skill up to and coming through every available orifice.  Yet in the end, there's only one way to judge a book outside of all the out-sized praise and obligatory book club choice-worthy guilt applied in heaps.  In effect, any reader must ask whether the book was a pleasure to read - no matter what form that pleasure might take.  In that, "Freedom" is most certainly a disappointment.  And given all the bunk piled on top of Franzen's efforts which I surely hope he did not ask for, I don't expect his work will do any good for the field from which novels spring.  If anything, such poorly-paced, over-stuffed compendiums of properly topical references bore the snot out of readers and probably make it tougher for unnoticed writers to get traction in even a small way.  Just imagine how many editors and assistants had a hand in this puppy.  Not that I begrudge Franzen his stranglehold on the zeitgeist.  I just hope people take the time for pleasures that don't require a front-page spread in "TIME" to break through.  If you have limited time for reading, don't bother with this one.  Oprah makes mistakes, too.  Oh...am I still typing out loud?

"The Social Network" is equally everywhere, although in a totally different realm of exposure.  The subject (Facebook, of course) and the world's obsession with it makes this film the least surprising hit since the invention of fried dough.  I will concede that it is truly entertaining and paced with the sort of bracing mastery that movies just don't bring all that often.  My rating is a snarky B-plus.  The only cut against the grain of praise from me comes in the form of that moment when I realized how much of a trifle this whole Facebook obsession represents.  Namely (spoiler alert, without details) when Justin Timberlake's character gets in trouble.  If you haven't seen it, you won't be surprised in the least.  But the point of my snark is that when the bloom comes off his rose, the whole doggone movie looks about as epic as a six-month dental cleaning.  There's no denying that Facebook is a killer, ubiquitous app - worth bazillions and growing everyday.  And somewhere out there right now, there's another complex prick working on a better next-biggish thing in his dorm room that will also become a verb in just a handful of years.  That thing will be worth two-plus bazillions.  The people behind it will do stupid crap.  We'll be told that the mere existence of "it" says something about all of us.  And on and on and on.  I'll just bring it around and say that as far as popular entertainment goes, "The Social Network" is the full hoot.  Harvard hasn't looked this sexy since the invention of beer.  Still, the movie's the artistic equivalent of a full run through the tasting menu at a smoking hot new tapas bar along with a few pitchers of awesomely strong sangria.  The next day, you can't stop talking about it while knocking back coffee after coffee with an unhealthy mix of Advils and vitamins.  Then something comes up.  Life goes on.  And you forget what the big buzz was or even if you really remember what happened.  Still, go see it.  It's delicious.

Finally, some of you who've read what I've put up here over the years might care that I had a recent week-long spin through my homeland - the often time-capsule authentic seeming State of Wisconsin.  I saw loads of good people, most of whom seemed surprised to see me looking leaner yet not at all meaner.  I hung out in all sort of old haunts.  In effect, I had a just-long-enough trip down memory lane without anything like a bucket list or totally killer mix tape personal soundtrack swelling in the background.  It was just great to see Sconnie in the fall.  So there's no better time for me to fully acknowledge that I'm moving on.  This is truly it for andthefamilybuick.  I've done what I wanted to do here.  After today, you can continue to follow me in perpetuity at my website - don't laugh, there's not been much focus on the there there.  Thus far, at least.  Don't expect to see another blog from me.  I've sometimes loved the gig.  I've also sometimes hated the gig.  But the gig is up.  Thank you so so much for reading.  The archives will stay up so long as there's a Blogger (thanks to them for all the hosting over the years!).  So please search what I've done here before.  I hope you'll look for what I do in the future.  The books are coming, I promise.  One last thing - please know that I do this for you.  I'll always try to remember that.  Come what may.  Rock on.

Timm's Hill as seen from Hill of Beans

Timm's Hill as seen from Hill of Beans
Originally uploaded by emaggie

Back home in Ogema in the fall, there's no place better to see than Timm's Hill. And on a morning like the one I saw earlier today, I'm left wondering if there's a more beautiful place in the world. If you do destination travel, you can't do much better than staying with the Blombergs at High Point Village. My highest recommendation. And not just in terms of Wisconsin elevation.

Forest canopy on the trails near Timm's Hill

Forest canopy on the trails near Timm's Hill
Originally uploaded by emaggie

Our newly listing Swedish barn (built in 1890)

Our newly listing Swedish barn (built in 1890)
Originally uploaded by emaggie

The business end of the family farm's barn, certainly looking the worse for this year's wear.

The business end of the family farm's barn, certainly looking the worse for this year's wear.
Originally uploaded by emaggie

Hoping the barn won't add a new obstacle amidst the curves of Forest Drive.

Hoping the barn won't add a new obstacle amidst the curves of Forest Drive.
Originally uploaded by emaggie

Seeing the barn's tilt from the emergency anchoring side.

Seeing the tilt from the anchored side.
Originally uploaded by emaggie

Moving on. But not before seriously looking back.

I've been in a bit of a culture vacuum over the past week.  Or maybe lazily pushing one around.  I won't say that what I've been reading and listening to sucks.  But another stretched vacuum analogy might apply (not much worth picking up has appeared before me).  So instead of reaching too far, I'd like to digress and give an update on other things.  Especially since this will be one of my last posts here.  For real and forever.

If you've paid attention to what I've written here over the years (dating back to the beginning of 2005), you know a few themes dominate.  The personal side has always featured Maya, from before birth to the now fully dynamic life of a proud kindergartener.  The opinionated address of all things political has always been fair game.  And cultural notes of particular interest to me get reviewed.  Like countless blogs, I don't get paid except for a pittance of advertising.  Some very limited (but appreciated) notice has come my way.  But blogging is a largely one-handed juggling act.  After a while, you sort of run out of tricks and have trouble keeping it fresh for those kind enough to stop by and watch.

I've had other concurrent blogging projects - most recently my running blog that has tracked my day-by-day kvetching about training for the Twin Cities Marathon.  The energy that goes into each and every of these outlets doesn't spring eternal.  So the waxing and waning is probably what has driven my traffic up and down over the years.  With that as an awkward pivot, I've decided to shut it all down.  Leave the archives up for posterity.  And move on to the projects that really deserve my attention.  I've got two novels to edit and sell.  Ideas for two more, plus a grand non-fiction history that I've been researching for most of my life.  Plans, I tell you.  Glorious plans.

Before then, I have a slew of things to see and write about here.  Tomorrow morning, I leave for a solo week-plus trip through Wisconsin and the Twin Cities.  A trip down memory lane, plus a wide range of new trips along that path.  I plan to take lots of pictures, ask lots of questions (or others and myself), and soak up as much of the autumn landscape as possible.  I've always adored the fall in Wisconsin.  So please check back for some fresh stuff.  I think it will be worth your time.  And thanks for doing so.  Rock on.

From St. Paul to "Lisbon"

It's way too easy to join the eruption of literary praise surrounding Jonathan Franzen's new novel.  Just as it's equal parts self-promoting laziness to piss all over what Franzen's accomplished.  I'm still in the middle when it comes to this event, er, book.  Mainly because I haven't finished "Freedom" and I've not exactly felt driven to devour it whole.  And while I'm still a big big fan of Franzen's talents, I'd like to take a slighter different tack.  One utterly without plot spoilers.  Namely, I need to say something about what Franzen offered up for his authorial lecture in Seattle earlier this week.  In short, it was a gawddamn travesty.

