Miro Tea in Ballard

If you live in Seattle and ever get a hankering for a pot of tea out of your house, come to Miro! Located on N 22nd and Market, it's on the same block as a bunch of other treasures (Gifted, Carta de Oaxaca, Volterra).

My most recent stay was a few days ago. I wanted to get out to write a bit and it was, as usual, cold, misty, and grey out. I contemplated my regular spots before deciding to go for tea instead of coffee. I ordered a giant London Fog (definitely sated my earl grey addiction, and they have caffeine-free products!) and sat for two hours, undisturbed, reading, writing, and just hanging out. I never felt pushed to leave and my only qualm was that everything was kind of overpriced. But what are you gonna do... if I want to complain about overpriced teas, I should probably stay out of hip little shops and stay in my kitchen with my Costco combo packs.

Other perks: they have games, free wireless, gluten-free pastries and crepes, beautiful art, beautiful customers, beautiful baristas (what do you call a tea maker?) and a very wide selection of teas.

Black Swan

Reading some of the review out there, I almost feel like I walked into the wrong movie theater last night. Did I see the same "Black Swan" the people who nominated it for four Golden Globes did?

I've never seen Darren Aronovsky's other apparent masterpieces (Requim for a Dream, The Wrestler) but I've heard equally shining reviews. Sounds like he has found what he likes--the dark, the macabre, the ill--and is now sticking to it.

While I won't speak for his other films, I will say that "Black Swan" is severely overrated. The total lack of a plot (mise-en-abime does not mean that you replace the film's plot with the plot of Swan Lake which is already a goddamned plot of the film) was quite frustrating. All the viewer is left with to look at is Portman's nearly-emaciated body, performing remarkable pirouettes (ballet is hard guys, I took beginning at Whitman a few semesters ago and immediately felt ugly, fat, and clumsy). And at first I thought it was going to be enough. Portman gives a fantastic performance as the timid Nina, raising neither her voice nor her eyes. Despite how annoying the timidity becomes, you have to raise a glass to Portman to embodying the character so fully. But when it comes time for Portman to play the black swan, I'd have to agree with Thomas--she's rather unconvincing.

Some people argue that they had no idea where the film was going, that days later they are still struggling to understand what was real and what wasn't. Wait, really? Because to me "Black Swan" was so predictable that the only reason I stayed to watch it was because it made me so tense and nervous I had to make it to the end for relief. From the start, the "plot" was predetermined (it had to faithfully follow that of Swan Lake, after all), and the overly dramatic controlling psycho mother figure and constant background of feather fluttering and heartbeats was just infantile on the part of the director. If you fall for that, great. You make his heart sing. I don't.

high points: Mila Kunis (except for the silly black wing back tats.. really? Because we were already so confused...), Natalie Portman's performance, Natalie Portman's black swan makeup

Unless you want a night out, I'd recommend to wait until it comes out on instant Netflix. Be sure you are in a somewhat good place when you watch it. Trust me, you really don't want to go down with the swan.

Mailing Address in Paree

Evelina Miropolsky

c/o IES Abroad

77 Rue Daguerre

75014 Paris, France

I will be living in the 15th in a homestay with one of my good friends, Kiley Wolff.

He's Just Not That Into You

I generally stay far, far away from rom coms, especially when there isn't so much rom com in my life at the time (because come on, who wants to be reminded of what they don't have?). For some reason or other, I was drawn to "He's Just Not That Into You" a few nights ago. This 2009 pic was based off of a self-help book (how often does that happen, if ever?) and is brimming with big names: Aniston, Johansson, Cooper, Long (ugh), Affleck, Barrymore (double ugh), Connelly, etc. etc. The idea is that there are all these people out there, milling about, and none of them know how to read one another. Gestures are misunderstood, dates mislabeled, connections missed. And so what, you ask? Well, I'm not really sure. Neither is the film.

First off, there are too many characters. I realize the director was going for a Love Actually vibe (but not as adorably cute), but by casting over a dozen easily recognizable faces as everyday citizens of Baltimore desperate to find love, he completely failed to create the relatable, heart-warming, thought-provoking pic he was going for. Instead, you find yourself wondering why Rachel--I mean Jennifer--is with Ben Affleck and not Ross. It just doesn't work.

