“I always thought it was Harvey” – Read Lamb and you’ll understand.

I’ve been known for my reading habits for as long as I can remember.  So the fact that in 12th grade religion class (at Catholic School) I was reading a book before the bell rang is not uncommon.  The fact that I hid the book when the teacher came over to ask me a question, was a bit out of the ordinary.

Christopher Moore’s Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ’s Childhood Pal is a book that needs the right frame of mind to begin.  I attempted reading a similar story (basic premise of both is that the book will fill in the missing years of Christ that the Bible never touches on) only to find it cloying and ridiculous -  Jesus was special from the beginning because of his golden curls and bright blue eyes.  Lamb was ridiculous, but in a whole other way.

The main plot centers around a decision of God’s that a new gospel, detailing these years needs to be written.  Who better to write it than Jesus’s vaguely depraved best friend Biff, who while always good at heart, wouldn’t have ever considered wearing one of the WWJD bracelets; after all, he could just ask – and would probably do what he wanted anyway.

Biff is resurrected 2000 years after his death, and held hostage in a hotel in St. Louis, Missouri, where he compelled by a rather daft angel to write this missing gospel about his years with his best friend Jesus (Josh, as the Hebrew translation to English is Joshua.)

If you’ve read anything by Moore before, you’ll be prepared for the language and the sex.  Moore doesn’t lighten this simply because he’s talking about the Son of God.  This caused more than one person I know to decide that they couldn’t read a book about God that had these elements.  While I can understand their thought process, what I always noticed about the book is that Josh is not the one engaging in less than stellar behavior.  It’s usually Biff, or one of the other colorful characters causing trouble.  The bible clearly states that Jesus was friends with the less than shining members of society.  It just doesn’t detail it.  Moore decides to take it upon himself to do so for you.

The very best aspect of the book is that while often ridiculous (Demons make references to Jimmy Stewart’s famous movie “Harvey”) this is the only fictionalized account of Christ where the human side of him is given as much consideration as the God side.  You realize that the whole story is silly, but the idea that Jesus struggled with this path makes the character (and the man himself) all that more easy to revere.  Moore’s book may seem sacrilegious, but if given a chance, can make you stop and reexamine your strength and understanding of faith.

This of course doesn’t mean that I was prepared to explain all of this to my Religion teacher.

L-M-N-O-P

Mark Dunn’s Ella Minnow Pea is a book of letters in more than one meaning of the word.  It is, indeed an epistolary novel – a genre I fell in love with when I first read Lady Susan in the 7th grade.  But it is also a book honoring and recognizing the importance of each individual letter of the alphabet – a lesson that my kindergarten teacher drilled into my mind when she insisted that each letter of the alphabet was to be respected.  No ella-minnow-pea in her classroom.  Miss Jerry would have been appreciated in this whimsical little world of Nollop.

Ella Minnow Pea takes place on the fictional language centered island of Nollop, named for the supposed creator of the famous typing test – “THE QUICK BROWN FOX JUMPED OVER THE LAZY DOG.”  Nollop is revered on this little island for being able to create a sentence using every letter of the alphabet with only 35 characters.  He is revered so much that this sentence is mounted on an archway above the town square.  when the letter Z from the word “lazy” tumbles from its post, the town council is sure that this is a message sent from heaven above.  Nollop is telling them that the letter Z is now obsolete, and thus must be removed from all writing and speech.  Those who do not comply will first be admonished; a second infraction will result in being put into the stocks or beaten.  And finally, a third will result in the banishment from the island, or death if you would so prefer.

The members of this community do not, at first, recognize the terror before them.  But when the other letters begin to fall, everything changes. The two main correspondents, Ella and her cousin Tassie’s letters begin as light and witty notes to one another, but as the novel progresses and letters leave the alphabet, the writing becomes intentionally more stilted and difficult to understand.  While this may sound irritating, it is actually quite interesting to have to read the book out-loud when the characters are forced to write phonetically (fonetikly) to communicate with one another.