Big books, thankfully, still can garner big spotlights in the right places - no matter how much that list of places is dwindling.  Nonetheless, that was the case in the way Seattle Arts & Lectures promoted Tuesday evening with Franzen at Benaroya Hall.  It was my first visit to that symphonic wonder.  Gorgeous, filled with warm wood and all the glitter of money donated from the largess of what's now a different economy.  Franzen remarked himself after being bathed in a typically laudatory intro that "wow, this is a big room."  And Seattle's book-thirsty population (real or imagined) really showed up in its best dress fleece and tweediness.  You could practically feel the intellectual lust dripping off the seat backs and gumming up the floor throughout.  Bookish horndogs are so adorable.  So all Franzen needed to do was give a coy turn of the shoulder or bare a subtly original angle.  In which case, he could have serviced every single sizable IQ in the place simultaneously.  Instead, he read (from old, unedited notes) a "talk" he'd delivered in Germany last year.  Some won't fault the dood - he admitted as much himself, making the obvious joke about how Seattle's so full of bibliophiles that he couldn't do a regular book tour event here.  But I can't be so kind.  As much as I admire Franzen's work and the exposure he brings to the general craft of novel writing, he couldn't have underwhelmed the room more if he'd cinched up the chastity belt wrapped 'round his wit and sprayed us all down with an ice water firehose.  Well, maybe that's a bit stretched.  Let's just say that a full price ticket general admission ticket ($30 frickin' bucks - still a chafe at half price) proved about as stimulating as a handjob in a glove factory.  I'll come back to review the book next week.  His work should merit this double billing.  But that SAL event was a disgrace, dood. 

On another level of satisfaction, the new album from The Walkmen ("Lisbon") has offered up one of those rare surprises that keeps me going back to my record store week after week.  These guys know how to tunefully kvetch and lament.  They also know better than most acts how to craf compelling songs and deliver them with full gut emotion.  I'm intrigued by what they've done here.  My rating for this album - an impressed and curious B-plus.  Heading north, I expect.  

Everyone say "Moosepuke"

Everyone say "Moosepuke"
Originally uploaded by emaggie

So it's over. Parenting done, dood. Maya started kindergarten. Sarah and I never looked back. She's the public schools' problem now. At least until this afternoon. A few pics follow. As you'll see, it was a fantastic first day.

Keeping up appearances for the teacher. We don't really spend much time together in real life.

Keeping up appearances for the teacher. We don't really spend much time together in real life.
Originally uploaded by emaggie

Too busy? Nah, it all goes together.

Too busy? Nah, it all goes together.
Originally uploaded by emaggie

Showing off the boots. On both counts.

Showing off the boots. On both counts.
Originally uploaded by emaggie

"Should we walk?"

"Should we walk?"
Originally uploaded by emaggie

For the first day, we just gave her two bricks. Adequate simulation.

For the first day, we just gave her two bricks. Adequate simulation.
Originally uploaded by emaggie

Time for one last picture before school.

Time for one last picture before school.
Originally uploaded by emaggie

I told Sarah not to start doing Maya's homework already, but...

I told Sarah not to start doing Maya's homework already, but...
Originally uploaded by emaggie

It's all so much clearer now

The past week featured a few '90s time warp trips for me.  And I'm still trying to digest how it all makes me feel.  So here's a few stabs at my reaction to both the end of a Kurt Cobain-inspired exhibit at the Seattle Art Museum and the Pavement reunion tour that traipsed through the Paramount Theatre.  

I'll start with the latter.  Pavement is a favorite touchstone of mine.  I fall in general agreement with the shorthand claim that their fuzzy sound and ironic slouch only masks bushels of worthy wit.  And hearing Stephen Malkmus talk earnestly about this tour as a one off deal was refreshing (don't expect to see them keep trying to cash that check in the future).  You have to go back more than 15 years to really find their hopeful peak.  So the easy money is on them being less than vigorous in concert.  I went on my own, watched on my own, and decided on my own that...it's time for even the most ardent fan to move on.  They still bring a good show.  Two hours, including a 4-song encore that a more cynical band wouldn't have done at all given the bland, obligatory ovation they got as encouragement from a crowd that I saw as seriously underpacked.  It was the sort of crowd you could see doing the same thing I did beforehand - fixing a nice dinner for the family AND doing the dishes before hitting the town.  I saw a few pregnant women.  The line-up at the merch table afterward was way deeper than that to the bar, at least while the opener was playing (Quasi, a Portland band everyone respects who packed a few decades worth of experience into a tight 40-minute set).  Everything Pavement did was fine.  That's the problem.  The extended moment when these songs mattered has passed.  When I got home, I saw the handful of CDs I'd put in our stereo's changer.  When I look at my iPod, I've only bothered to upload this year's newly released (and wonderful) "Quarantine the Past" compilation.  That's a wounded metaphor, but it works for me.  I love Pavement.  I won't say "loved".  But now I can move on. 

The Kurt Cobain exhibit at the SAM was pulled yesterday after a handful of months.  Far more local ink was spilled on it than I ever thought worthy.  It always just seemed like a tourist crowd draw, especially considering how close the SAM is to the Pike Place Market.  But it was First Thursday Gallery Walk night last week.  What better time to see what for.  And the verdict?  Of course it was forced nostalgia.  Creepy and almost entirely devoid of wit.  Yet the point that I saw was actually pretty brilliant, albeit unintended.  I'm speaking of the people watching, most of which seemed to be infinitely entertained by its own internal divisions.  The partiers jostled by the gallery types, the tourists mingled with those in effect demanding acknowledgment as true locals, the stripes mixed with the solids.  Where I fit in doesn't matter a hoot.  But like anyone that lived in Seattle when Kurt killed himself, I've got my own stories to tell and images to share.  Spending that Friday at Two Bells in Belltown with friends after hearing the news.  Seeing a pile of afternoon Seattle Times issues brought in and passed around.  Hearing how a friend who's office was in the same building as The Rocket had to get out of there as the media frenzy heated up.  Those images are what I'd hang on the walls of the SAM.  And they'd probably look just as stupid.  The personal decontextualized and writ large is doomed to fail.  Time and time again.

Where I sit now is altogether in a different time and mental space.  Maya starts kindergarten tomorrow.  We're going to head out now to do some last school shopping.  That's the show I can't wait to see.  Call me past prime or whatever suits your taste for snark these days.  But know that I'm still looking backward as I focus on what's to come.  It's just that those things in the rearview mirror are no longer closer than they appear.  Thankfully.

Let the debate begin. Seven and a half years late might be better than never.

Like much of the World, I'm trying to calibrate my reaction to President Obama's prime timer last night on the end of combat operations in Iraq.  And since what is blogging if not therapy writ wide open and unedited for everyone to go rooting around in, here's a few thoughts.  