Just like a one-night stand, this movie reeks of disposability. You watch it, you chuckle, you moan, you check the time, and honestly--you never think of it again (wait, why am I writing a review?). Maybe a month or two later someone says something that reminds you of it and you kind of re-accept that it happened, and then you move on.

So there you have it. It's a cinematic one-night stand, and it's alright. The ultimate irony is it fails to be what it seeks so desperately: to be relatable and realistic because of a) the casting, b) the nauseating predictability, and c) the fact that none of the nine or so leading characters are black or Latino (oh wait, waiters and construction workers come to mind). "He's Just Not That Into You" could have fared much better as a series of vignettes a la "Paris, Je T'aime" or a twenty-minute episode of a chick show.

All I Know...

...is that you never know.

Revisiting Solitude

When I wrote about finding peace in being alone last summer, I thought I was writing from the heart. I thought I meant it. But looking back now, I realize that post was all talk. Okay, I am being a bit hard on myself. I was doing good things for myself, but at the same time, I was consciously and subconsciously relying on the knowledge and comfort that I was not alone.

Of course that wasn't my fault, and maybe I did recognize the fact that I was not being completely self-reliant and my peace did not have to do with my independence. But now that I am, in some ways, more alone, I realize that the process of coming to terms with being alone and being happy about it is just beginning.

Every major experience I have had in my life shouts: "Don't depend on anyone other than yourself for your happiness!" But it's just so damn hard when the happiness you've felt because of another surpasses anything you've ever experienced. It looks like I have a lot to learn ahead of me, but I can proudly say that the beginning to learning every lesson is acknowledging the fact that it exists and must be learned.

So that is where I am now. I am on the way to learning the truth of happiness. Learning to cultivate it within myself, to not be dependent on anyone or anything other than my very own existence. I am learning to be more compassionate towards myself, to give myself more time, to stop setting arbitrary deadlines for myself. I read the following anonymous quote somewhere and it is helping me to be patient and kind with myself on days like today. I hope that, if you are going through something difficult and trying, and beating yourself up about not getting over it, you can read this, take it in, and give yourself a break:

"The process of healing is not a smooth transgression. It's more like a lightening bolt, full of ups and downs, progressions and regressions, dramatic leaps and depressing backslides. Realize this and know that whether you are "better" or "worse" than yesterday-or five minutes ago-the healing process is underway."

Reviving Woody

I have a confession: I am a Jew who loathes a self-loathing Jew. Rather, I used to be. Hence the title of this post. When one is forced to spend long, languid hours at home due to the icy roads that keep one from getting out into the real world, this one tends to turn to film.

I don't know about you, but I get really into phases of directors/content/genre. Like, I'll watch everything Hitchcock ever made in a week, then I'll move on to Jean-Pierre Jeunet, then spend two weeks exclusively watching Seinfeld (or something campier like 30 Rock), and on and on. These past two weeks, I have decided to revisit a man from my past, a man whom I gave more than several chances to show me he could be different, to make me believe in him. But it never happened. Woody Allen never ceased to piss me off. His voice gives me the same feeling as watching someone file their nails (worst. thing. ever.). The scenarios are all the same. People fall in love, they fall out of love, they cheat on their spouses, they divorce, they date... dear god, we know, Woody, we know. Life is hard.

And now, the Universe prompted me to give him one more chance. Who knows?--Several years had passed, I had matured, perhaps even shifted some worldviews of my own. Perhaps I had never been ready for Woody. I had been writing him off as dull, whiny, and unoriginal, telling him with a shrug: "It's not me... it's you." But perhaps it really was me who had the problem all along. Or you know what? Maybe neither of us had anything the matter with us and had just grown and were finally ready for one another.

So I'll leave you with a little gem from Manhattan, which is now playing in another window (yeah, I have yet to learn to resist the will to multitask on a laptop simply because I can): "I finally had an orgasm and my doctor told me it was the wrong kind."