But aside from the odd hook incorporated by Dunn, the story is one of relationships of family, and a dedication to the most basic form of freedom of speech.  The characters fight to regain their right to use each lovely and important letter of the alphabet, and ultimately discover that perhaps it is not the people who work with language who should be honored, but the words and their potential for creativity that deserve the recognition.

Read the book when you’re awake enough to realize the play on words Ella Minnow Pea as a name (Thanks Ruth) and don’t be afraid to read the more awkwardly spelled parts out-loud.  If nothing else, you could distract someone enough that they’ll want to read it too.  And if there is anything you learn from this book, it is that the more chances our lovely 26 are able to flourish, the better.

Another Beauty and the Beast book

Rose Daughter, like Beauty was not a quick first read for me.  I actually attempted this book ages ago after I first discovered who Robin McKinley was.  But when I read the first two pages in the store, I just wasn’t grabbed, so I committed the ultimate book sin (at least according to Ruth) I read the last five pages.  Lo and behold, I found that this version of Beauty and the Beast did NOT end the way it was supposed to.  All I could thin was, why would anyone want this book to end in such a way?

Fast forward nine years.  Rose Daughter is a YA book.  But where Beauty may have a better hold on the Y, Rose Daugher accentuates the growth and maturity found in this often overlooked and forgotten genre.  This book is slow, but in a soothing way.  Nothing smashes into your conscience; rather, the story, and the characters slip into your heart without you realizing it, until you come to care about them deeply.  And at the end of the book, you see why Beauty makes the choice that she does.

For a few less obtuse statements, McKinley does, once again, take some liberties with the story.  The sisters are again, loving and caring towards Beauty, rather than petty and jealous.  A difference this time is that they too have names that fit their descriptions.  Jeweltongue is clever and impatient with anyone not as clever as her.  Lionheart is brave, and has no time for those less fearless than herself.  Beauty, according to her, is named so simply because there is nothing important enough about her to merit anything else.  She’s pretty – that’s all.  You as the reader, along with the rest of the characters know otherwise.  Beauty’s sisters learn patience and love from their younger sister, whose true loveliness, of course lies in her gentle and common sense nature.

Perhaps the final climatic scene takes a bit too long, but this is McKinley, and those who have read her will know that sometimes she writes in loops rather than straight lines.  Those who haven’t read her should understand this fact, and realize that most of the time it’s a blessing as she paints and colors scenes of beauty and life for her readers.

When you’re looking for a new telling of Beauty and the Beast, read Beauty first.  The heroine will make all those who ever experienced adolescence smile.  Later, when you’re ready for a book to slowly creep over the horizon, read Rose Daughter.

Beauty and the Beast Books Part I

My first favorite fairy tale had to be The Little Mermaid.  I used to call it My Little Mermaid, getting it confused with my little ponies.  But to me it made sense: she had red hair like me.  I did, in fact, own the video, and I knew pretty much all of the dialogue and songs by heart.  Then there is the fact that my mother swears that I broke our television set by watching this movie, and only this movie while I was down and out with the chicken pox when I was four.

But alas, I was a fickle elementary school child, for I found a new favorite fairytale when I was in first grade.  I saw Beauty and the Beast when I was six, and I was completely hooked.  Here was a girl who read incessantly (I hadn’t begun my book obsession yet.  We’ll just look at it as things to come.)  She had her own mind, and was able to throw a nasty boy into a mud puddle.

The animation was beautiful.  The characters were fun.  It was exciting.  I couldn’t find anything to complain about.

About seven years later, I was in Mrs. Karns’s English class, and I found the book Beauty, by Robin McKinley, sitting on her bookshelf.  It was a retelling of Beauty and the Beast, where Beauty is even more strong willed, and rather plain looking.  I was, I freely admit, an awkward and plain middle school student who worshiped books and felt a bit out of place.  How could I resist a book detailing a girl just like this, only with magical element of my favorite fairytale worked in.  I snatched up the book, and only made it to chapter three.