Most importantly, it's about time we started debating what our 7+ years and $1Trillion+ in Iraq truly boils down to.  Or whether we're truly at long last on our way "home" from that War.  Every available metric paints a lousy current picture - the best rundown I've heard was on Harry Shearer's "Le Show" this weekend.  Save the only one that everyone in support of going to War still mentions straight up - no more Saddam Hussein.  Instead of getting stuck there, I'd suggest that we all should think back to the actual "debate" that came prior.  Take the ol' chestnut defined as the "Pottery Barn" rule attributed to then Secretary of State Colin Powell.  Supposedly, "if you break it, you own it."  Set aside the fact that no such rule exists at Pottery Barn and you're still left with us shattering that "rule" even beyond it's false meaning.  So here we are as combat troops are redeploying.  And over there?  We did, indeed, break it.  And now we do not actually own it.  Much worse, we had to pay for the cost of doing so.  Those that do now own it, I think, could be defined as exactly the sort of people we would have preferred not have possession after said breakage.  I believe that Nuri al Malaki, Ahmed Chalabi and the others still wrangling over the results of an election from six months ago don't care about democracy.  For them it's the spoils of victory that are still worth fighting over.  And thanks to the grand wisdom of Richard Perle (ooh, I just got a chill), Paul Wolfowitz and Donald Rumsfeld (to touch on just a few obvious raw nerves), that's who we've now got to work with in place of Saddam in Iraq.  So yes, now let's at long last have that enduring historical debate.  Oh, and we will.  For decades.

In terms of Obama's speech, I think he struck the tone that we should expect from him.  Elegiac.  Frustrating in its willingness to give up too much to the presumed opposition.  Painted deep deep into a policy corner.  For all his obvious intellect, I'd bet Barack plays crappy poker.  In the past I've claimed he's a chess man.  But it's more obvious - he's a baller.  Put up your best defense and he'll shoot right over the top of you.  He uses deception only insofar as a fake pass or the political equivalent.  No cheating and if he's bluffing about how strong he feels or where he's going, a smart opposing player will see it telegraphed.  Right now, Obama's legs are still strong.  And the opposition should be seen as a joke.  That, however, might be exactly the wrong lesson to take into halftime of this term.  These midterms are going to be almost as brutal as the prevailing momentum's forecasting, I think.  Calling this play right now is a baller move.  Because no one's on the lookout for a finesse game right now.   But it could show that the game Obama's playing isn't nearly as dominant as people thought just last season.  Enough with the basketball analogy.  It does, though, still constitute my assessment of where this speech and this policy choice fits into the larger picture for the Obama Administration.  They may truly be a one-term Presidency.

My only other comment right now is to say that no family that's had to endure a deployment wants to be told that we owe Dubya some credit now.  Or ever.  Hearing that revisionist crap tumble from the Bushies, John McCain, John Boehner and all the lesser chickenhawks is just salt in the wounds that aren't going away.  And there are lots of wounds out there.  A million and half military personnel have been deployed in Iraq.  The ballpark number I heard reported this weekend of post-action mental issues is 30% of those people.  So over 400,000 people would have something to say about the wisdom of giving Dubya credit for what he did to them.  'Nuff said about that.

Well, like I said - this debate is just starting.  I hope we all get a chance to let some of it out, while actually taking the time to listen across the divide.  Be well.

Ferrell, Best Coast and Pike Place Market ghosts

Some summer movies are so slight, so marginally interesting, that I'm always left wondering why I bothered.  Such is very much the case with "The Other Guys" which I saw earlier this week as an escape from the playdates and home projects that fill the days until kindergarten gets us back on a regular schedule.  Straight up, my rating is a slightly pissy D.  Will Ferrell plays himself barely testing the limits with his overworn charm.  Mark Wahlberg and a cast of sleepwalkers yuck it up.  Only Michael Keaton made me feel anything like good about what goes on here.  I'm still a big fan of his particular charms, even though he looks like he's been shriveling up at the bottom of a bottle of tequila for the last decade.  The larger point being this movie makes me hate my instinct (or is it learned behavior?) to play catch up on movies that have been in theatres for a handful of weeks.  If you're not inspired, don't force it.  That, in effect, could have been the tagline of this movie.  Rent it.

One new album that I dig while struggling to explain exactly why is Best Coast's "Crazy for You".  The same things get said about them repeatedly.  Lo-fi.  Surf rock.  Indie.  But the standard breakdown's as lazy sounding as a first listen of the album.  I think the appeal is broader.  Start an arc from Nancy Sinatra connected all the way through a fuzzy Karen Carpenter up all the way through Sleater-Kinney to the current flavor of hipster female ennui and you've got the sound that's being repeated here.  I like that sound.  It's a bit haunting.  Echoey.  More than a bit pretentious.  If you could boil down the sound of a band practicing some songs on their porch without amps a spleef's throw away from the ocean, you'd have Best Coast and the handful of hooks on this album.  An album I very much recommend.  My rating's a solid B.  Bring it on your next road trip and I'll bet y'all a round of In-N-Out burgers that it will get replayed often enough to stick.

Finally, a very strange Seattle touristy mention.  Not a recommendation in its current form, by any means.  But something worth pointing out in hopes that it will get serious about entertaining people in the future.  Almost everyone that comes through Seattle makes it to the Pike Place Market.  As they should.  And I think that anyone living here would love to avail themselves of opportunities to get to know the Market better.  I tried to do so last night, cashing in a Groupon for a half-price tour with the Market Ghost Tour.  For those familiar with the competition, I'd say it's about half as interesting as the Underground Tour around Pioneer Square (I took it years ago and remember it was half a hoot).  But I in no way begrudge the Ghost Tour folks for the effort - I love public theatre, no matter the form.  I merely suggest that they seriously step it up a notch.  I was the only local amidst a sold-out tour group of what the guide said would be 20 (it wasn't).  What did we do?  Not much.  We walked a few blocks worth of the Market and got some stories that didn't really stick.  I challenge the Ghost Tour to at the very least make some compelling stuff up.  Deliver it with verve.  Tourists will swallow it whole.  The coolest thing by far was seeing that a ballsy attitude can mean you're let loose inside the Market after the producers have packed up for the day.  But otherwise, my rating is an encouraging D.  With a smile and a friendly handshake.  You'd be better off spending $15 at Kell's or The Alibi Room and chatting up a Irish drunk or a trannie.  Or better yet, both.

Hope your own scattershot entertainment hits the mark today.  Rock on. 

Appreciating the transition

The transition from preschool to kindergarten is the current primary topic of conversation in our household.  Maya's last hurrah at the JCC was last week, and we're very much feeling sentimental about the experience.  We even had a final picnicky evening with families, teachers and various hangers-on last Friday.  It was the sort of sweet coda we hadn't required, but are damn glad was offered.  The best part is that Maya hit the ground running even before that rug was pulled out from under her.  Mainly due to the promise of going to "big kid school" and all that entails.  And partly thanks to the promise of a weekend of car camping and hiking at Paradise in Mt. Rainier National Park.  Truth be told, we managed a fulfilling 3-mile hike with her leading the way up - the kid's got legs.  But then we failed after coming down by not having a reserved campsite or being able to find a Farmer John's meadow outside the Park to comfortably pitch a tent in.  So lesson learned - this time of year, it's idiotic to chance it.  Reserve ahead.  But you already knew that.  Or you'll be hoofin' back, stopping at McDonald's for the insanely rare foodcrack meal on the fly outside Tacoma, to pitch the tent on the deck in the darkness and rain (backyard's too slanty, apparently).  Which was awesome in it's own way.  