If you're fed up with someone or something, don't be certain you'll feel the same way a few years from now. Sure, you may, but you may also find the perfect companion for all those sub-zero winter days when the only other living creatures in the vicinity are your cat and the exotic plant in the living room that's never once bloomed.

Visa Ventures

As my loyal followers--all three of you--know, I plan to spend my spring semester abroad in Paris. One of the main reasons I started a blog was to document my trip (so stay tuned), but then it was summer and I decided that to start one a few months early would not be a crime. Anyway, one of the many, often tedious, steps one has to take to go about studying abroad is acquiring a visa.

Now, acquiring a visa to Paris is a wearisome process within itself. Some visas you can apply for by mail, and having done just that for my trip to Vietnam last winter, I expected nothing different for France. Alas, I soon found that this was not so, and that a trip in person to the Consulate of France was in order. As a Washington state resident, "my" appointed consulate is the one on Bush Street in San Francisco.

So began the search for a time to fly to out to the Bay, and for tickets as cheap as humanly possible, and for the twenty-odd documents the monsieur at the desk in San Fran would demand from me. I was dreading the trip for the Bay from the start. First off, I hate flying. Can't stand it--even the smell of airports halts my digestive process and activates my sympathetic nervous system. So not only did I have to deal with something that frightens me (I've recognized it's the whole everything's-out-of-my-control deal), but I had to give up one and a half precious days of Thanksgiving break for this damn visa. Add several other reasons and being sick... I was not anticipating the trip of my life.

My flight was scheduled for 5:35 pm on Monday, November 22, and my appointment at the consulate, which was scheduled in an impersonal manner weeks in advance, was for the following morning at 9:30 am. I didn't know what I would do with that time. Anyway, while I was worrying how I would spend 9 waking hours in San Francisco, dear Seattle experienced a bit of its own crisis. Several hours of snow later and winds that, according to my news-following brother, reached 74 miles per hour, Seattle shut down.

Meanwhile, my dad and I planned accordingly and left the house early, accounting for the slowness and danger of the traffic and roads, respectively. Everything started out normally until, 7 minutes into the drive, we merged onto 99-South towards SeaTac. Eight and a half hours later we were just two miles from where we had merged onto 99. I am not shitting you. Oh, this was just the beginning of a fun-filled night.

The seven hours we spent on I-5 South were alright. No, really--it was me and my dad, and we had eaten before we left the house, so we were in good company and not hungry or anything. We had snacks and two bottles of water, and half a tank of gas. The whole situation was funny. I kept breaking into giggles every time I looked around and thought of the thousands of frustrated drivers trying to decide whether it was worth it to turn off their engines every fifteen minutes. The "driving" went like this: stand still for 15-20 minutes, turn on your engine, roll forward a quarter of a block, stop, turn off your engine. And it went on. FOR SEVEN HOURS. And the most hilarious thing was, I kept thinking I'd make the flight until 30 minutes before it departed. Then I decided I'd make the next flight. But seven hours later, I kind of learned to stop "deciding" I'd make the next flight, because at this point, just getting to the airport, not running out of gas, or getting stuck in the ice was an unknown.

People all around were abandoning their cars and bundling up to walk. I have no idea where they were going, because at any given point we were at least 1/2 a mile from an exit, and it was below freezing. I actually saw a dude in Crocs braving the storm. CROCS. Without socks. Which would normally be the way to do it if you were to wear the atrocity in the first place, but not on that day.

Anyway, my dad intimated at some point in this long wait that we may be better off just turning around and going home, and trying to reschedule my meeting with the Consulate. Too bad that was not an option, I told him. If I missed my appointment, I was in deep shit. So instead of worrying about being bored and anxious in San Francisco, flying, smelling like an airport, and sitting next to a flirtatious overweight businessman on each side (all things that happened, actually), I was worrying about not being allowed to live in Paris. Except then I would realize that worrying only fueled more worrying, and so I would shake it off and crack a joke to my pops about the guy next to us trying to take a piss without thirty people seeing his junk.