For the next two weeks, Maya's my apprentice for a series of projects around the homestead.  Which would be a promising thing, if the relationship was anchored by a more skilled master.  This morning, lots of hedge trimming, general landscaping and early fall how-did-we-let-this-get-so-crappy assessing of the outside situation.  Now, lunch.  Soon, to shift entirely, Maya's dance recital for the end of summer.  Ballet and tap.  If only it could be done with a rake and gardening gloves.  But I don't want to be one of those parents.  You know, the velcro ones profiled in today's NYTimes.  I prefer to think of our approach as more akin to static cling.  Who's the sock and who's the pantleg - that's the question.  We've got plenty of time to answer that later.  

Hope your own yard is also shaping up considerably today.  Rock on.

What all the stayin' cool kids are wearing to the last week of Pre-K summer school.

What all the stayin' cool kids are wearing to the last week of Pre-K summer school.
Originally uploaded by emaggie

Maya's last week @ the JCC. Must. Not. Get. Cheesy. Too late.

"No, you're a winner."

"No, you're a winner."
Originally uploaded by emaggie

Sarah did the Danskin Triathalon on Sunday. Maya cheered. Discuss.

Against all odds, I'm now something of a latte` guy. Amidst all the other straight shots of the day, of course.

Against all odds, I'm now something of a latte guy. Amidst all the other straight shots of regular day, of course.
Originally uploaded by emaggie

"Scott Pilgrim" Vs. All The Other Summer Bunk? "Pilgrim" wins.

Finally.  A not-so-huge but incredibly entertaining summer surprise.  "Scott Pilgrim Vs. The World" is a rorschach test - less generational than inspirational.  It would be enough to say that it's fun and inventive.  But there's much more going on there in Pilgrim.  Aside from "Toy Story 3" (which must still be considered the best across the board movie of the summer) there is nothing close to this level of fun out there.  Add in the fact that we caught a late afternoon matinee on the hottest day of the summer and you've got the most deserving A-rating in ages.  If you can't fathom liking a story that takes much of it's inspiration and style from video games, don't bother.  But if are willing to give it a chance, I think you will be seriously enthused.  The entire cast crackles with energy.  Mary Elizabeth Winstead takes the adorable hotness I'd seen as patented by Kate Winslet and somehow manages to up the ante.  I'd already appreciated director Edgar Wright because of "Shaun of the Dead" and "Hot Fuzz".  Now I think we're going steady.  And if you're a complete-ist geek, the graphic novels need to be read just so you can appreciate how much of the visual style comes directly from Bryan Lee O'Malley - dood's got serious vision.  Seriously.  Just go see it. 

On a very different plane, I was totally disappointed by the follow-up novel to "The Tourist" by Olen Steinhauer.  "The Nearest Exit" is so entirely a middle segment in what has to be at least a trilogy.  Steinhauer is plump full of writerly skill and he gets you where you're going with rare efficiency.  But when I put this book down, I wished I'd not read it.  So don't read it until we see if he follows it up with a stronger narrative arc using these same characters.  My rating is a piss and vinegar C-minus.  I still respect this writer big time.  This book was a waste of my time, though.

Hope your own summertime highs get saved in the memory bank for those chilly mornings in less than four months.  Rock on.

A few current spins, open for debate

I've got a number of newish things in regular rotation that deserve a mention.  Not that anything has blown me away.  Quite the contrary when it comes to the new Arcade Fire album.  I've been a big fan and I've seldom waited as anxiously for a new album.  And while it's good, the cumulative effect is far from great.  My rating - a mildly-disappointed, bored B-minus.  There are some strong turns and I expect the live shows that come from this new material will also be beefy given Arcade Fire's awesome performance chops.  But I'm about as fired up giving them an obligatory review as I am about the backlog of this summer's "Top Chef" on our DVR.

I also feel the need to lump together some new albums that I've fallen in and out of heavy petting like with recently.  Menomena's most recent album ("Mines") is where I come in contact with their creative arc.  Portland-based indie rock.  Works best loud.  Surprisingly resilient.  I have to give it a durn good review.  Solid B rating.  But, then again, after listening a bunch of times....well, I'm not convinced I know enough of their package to give a complete assessment.  I am intrigued enough to have subsequently tracked down their first album ("I Am the Fun Blame Monster!").  That's probably the way to initiate a fresh flirtation with a band that ain't new.  Don't hate me for an early poke in their collective grill.

Otherwise, I can't get fired up about Wavves latest ("King of the Beach") - rating a C-plus that probably would benefit from a road trip.  Or The Roots ("How I Got Over") - rating a re-tread feeling C-plus. Oddly, the thing that I've liked the most recently is a compilation release from the long since defunct Seattle band Carissa's Wierd.  It's folk rock, although that characterization makes me throw up in my mouth a wee bit.  Newbies might hear some faint echoes of what made The XX such a surprising breakthrough act last year.  I give "They'll Only Miss You When You Leave" a sentimental B-plus rating.

Hope your own listening doesn't get in the way of all the books you've got on the proverbial nightstand there days.  Rock on.

Shteyngart streams an exceptional "Story"

We're all familiar with the book review cliche` that goes something like "you won't want it to end".  Usually, that's empty praise probably meant to say much more than it does.  But I'm having trouble moving beyond that thought when I consider Gary Shteyngart's new novel "Super Sad True Love Story".  Partly because it doesn't putter and blather on like so many novels (breaking the tape at what feels like a scant 330 pages).  Largely because few writers exhibit chops like those spread throughout this novel.  But mainly because Shteyngart creates a palette of characters who become that rarest of rarities in good art.  Totally fictional persons that, while certainly drawn from someplace real, come to life all their own.  Characters whose humanity shocks and intrigues.  Ones who you spend the time surrounded by while reading this story.  That's what you won't want to end.

I'm not giving anything away when I say that this book is written to not beg a sequel.  No irritating trilogy will blossom from this solid, stand alone platform.  What you read here is what you'll get.  Although Shteyngart will surely have much, much more work for us to read in the future.  He's under 40 - too often being pegged with that fascinating but silly list of "20 Under 40" from The New Yorker.  So whatever debate may come from the success or missed opportunity for greater exposure in this novel, he's got more to give, I'm sure.

One important side note about Shteyngart is how well he proved himself performing in front of an impressive crowd at the Sunset Tavern in Ballard this past Monday.  These fans were ready to laugh along with Shteyngart's reading and discussion of this truly sad, stinging book hung on the tenderhooks of our shared modern human foibles.  He knocked it out of the park - it was more like stand-up than a reading.  And when I watched him interact afterward with others before I spoke with him briefly while getting book signed, I could see that he actually likes interacting with people.  So I'm not at all reluctant to give his new novel a rare, true full A rating.  Not everyone will love it.  But lots and lots of people should read it.  Thereafter, discuss which of the words in his strange but appropriate title had the most impact.  Let me know what you think, if you're so inclined.  Rock on.

Maya's new bubble wand gets a test drive.

Maya's new bubble wand gets a test drive.
Originally uploaded by emaggie

Backwash.

Backwash.
Originally uploaded by emaggie

A nice array.

A nice array.
Originally uploaded by emaggie

Things devolve into bubble assault.

Things devolve into bubble assault.
Originally uploaded by emaggie

Sending Sarah off to work on her new bike with the full bubble salute.

Sending Sarah off to work on her new bike with the full bubble salute.
Originally uploaded by emaggie

He could be Biggs. Or even bigger.

Last night was a perfect picture postcard for the bookish scene in Seattle.  I caught one full reading @ the U Bookstore, swung through the last 15 minutes of another @ Elliott Bay Book Company, and decided to skip the last part of a third @ the Richard Hugo House, even though I actively appreciate what regularly gets done there.  Along the way, I even got sucked into the absurd pleasure of the movie "Grassroots" doing a location shoot on Capitol Hill.  Jason Biggs (from "American Pie" and a whole lot more brain swamp stuff) stars, the story's local, the locations include the Comet - the adoptive booster in me wants it to be awesomely awesome.  But the anarchist in me appreciated the brief conversation I had in the thin crowd with a very wasted teenage pair.  I love the yutes.  You can fill in the blanks by my verbatim answers to their first two questions.  "No, Jason Biggs is not dead.  Yet.  Now...shhhsh."  And, "no, I don't work on this movie." 

But back to the readings - Eric Jay Dolin gave what amounted to a fully formed history lecture regarding his book "Fur, Fortune and Empire".  He's the sort of guy that can answer questions with fully formed, anecdote-laden responses that impressively show how well he's paying attention.  Dolin shows up to work and does it well.  His book is meticulous, dense, and completely worth the purchase if you're big on American History.  Those that know my background can understand why I've been waiting for this guy's book tour for months - not that many definitive histories on the fur trade come along these days.  But even those not tied by family history to this particular history can nonetheless find some captivating cocktail stories at the very least in the mix.  My rating of the book - a serious B-plus.  In a good way.  I see this man's work as a resource that I've already learned a great deal from, and I expect it will lead to much more thought on down the road.

The reading I then caught just the last chunk of was Jonathan Tropper (promoting the paperback edition of last year's hilariously awesome novel "This Is Where I Leave You").  Tropper's the sort of self-deprecating, comfortable, intentionally but not irritatingly clever writer that makes you forget just how hard it is to do what he does way too well.  I've been evangelizing about that novel for quite some time.  Maybe he doesn't need it since his novels (this latest was #5) already get optioned for movies.  I just can't understand why this guy hasn't blown up like Krakatoa.  Not that he's a volcano looking to tip the planet's climate off-kilter for a decade or so.  I'm just saying he could make a really big bang, if people are paying attention.  On second thought, he's not a Krakatoa.  He could be the equivalent of introducing Pop Rocks.  More hilarious, and more fun to talk about.  Whatever lame metaphor I'm trying to squeeze out before running my daughter off to camp, read Tropper.

Hope your own location shoots don't require you to fake the weather today.  Rock on.

Gimme a shot of Draper. And keep 'em comin'.

The summer has entered a strange middle passage.  Post-vacation, pre-kindergartenpalooza, all sorts of family and personal plans bumping up against each other like big crates in an untethered hull.  But everything's got the right momentum.  With the possible exception of falling into the cliched trap capturing so many not-so-new modern parents - over-scheduling the offspring.  Amidst her usual social calendar and classes, Maya's mid-way through her third (and final) summer camp.  Two home (in Seattle) and one away (in Santa Barbara while we were there as a family).  Granted, they were/are for only part of the day.  And I am of the political orientation that thinks varied input can only add flavor to the soup.  Yet I had to pause yesterday after Maya told me she had the most fun going to the chilly, rocky shore of Lake Washington than anything having to do with camp at the Woodland Park Zoo where they have lions and tigers and bears (oh my!).  That's why today I'm taking her out for a donut at Top Pot after the Zoo to test my unformed hypothesis.  I don't expect to answer any big questions.  But their maple bars rawk (just ask the Seattle Seahawks).

On the subject of rawking, I'm surely in a legion of fans completely enthused to have the new season of "Mad Men" underway as of this past Sunday.  All the way through, that show has been a must-see.  Now it feels like a must-discuss.  Jon Hamm as Don Draper is a rare, transcendent role delivered by an actor with real chops (seeing him host on "Saturday Night Live" made me a believer, as if I needed a verification given what he does here).  And now that he's turned far darker yet substantially more knight-like,  I think the storyline is stronger than ever.  If you hate new entertainment and think you can categorize all art without actually experiencing countless, massive troves you've never touched (I'm looking at you Stephen Metcalf), don't watch.  This show is for those of us that let loose naturally at Roger Sterling's howlers (the Ad Age reporter joke in the beginning is one of his best ever) or yearn for challenging confrontations with real history (was the actual Jantzen Swimwear family actually that prudish?) or just want sexy TV to not dumb it down.  My rating of this season's premiere - a strong A-minus.  The final scenes of the episode set a higher than ever bar.  That's why we watch.

Hope your own camp is all theatre, no bugspray today.  Rock on.

Face the wind.

Face the wind.
Originally uploaded by emaggie

Which, I must suggest, would be a great title for a "Karate Kid" knock-off centered on the world of competitive kite flying. If such a world exists. Regardless, Maya got a kick out of KiteFest at Magnuson Park yesterday. There's nothing left in my puddle-deep reservoir of kite knowledge to teach her. From here on out, the student shall be the master.

If there's a phrase for confidently letting out more line, that's what Maya's doing.

If there's a phrase for confidently letting out more line, that's what Maya's doing.
Originally uploaded by emaggie

As demanded by my daughter, the jokes stop here. For today, at least.

Maya's been nagging me the last few days to "stop always making jokes" and we've effectively agreed to a one-day moratorium on my silliness.  Granted, the terms of this brief cease-fire are squishy.  She can't really define what a joke is, but she knows it when she sees it.  Kinda like the Supreme Court and obscenity.  So in the interest of honoring our agreement, I'll post a few quick shots at some new albums I've had in rotation.  If you find anything funny herein, don't tell my daughter.

The debut from LA band Local Natives came out a number of months ago, but I just got around to picking it up.  If you like the sort of lush sound that made Grizzly Bear such a breakthrough act, you'll certainly hear the apt comparisons in what Local Natives offers.  They sound like what I always thought bands would sound like if you took the performance and the need for original shtick off the bill.  My rating for "Gorilla Manor" is a very pleasant B-minus.  No epic standouts, but well worth a mention because the band is so chuck full o' talent.