I'll spare you the details of how we finally arrived at the airport, at 12:25 am. Obviously I had missed all the flights into the Bay for the evening and night, so I went to inquire about the earliest flight for the next morning. Of course that only happened after standing in line after dozens of other impatient citizens who had also missed their flights, battling with the poor women of Alaska Air, staring them down with their crazy no-sleep eyes and railing on about the inefficiency of the System.

It was my turn and I willed myself into consciousness to carry on a conversation. All flights to San Francisco for the morning were booked and had lengthy stand-bys. BUT there was ONE spot left on a 6:10 am flight to Oakland! Oh God, YES! I would have to be upgraded to first-class for free, was that okay?

My dad left the airport in the vicinity of 4 am and I almost cried because I was so out of it. I think I actually whined "I want to go hooooome" with tears in my eyes like the four-year-old brat I am.

Long story short (okay, it isn't short at all and I don't even know why you would be reading this..honestly writing this has been a personal catharsis), I boarded the morning flight, made it to Oakland exactly one hour before my appointment, was picked up by a family friend and driven to the consulate, entered the doors sweaty, full-bladdered and foul-breathed two minutes before my appointment time, and GOT DAT VISA. Then I was taken back to the person's home, whereupon I took a hot shower and tried to pass out to no avail because--irony of all ironies--I was too exhausted. Got on a 5 pm flight back to Seattle. I hardly noticed the fact that I was flying and, naturally, should be nervous. Several minutes after takeoff I looked out the window to my left and watched the gentle folds of the Pacific Ocean. I actually cried. I was looking at all the water and crying, and I know it is normal to be emotionally moved by a beautiful sight, but I can't say I would not have cried if the person next to me had dropped one of their salted pretzels, or if the hostess had reprimanded me for not yet having turned off my cellphone. Let's just say I was in a fragile state.

So I made it home and am living proof that even a person who is a wreck when she doesn't get nine hours of sleep a night can survive 39 hours without sleep. Granted, I was probably drooling in public after 15.

I am happy to say that I am safe and somewhat warm at home now, but still experiencing the effects of sleep deprivation which means I become emotional easier than normal. So here I sit, tearing up at Katy Perry's "Fireworks" video and talking to my cat (fine, I do that on any given day).

The Maid

This Chilean gem is a tough one to describe and evaluate... the main character is so radically unlikeable that you find yourself questioning your reasons for still watching the damn thing. A brief synopsis: Raquel, a middle aged woman who has been working as a maid in the same household for 20 years is threatened by a replacement. Over the years, the viewer sees how Raquel's role as maid in the upperclass Latin household has become so much more than a role. Raquel has fused with this social role and taken it on as her only identity. It is no wonder that when this identity is threatened, Raquel's whole sense of self is overturned. A vast part of the film focuses on Raquel's painfully childish, often sickening, but laughter-inducing ploys to rid herself of her new aides. When the antagonism becomes too much to bear, the film switches its focus to Raquel's transformation, thanks to an aide who is hardly phased by her cruel attempts.

A warning to potential viewers (and yes, you should watch it): The Maid is advertised as a comedy. Much too often this mistake is made by the categories on Netflix. Yes, this film has aspects of comedy, but it is in no way A Comedy. Seeing Raquel in action is one of the most tragic, disturbing film experiences I have had. The directer, Sebastian Silva, approaches Raquel's character with a total deadpan quality, and this renders the film both funnier and more tragic. All I can say is thank god for Lucy.

Some critics have stated that this film goes nowhere. I am pretty sure they would feel the same way about their lives, because this film reflects what it is to be human (though I pray most of us are more stable than Raquel). The Maid's unpredictability allows it to flourish, and maybe it's just the social psychologist within me, but I believe that Silva has created a remarkable study of mental servitude, the extent to which we take our society-given roles, and simple human compassion, without which The Maid would be categorically unwatchable.

You Are the Everliving Ghost of What Once Was

It's a miracle. This cover by Cee Lo Green actually moves me as much as, though in a different manner than, the Band of Horses original.

Walk home

Two beautiful and curious things I saw on my walk back from campus to my apartment:

1.