Like too many people, I am a fan of Outkast.  And while I generally couldn't have cared less, I heard about the extended period of time that it took Big Boi (the less flashy half of that duo) to put together his recent solo release.  We're talking years.  The result is especially surprising not because it's good.  But because there's so little depth there.  Lots of sexy tawk.  Most of it pretty damn juvenile.  The thought of cutting and remixing all of this over and over constitutes some incredibly dull staying power (if you know what I mean).  So I have to lower my rating to a missionary-style B-minus.  The beats are good, the sound can be juicy.  But the spontaneity is pure high school, if you take into account how long we've been waiting for something to happen.

The opposite type of output comes from Wolf Parade, in terms of quickly prolific releases (please veer away from the sexy in following my train of thought in this refrain).  These Quebecois doods crank out the new stuff faster than the paint dries on their past projects.  I'm not dismissive - this is a good roadtrip album if you're talking over the top of it in the car with someone you actually enjoy rambling along with.  But it's a thin sort of paint that doesn't really stick to much.  My rating is an appreciative but still looking for the really tasty hook C.  If you're jonesing like me for the upcoming release from their fellow Canucks, Arcade Fire, this will probably help get you through the next few weeks, though.

Hope your backlog of pop culture worth mentioning is also lessened today.  Rock on.

The sort of movies that almost cancel out the existence of "Macgruber" and "Eclipse". Almost.

As a measure of my dedication to the cause, I've got two leftover movie reviews from the week spent in Santa Barbara that require appreciative mentions.  All in all, it was time well spent in the theatres last week.  And most of all, the time spent watching and then trying to unravel the dizzying story of "Inception" was worth every minute.  It isn't a perfect ride.  But it surely is quite bewildering.  Christopher Nolan deserves all the butt-kissing he receives.  While this movie is not his best, it is monumental.  My rating is an imperfect B-plus, with plenty of room to be further impressed with added viewings.  I, after all, made the huge mistake a few summers ago of not being blown away the first time by "The Dark Knight".  As everyone is actively discussing (coming quite close to spoiling), the story of "Inception" dwells almost entirely inside the dreams of targets of corporate espionage or its practitioners.  You're cleverly encouraged to question what's real.  In the end, it doesn't matter.  The journey is the thing.  Leonardo DiCaprio is a hard nut for me to crack (immensely talented, really hard to like on some level possibly because of that fact), Ellen Page is out of her depth, Joseph Gordon-Levitt continues to amaze me his rocket ship career ascendancy, I still just don't get the whole gauzy grapple at Marion Cotillard's underwhelming breadth, and all the other character actors are positively fantastic (in particular, Tom Hardy will be a huge star in the not too distant future).  So if you need convincing, please see it.  Then grab a brewski - or more appropriately an absinthe - and discuss.  Preferably with others.  Movies should always hope to be this smart, even though they almost never can be.

In a very different way, the bleak little critical darling "Winter's Bone" also inspires conversation.  My rating - a hearty, worthwhile B.  Even though I saw it with absolutely the worst crowd for this particular film, although I'm sure they'll think they meant well.  Pairs of seniors, spread out evenly throughout the theatre landscape of a Saturday matinee.  It's been ages since I've been irritated by people talking back to the screen at a movie.  In this case, it was almost entirely caused by the meticulous authenticity of the white, rural poverty central to the story.  But since when is it cool to say "they don't want to eat squirrel" out loud?  When anyone who's seen enough of the real poverty this movie is drawn from feels a stirring irritation to answer "no, but they MUST because they're HUNGRY."  That may be a hard anecdote to draw too much meaning from.  But it does represent the central conundrum of this movie - representing poor, meth-addled, White America without making the largely rich, clean, White America that is seeing it in arthouse, urban theatres not feel compelled to respond in disbelief.  "Winter's Bone" nails it.  And the brutality - not violence, mind you - used to do so will make a ton of people uncomfortable.  If you have a willingness to see tough, smart characters who don't transcend their surroundings but instead revel in survival, see this movie.  If you've got upper-class guilt and a skewed view of how everyone makes their own destiny, stay home and watch "Glee" or read Dan Brown.  Because this movie ain't for pussies.

Hope your own endings make everything else along the way worth the journey today.  Rock on.

Swim lessons with a strict catch and release system in play.

Swim lessons with a strict catch and release system in play.
Originally uploaded by emaggie

A few final pics follow from our latest week in Santa Barbara. A grand time was had by all, thank you very much.

Maya gets a close-up view of her spankin' new cowgirl boots.

Maya gets a close-up view of her spankin' new cowgirl boots.
Originally uploaded by emaggie

Goodbye takedown of Auntie Katie.

Goodbye takedown of Auntie Katie.
Originally uploaded by emaggie

Is it wrong to hope that Robert Pattison and Kristen Stewart are actually eaten by wolves?

It's something of a normal Santa Barbara visit for us.  Good food, exercise, time to steep ourselves in some pop culture fun.  We threw together a fantastic daytrip to Los Angeles.  I always love dipping at least a toe into that City.  There's just so much cast along at crazy angles in a dizzying array of directions.  Seeing friends is the point.  Everything else is frosting.  Included in that was seeing a matinee of "The Kids Are All Right" at an absurdly over-priced ArcLight multiplex ($13.50 for a regular screen matinee, people).  But the movie was worth it - my rating is a very smart, solid B.  The cast is great across the board, although no one had to stretch themselves out of a comfort zone.  Mark Ruffalo is especially good (another Sconnie product - way to go Kenosha).  The nuances and trainwrecks will have you talking through dinner afterward.  And considering all the dreck that's clogging up the screens this summer, few movies give a better escape hatch.

Speaking of dreck.  Or just plain awfulness.  Or something else entirely that smells like untranslatable garbage.  Is "Eclipse", the new Twilight movie.  Honestly, I don't know how to rate it.  So I have to break my own conventions.  My rating - a Z-plus.  Or maybe a Z-minus.  I have no idea what to say about it.  I'd love to hear from a tween why it is either good or bad.  And I won't get all curmudgeony and claim that those darn kids these days don't make any sense to me.  I'm just saying this movie made no sense.  I get angst.  I don't get this awful movie.  But don't see it.  Leave the mystery untouched and you'll feel better about yourself.

Somewhere else in the middle is the Swedish middle movie based on the Stieg Larsson books - "The Girl Who Played With Fire".  It is such a middle movie, such an unsatisfying arc, and done with the mid-level intensity of a television movie you might see on the BBC.  My rating is an appreciative but underwhelmed C-minus.  Noomi Rapace (love the name) is good as Lisbeth Salander.  The cast of hyphenated Swedes are quirky (Biker-Swedes, an Indian-Swede doctor, a lesbian Asian-Swede love interest, and the list goes on and on).  The quality of the police procedural is very true to the trilogy's intent.  But rent it.

There are a few more flicks on our wish list for the short time we have left.  But it's all a bonus now, given how much we've been able to soak up since last weekend.  Hopefully you're also wriggling your mind's toes in some warm sand today.  Rock on.

If Maya's this happy in the airport...

If Maya's this happy in the airport...
Originally uploaded by emaggie

We're in Santa Barbara for the week. As you can see, Maya was ready to go before we even were wheels up. A few choice pics from the start of the week follow, including swim lessons and science camp at the Santa Barbara Museum of Natural History. Please check back for more later. Rock on.

Cloudy day swim lessons call for a bit more towel time. Which is a good thing.

Cloudy day swim lessons call for a bit more towel time. Which is a good thing.
Originally uploaded by emaggie

"They really do look delicious, Mommy!"

"They really do look delicious, Mommy!"
Originally uploaded by emaggie

Maya shows how she learned to carefully peel the hermit crab, before ever looking for the melted butter.

Maya shows how she learned to carefully peel the hermit crab, before ever looking for the melted butter.
Originally uploaded by emaggie

Sarah does her best to avoid eye contact with the pine cone-sized bug sizing up which child looks tastiest.

Sarah does her best to avoid eye contact with the pine cone-sized bug sizing up which child looks tastiest.
Originally uploaded by emaggie

"So when you say 'Madagascar Cockroach' there's no 'flying' or 'kid-eating' attached in any way?"

"So when you say 'cockroach' there's no 'flying' or 'kid-eating' attached in any way?"
Originally uploaded by emaggie

Swapping spies for better stories

I haven't gotten much of a charge from the whole prisoner swap with Russia story.  Sure, it's a throwback to an era that still has plenty of tasty juice to squeeze.  Especially when the current and ongoing big story (runaway underwater oil volcano) is being increasingly ignored.  And it adds to the foreign policy narrative about the Obama administration that I think is being lost amidst the fusillade of exploding turd bombs - namely, that we're seriously updating some old accounts starting with Israel and Russia, providing a platform for the decade ahead.  Still, something about this story feels so small as to not merit any heat and light at all.

Instead, I'd recommend digging back into the genre of international spy novels that are trying to update the Cold War mindset that provided such rich material for decades.  I won't claim a deep knowledge of what's out there.  But I did just finish "The Tourist" by Olen Steinhauer - my rating is a slow-building, strong B.  It employs a very smart Cold War throwback mentality to flesh out post-9/11 internal and external spy agency conflicts.  I'm going to read Steinhauer's sequel this week ("The Nearest Exit").  So rather than following the spy swap on the tarmac in Vienna, read some old-fashioned, well-written fiction that brings history right up into the present.  Who knows.  We just may learn something far deeper than who the Rooskie hottie really is along the way.

We're off to Santa Barbara for a week, as of tomorrow morning.  That will allow plenty of time for movies, family, reading and maybe even a trip to Disneyland.  We may even bring Maya.  Hope your own plans have plenty of cool wind in the sails today.  Rock on.

Louis and Lindsay - now there's a couple that would work

I was reminded by the first handful of minutes of today's "Fresh Air with Terry Gross" interview that I just love, love, love Louis C.K.  He's not everyone's cup of tea.  His shows are of very mixed quality, "Pootie Tang" lives on less as a movie than as a brilliant title, and now that he's divorced...well, there goes a ton of the best material he had to offer.  Right?  Um, nope.  He's still hilarious, even if now waxing on about being divorced and then waxing off how much of a screw-up he is as a 40-something self-deprecating schlub.  No one is better on the generally horrible late night talk shows than him.  Hell, I even watched him on Leno a few weeks ago.  If somebody can figure out a way to get me to watch Leno, he's frickin' Einstein.  Given the tenor and nuance of Louis C.K.'s comedy, that just might be true.  I've watched the first two episodes of his new sitcom ("Louie" on FX) - my rating is an underwhelmed but ever hopeful C.  But the poker game opening of the second episode is stellar.  Here's hoping the trajectory is continuing way up.

Anyone who writes anything today on the internets is apparently required by law to say something about Lindsay Lohan's 90-day jail sentence for being a bad parolee.  She's such a continuing flaming cartwheel that I just can't go there.  Instead, I must compliment the young woman on some seriously cool penmanship - check out the close-up of her notes that are meant to focus your eye on her snarky body art.  Seriously.  That's some cool amalgam handwriting.  I'd love to have an expert dissect it for me.  Very expressive, dangerously narcissistic, mature beyond her years envelope-pusher - I might guess.  But that makes me no better than TMZ, so I'll fall back to my original position and politely move on.

Seattle's gone summery today.  It feels like we're all on vacation in another dimension.  I give it 48 hours before everyone starts bitching about the heat.  Rock on.

Bathtime/Summertime Storytelling

  Even though the summertime temps haven't kicked Seattle's damp, unprepared tuchus (yet), summertime activities as they orbit around Maya are very much underway.  Soccer is key.  And her desire to properly jump rope provides an almost daily look inside her competitive mind.  But of all the new summertime activities that seem to crop up daily, none surprised me more than her desire for a daily story telling exercise.  Granted this has nothing to do with summertime in particular - hopefully, telling stories is a year-round activity.  Still, it was only a few days ago that I got assigned to do the original stories after a few weeks of Sarah pulling that duty.  It coincides with bath time, which requires a story to be told tub-side with the glare of the bathroom lights serving as an open-mike spotlight.  I've just gotten started, but I've happened upon an age-old parental epiphany.  Making up stories that your kid enjoys ROCKS.  Maybe there's a future in it.  Not that I'm looking to be Jamie Lee Curtis.  After all, I'd hate to see some small measure of success writing children's stories morph into becoming a spokesperson for dubious ass-curative yogurt.  I'm talking more about a healthy way of bonding with the youngin', and maybe recording said stories to pass along sometime and somewhere to be determined.  My first soccer-themed story was met with raves, as was Part One of the next still gestating story dealing with a magic beach.  I don't know how long I can keep up this version of the ActiveStoryteller Challenge.  But it's a new summertime development that has me feeling rather sunshiny.

Hope your holidaze celebrations include equal parts grillin' and chillin', sans illin'.  Rock on.

A "Passage" worth reading

I finished Justin Cronin's novel "The Passage" yesterday, to coincide with his sole Seattle bookstore signing.  That pairing gives me a chance to comment on both - the work and the marketing.  The more time I spend looking into the marketing and selling of the book, the more I see the business-side as an artisanal sausage-making job.  A whole lot more mystery still goes into properly writing and crafting the reason for the selling.  But they're obviously both part of the gig.

Most importantly, "The Passage" is a grand, impressive hunk of work.  My rating - a hard-earned A-minus.  The plot is apocalyptic, the monsters are unleashed by our own stupidity, and they are quite a bundle of trouble.  But the heroes are why you'd choose to come along for a nearly 800-page ride.  The writing is lyrical in places, the action is described with lean, strong prose, and you come to know his characters almost immediately.  All those things are incredibly tough to do, but Cronin just piles it on and on until you don't want this volume to leave it where you know it must be lain as you near the approaching back cover.  Which leads to my only reason for not ticking up my rating that last notch - this big ol' hunk of dead tree is just the first of three grandly planned books.  Cronin said last night that the next two will be published in the summers of 2012 and 2014.  Accordingly, the ending of this book seems like a bit too much of a cliffhanger.  The resolution will not allow the book to stand alone.  So for anyone that reads it, likes it very much, but just wants to move on to feast upon the millions of other writers out there...well, they're going to be disappointed.  Call it obligatory fiction.  Once you start, you just can't stop.  That being said (and it is far from the most important thing to say about this giant kegger of a brain party), this novel will find a massive audience of eager fans.  I asked Cronin whether he was already encountering people quoting back to him the mythology he's created (perhaps too cleverly I termed them "gestational Trekkies", even though my geek side knows they prefer "Trekkers").  He answered with the joking question of "what have you heard" and followed through with a colleague's comment about painful doctoral dissertations to come on the world he's created.  Let's hope not.  I know he was joking.  But people will certainly squish and squeeze this work to fit their own contorted desire to attribute far grander provenance to something that is basically just a well-written story meant to entertain readers.  Vampire fans are probably good people, too.  I'll just be damned if I want to listen to them talk smack about greater truths to be drawn from such activity.