It is wet out, and the flattened leaves are pressed to the sidewalks by feet, bike tires, and more rain. When they are forced away from the ground, disturbed either by feet again or a gust of wind, they leave behind a dark grey imprint. They seem to be holding on, in such a human-like manner, to their previous mode of existence. They seek to leave something behind of themselves before they imminently deteriorate. But leaves cannot write a book, nor sculpt out of matter, so they try to hold on in the only manner they know. I always thought that only human beings felt a constant hunger for the past, but today I saw a hungry leaf.

2.

The leaves accumulate in piles on the interest house block, whether by the wind or grounds maintenance (or both), I don't know. The piles stretch from the curb to nearly the houses themselves, creating fat horizontal golden stripes, if one was observing this phenomenon from a bird's point of view. I was walking, approaching these piles, noting how vibrant the yellows, so bright they seemed painted with dyes and chemicals, and a funny thing happened when I found myself in the middle of the piles. The colors, already devilishly burning, flared up into a golden sea of light, and I was beside myself, and it was so beautiful I actually felt choked up. The individual leaves were no longer distinguishable; instead, they melted together into a mound of energy, in the middle of which I stood.

Morning at Bedlam

Nothing (temporarily--I'm talking 40 minutes) alleviates heartbreak like a change of scene. Thank goodness another Whittie was Seattle-bound this weekend. Now I get to sleep in my own bed for three whole nights, cuddle with my fat as shit cat, eat my dad's cooking, see Blitzen Trapper by myself (tonight at the Showbox at the Market), and generally bathe in nostalgia of earlier years. I am currently sitting in a mustard velour chair at Bedlam Coffee in Seattle. It is a beautiful space. It is one of those darling alternative coffee shops I have driven by daily for the past several years yet never had an excuse to stop in. Well today, I did. Madame Bovary came with, and we, along with an attractive twentysomething hipster to my right, had a lovely morning sipping hot beverages and catching up on our cleverly-named blogs.

To summarize: heartbreak kills, funky art distracts, chamomile-honey tea calms, hipsters browse, life goes on.

Courtesy of FreeCrappyPortraits.com

My unicorn summer, 2009

Clever Phrasing of the Day

"I got shot at the doctor's."

--Mabel, age 3.

Best Chemistry Between Two Actors in a Movie

James Stewart and Grace Kelly in Rear Window

It isn't yet the twenty-first century, so we can't show any nasty business nor naughty bits, but that makes it steamier. Grace Kelly--what can I say. Flitting in and out of the claustrophobic apartment in her streaming see-through nightgown... it's a wonder Jimmy Stewart even glances at Ms. Torso across the yard. Don't even get me started on the tender cuddling... it is just too much. And the incredible chemistry is only the cherry on top of this classic.

James McAvoy and Keira Knightley in Atonement

Library scene. A personal inspiration even, one could say.

Jonathan Rhys Meyers and Scarlett Johansson in Match Point

It's forbidden, so it's going to be hot. And Rhys-Meyers has always irritated me, but Johansson's raspy, overflowing bosom--er--sexuality makes up for his uncomfortable, squinty moments. Also--throwing yourself at your lover (under the pouring rain) in a field of wheat...best thing ever. Wait, what?

Jim Carrey and Kate Winslet in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind

You wouldn't expect such a heartfelt, well, normal portrayal from Carrey, but he delivers in Eternal Sunshine. This romance is anything but formulaic. The whole point of this movie is that there exists a certain chemistry that binds one human being to another, and that nothing--time, memory loss, obstacles--can change that. I like to believe that.

Ryan Gosling and Rachel McAdams in The Notebook

My argument: the amount of longing in Gosling's gaze at any given point in this movie. And also the whole "we-haven't-been-able-to-have-each-other-for-so-long-and-now-we-can-like-whoa" factor.

Tommy Wiseau and Juliette Danielle in The Room

Have you seen The Room?

Wise Words of the Day

Jett, 4, screwed up his face into a thoughtful grimace, even though he seemed to be having the time of his life on the teeter-totter with his good friend, Cody.

Jett: I don't like girls.

me: Oh yeah? Why not?

Jett: They fight.

Blood Simple

To be succinct, this movie rocked. It was hilarious, disgusting, hilariously disgusting, and well-acted. Marty is a suspecting (with good reason) husband who hires a private eye to investigate his unfaithful wife, played by an unbelievably young Frances McDormand. This was actually McDormand's first feature-length film, and I was astounded by her performance. Anyway, things turn bloody and downright silly (if you watch it in the right mood, that is) and I was overall incredibly pleased with the result. As the final scene cut to the credit roll, accompanied by a becoming upbeat melody, I looked at my friend and exclaimed: "Yes! That was awesome." Now if only every director's first effort was so rewarding to watch...

Pizza yo

Nick and I made pizzas-from-scratch for dinner. It was perfect. Nick prepped the dough while I was at work and then we topped em to our personal liking (just basil, cheese and sauce for him, artichoke hearts, fresh sliced tomatoes, basil, cheese, and sauce for me) and tossed the babies in the oven for fifteen minutes.

A couple of Harvest Moons sealed the deal.

This is Corny

Tonight I am feeling grateful. From many perspectives, I have an enviable life. I certainly do not feel enough gratitude for my life, and so I decided to capture the fleeting hour of intense satisfaction and well, gratitude, and express myself in words.

Tonight I find myself feeling grateful for a number of things. Things in my power and things outside of it. Yes, this is one of those posts I could comfortably have written in a personal journal instead of posting on the internets for all y'all but maybe this will inspire you (I told you this was corny) to contemplate reasons to be grateful in your life. Because you should.

True gratitude feels damn good. Not like being in love good, which is also obviously quite good, but more like a steady, warm radiating good. A comforting good that permeates through your being and lends you confidence and some iota of understanding as to what your little insignificant (yet infinitely confounding) life means. So I got this warm fuzzy feeling while walking back from the Whitman sauna tonight. I don't doubt the possibility that this warmth inside my head and body was partially due to the extreme temperatures of the cedary vault. But the rest, I know, was the real thing.

First off, I felt cleansed. Sweating from parts of my body I thought impossible, I walked the four or so blocks from the athletic center to my apartment. It was a relatively warm night considering the coolness of the past days. It was the kind of weather where you feel that you aren't sure where your body ends and the atmosphere begins, the same way when you are immersed in a body of water whose temperature matches that of your body. I looked up and what?!--I could see the stars! Just as disappointment and frustration grows on itself, so did my feelings of gratitude. I started thinking about how fucking lucky I was in almost every single respect of my life and that got me smiling like a goon. If you know me, you know I love lists, and so you will understand my compelling need to fit them in wherever I may.

Between exiting the sauna and climbing the stairs to my third-floor apartment, I thought about

1. The people who I love and who love me in return

2. The people who I love but they don't know it, but love is love and good vibes are good vibes

3. The adorable wonders at the Kids' Place with whom I am blessed (I really dislike that expression but failed to think of another) to spend 5 hours every Wednesday morning

4. "Shake Some Action" as made popular to me by the very handsome Flash Gilmore and the Funbeatles (http://www.myspace.com/funbeatles)

5. how easy it is for me to make tea whenever I want it

6. Cats, duh

Make your own lists dear (imaginary?) readers and share them with others. Cause why the hell not capture and extend a good mood?

I really, really, really wish I had made this

http://fuckyeahprancingcera.tumblr.com/

The Adventures of Milo and Otis

We all remember one of our childhood favorites, "Milo and Otis" (1989). If you know me at all, you'll know I am a kitty fiend, and as a child I was not so picky so I vastly enjoyed books and films about dogs as well. And orcas, dolphins, and pandas. "Milo and Otis" (in the same vein as "Homeward Bound" (1993)) features both cats and dogs, which automatically renders it superior to lone-canine tear-jerkers like "My Dog Skip" (2000) and "Old Yeller" (1957). Most of you probably don't know that "Milo and Otis" is a Japanese film released in 1986 as "Koneko Monogatari." I certainly did not. Leave it to the Japanese to pioneer talking animals, though.