Which draws me what may seem far afield to mention a story I read this morning about Harper Lee - the reclusive author of "To Kill A Mockingbird".  Some enterprising Brit got her to agree to an extremely rare interview just prior to the 50th anniversary of her only book's publication.  The profile is fascinating.  Mainly because it shows that Harper Lee is just a person.  One whose sole offering of brilliance has become something far grander that she surely ever expected.  It might have stifled her.  Drove her to drink.  Pushed her into the full Salinger.  What was done with the lessons of her novel, however, seems to me to be the most fascinating.  By unleashing a conversation that you merely whisper to a reader, you don't know what they're going to then do with it.  That is the beauty and the power of the job.  And it can be an unruly bitch.  Maybe that sounds vague and half-baked.  But it makes sense to me.

So to finish up what I'd said earlier about seeing the marketing and selling of a book as an important thing to observe from Cronin's book, I can offer the smallest bits of anecdotal insight.  For my own benefit, probably, since I learn something from every author I meet.  I asked Cronin if he has the same agent for these books as he had for his two prior well-received but very modestly sold novels.  I was pleased to hear that he stuck with that person.  Somebody's got a nice place in the Hamptons this summer, if you know what I mean.  Aside from that, reading for an audience of readers is performance.  And all the little details mean a ton to the sort of folks that show up at these for fun.  Like how you notate your signature (Cronin chose his own creation from "The Passage" that served him well in both places - "All eyes.").  And how much you read (he went on a bit too long as observed by a crowd shifting in the seats well before he'd finished).  And whether you have personal connections with the crowd (a past student from Rice University where he's still on faculty came to ask a question, and Cronin remembered him by name).  In the end, I suppose the trick is to encourage folks to not only buy the book.  You want people to talk about it and tell others that they should look into it.  Duh.  Because Justin Cronin ain't going anywhere near Harper Lee territory - he'll be out there talking about this book and the movies Ridley Scott is prepping to make from them and the books to come for the next handful of years.  Along the way, we'll get to know a lot more about his monsters and the war humankind will fight against them.  And how he got to writing this story as a way to bond with his 8-year-old daughter while she rode her bike alongside him running, meant to showcase a girl who saves the world.  And whether humanity can once again be metaphorically forgiven for doing what we always do.

Wherever this trilogy goes, I think you should join in.  Unless you plan to write some sort of bad goth term paper on it.  In which case, you should read "To Kill A Mockingbird" and get outside for an afternoon.  Trust me, it will do you some good.  In either case.

A story about much more than toys, conceived and told with childlike glee

Piling on the accolades for "Toy Story 3" may seem like a waste of good adjectives.  Touching.  Heartfelt.  Family-riffic.  But I won't dispute that they all apply.  My rating after seeing it Saturday with kids and other adults in tow - a deserved full A.  It is, without a doubt in my mind, a perfect movie.  Aside from all the obvious emotional and intellectual plaudits, I must add a few that might get lost in the mix of blubbering and self-identification experienced by kids and adults alike.  Foremost, the storytelling is brilliant in its efficiency.  A few lines of dialogue and well-crafted animation sequences here accomplish more than even the most masterful filmmaker could muster (the scene where Mrs. Potato Head uses her detached eye to see that the toys being taken to the dump was a tragic mistake is what earned this compliment from me).  And secondly, the animation has improved to the degree where the facial features of the "human" characters are more expressive than real actors.  I mean that.  "Toy Story 3" introduces Bonnie, a beautifully creative young girl, and re-introduces Andy, the boy who is now headed off to college and whose decisions of what to do with the toys in that light form the cohesion in the storyline of the movie.  Giving anything away would be infinitely lame.  Harping on the intensity of certain scenes for very young children would be unfair given the overall arc of the film.  But missing this movie, would be the real shame.  It's just that damn good.

On a very different level, the new album from art rock weirdo Ariel Pink (and his backing band, Haunted Graffiti) is a hard thing to recommend.  It's dressed up, formerly low-fidelity artiness.  You need to be a major music geek to even care about this dood's ascendancy.  But if you appreciate challenging new music that inspires conversation and strongly held opinions, this album will whet an appetite.  I even recommend a pairing with the decidedly hard to pigeonhole funk parade debut album by Janelle Monae discovered from the orbit of Outkast around Atlanta.  Both "Before Today" and "The Archandroid" earn the same rating from me - slightly uneasy C-pluses.  Someday I may like them.  But for now, it feels like music appreciation by way of a long forced march through unfamiliar terrain.  If you have entirely different opinions of both albums, I won't be surprised in the least.

Hope your own playthings give you many more years of pleasure going forward from today.  Rock on.

Can we talk? About something else for a minute?

There doesn't seem to be much oxygen left in the public chamber to support discussion of anything besides McChrystal's self-immolation (blame it on his moronic one meal a day diet maybe).  Or Team USA's truly thrilling extra time goal against Algeria.  So I'll just take a little gulp and offer the following double endorsement.

The documentary "Joan Rivers: A Piece of Work" is an extremely worthwhile piece of storytelling.  Actually, aside from "Exit Through The Gift Shop" (which I'm increasingly convinced was actually an elaborate ruse on Banksy's part) this is the best documentary I've seen this year.  My rating - a solid B-plus.  I'm not just now jumping on the bandwagon of loving Joan Rivers.  As someone who listened to comedy albums on cassette over and over and over again in my childhood, I grew up with an early appreciation of her timing (always just a beat too quick for the punchline to add to the shock of her subjects).  But seeing her work both on stage and off in this documentary is fascinating.  See this movie.  If for no other reason than to see how she handles what could have been a disastrous confrontation while performing at an Indian casino in Northern Wisconsin, of all places.  

I don't speak of it much, but I really do love video games.  Once again, that goes way back to childhood.  Don't play 'em much these days.  Don't like a ton of them.  But the game "Red Dead Redemption" by the folks who brought us "Grand Theft Auto" is the most layered, engaging, well-conceived world.  It's set in the not-so-old West.  The gameplaying is great.  Yet the interstitial stuff (a temperance "moving picture" show you can pay a few bucks to enter amidst all the other delightful distractions was a favorite I came across a few days ago)...well, there's more fun to be found on this platform than in anything I've seen on TV in ages.  My rating - an upwardly mobile A-minus, only because I'm just part way into the game.  If you are anything of a gamer, buy it.  Now.

Hope your own distractions are worthy, yet far from insubordinate today.  Rock on.