So anyway, I was watching this beloved childhood classic the other night, and I could not help but notice how fucking terrified the kitten appeared in almost every single scene. Floating down the river in a crate? Check. Attacked by a crab? Check. Mauled by a bear? Check. Drenched in a freak storm? Check. The film reportedly had the approval of the American Humane Society prior to filming, but I cannot help but wonder how many Milo and Otises the director went through by the time 90 minutes were up.

Anyway, sometimes I ponder the nature of such films in which different animals are required to interact with one another. Most of the time the circumstances for a bear to "play" with a kitten and a pug to come to the rescue do not present themselves by nature. So how are these movies made? My guess is that hours and hours of footage of the animals doing their thing are taken and the story kind of follows. What do you think?

Apart from the adorableness factor, the Japanese naturalist cinematography is pleasing to the eye, and Dudley Moore's subtly silly narration is enjoyable. None of these things overshadowed the winces I experienced every time Milo meowed in obvious terror. Or maybe I've just outgrown the charm of the talking animals.

Summer Reading: I read them, so can you!

House Rules by Jodie Picoult

if you like: sentimentalism, dysfunctional families, autistic humor

Kings of Infinite Space by James Hymes

if you like: Office Space, cults, large-breasted brunettes

Winter's Bone by Daniel Woodrell

if you like: grit, American lyricism, redneck lit

Give Us A Kiss by Daniel Woodrell

if you like: hillbilly noir, Faulkner, unfulfilling sex scenes

Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close by Jonathan Safran Foer

if you like: beauty, stream-of-consciousness, rereading old letters

Everything is Illuminated by Jonathan Safran Foer

if you like: holocaust lit, crying, Jewish inside jokes

The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian by Sherman Alexie

if you like: sarcasm, teenage boy humor, hope

Little Bee by Chris Cleave

if you like: trauma, responsibility, yelling at characters in a movie about how stupid they are

Outliers by Malcolm Gladwell

if you like: Horatio Alger, questioning stereotypes, questionable research

Blink by Malcolm Gladwell

if you like: being sold something, business lit, skipping over chapters that don't suit your interests

The World Luvs Scott Pilgrim

There is but one word to describe "Scott Pilgrim vs. The World," and that's 'fun.' Director Edgar Wright masterfully synthesizes elements of the graphic novel and film into a creation that is a nod to nerds but accessible to all. It is difficult for me to walk into a movie and set aside all criticism. The same went for this movie. I noticed the transitions that seemed like iMovie mistakes and the repetitiveness of the fight scenes (are there really going to be seven?). So will probably most people. Fifteen minutes in, I gave up trying to make a list of glitches because, well, I was having so much damn fun.

I watched the entire movie with a mesmerized grin on my face, only interrupted ever so often, by a need to whisper (probably too loudly) to M "wait, isn't he/she from x?" So yes, the fight scenes are somewhat exhausted after Evil Ex #2, but in a way each of these scenes serves as a number in a musical; often similar but binding in a most necessary manner. My only real problems with the movie didn't surface until a day or two after the viewing. The thing is, Scott Pilgrim is a rather unlikeable fellow. Another thing is, what makes Scott go so crazy for Ramona? Knives is totally hotter, and Ramona is neither particularly nice nor interesting. If you can get past these weaknesses (and Cera's unending man-boy awkwardness), I highly recommend "Scott Pilgrim vs. the World."

Baking Bread!

Today I spent the day with a girlfriend who had just returned from several months in Namibia. After exchanging stories, we decided to get down to business and complete our challenge for the day: baking challah bread.

Challah bread is a delicious, eggy bread, similar to brioche, that is traditionally eaten on the Sabbath. It is absolutely delicious eaten plain, dipped in honey, doused in olive oil and balsamic vinegar, slathered in butter, or even as a sandwich bread. In other words, it is incredibly versatile.

We used this basic recipe from Allrecipes.com (always a winner): http://allrecipes.com//Recipe/challah-i/Detail.aspx. The only things I'd suggest would be to use one extra yolk to give it an extra eggy taste, and to use more honey than the 1/4 cup required by the standard recipe. You can also add raisins or poppyseed into the mix if that's your thing. I'm kind of a purist.

A supplement to the last blog post