Something that you have to understand about McKinley’s writing is that she slowly paints you a picture of her characters.  You need to give her time to get something on the canvas that will make sense to you, the reader.  But it’s worth waiting for.  I tried the book two more times, and finally made it past the first chapters of exposition.  Then I was stuck.  I’m pretty sure this was one of the books that I was almost caught furtively reading under the desk during math class.

McKinley takes liberties with her story.  The most obvious is of course that Beauty is not beautiful (though this is explained).  The sisters, who in the original fairytale are greedy and vain are sweet and thoughtful, if not always the most pragmatic.

The best part of the story is the development of a relationship between Beauty and the Beast.  One of the reasons that I loved this fairy tale so much was that it wasn’t a love at first sight story.  They had to get to know each other.  McKinley makes sure that this isn’t lost in her story.  Beauty still gets annoyed and freaked out by things, as one would expect of a girl snatched from all familiarity.  But the characters move towards love and commitment, rather than just leaping there.

My only complaint is the ending.  It’s pretty much by the book with a few added elements that didn’t seem necessary.  However, these small aspects of the story are barely worth noting when one remembers that McKinley has taken an already haunting and lovely fairytale, and created an even more wonderful novel.

Next, I’ll try to look at Rose Daughter, and get better at this sort of thing.

after the book ends

I search for books that make me stop reading.  Usually, I live in a constant state of reading.  I begin a book, read and as soon as I finish, I search for the next story.  Some of them are truly horrible pieces of literature; others are lovely stories that I remember for a long time after.  But once here and there, I find a book that keeps me from venturing to the shelves for my next book

These books don’t just tell stories, they create worlds that fill my eyes, ears, heart, stomach and every inch of my mind.  I can’t escape these worlds by simply picking up a new book.  These books pose questions I can’t answer, but desperately wish I could.  I want to meet these authors, and learn how they came to create these worlds.  I want to know the characters inside and out.  I become so engaged in these worlds, I sometimes see and feel the ideas of the characters clearer than what is actually around me.

My latest novel that stopped me in my tracks is entitled The Hunger Games.  Usually dystopian novels do little for me, but the characters that grew in this story, and the setting the author painted was so clearly chiseled into my mind, I can’t escape the story or the ideas and questions it left behind.

I have a perfectly interesting looking novel sitting in my bag, just waiting for me to delve in, but for now, all I can do is wonder where are my characters going.  How will they resolve their questions of the final page?

I read for entertainment and to simply hear a story.  Rarely do I find book that simply imprints itself upon my mind in a way that I know that it will never leave.  I almost hate this, as I know that no book will measure up until my next discovery.  But to be able to find a story like this is enough to make up for any mediocrity I might find next.

Paddington Bear’s Birthday!

I made an unnecessary run to the library today.  I was supposed to volunteer, but found that when I pulled into the parking lot, I was the only one there.  The sign on the door reminded me that the library was closed for Columbus Day.  So I dropped my book in the book-drop, and went home.

However, when I arrived home, I found that the library had remained closed on one of the most important literary holidays of the year.  Today, October 13, 2008 is the fiftieth anniversary of Paddington Bear.  This bear who knew how to give a hard stare, who loved orange marmalade, and did a spot on rendition of Gene Kelly’s dance from Singing in the Rain is fifty-years-old.

So while I agree that the rest of the world should stay home from work today to celebrate this important international figure, I feel it is the library’s responsiblity to celebrate all day long.

It’s an adventure!

My driver’s license has a crab on it.  I suppose that it’s not all that strange, considering every Maryland resident driver (I would think) also has a crab on their license, but I still find it a bit odd.  I suppose it stems from getting two different driver’s licenses in the period of less than a month, but I am a bit tired of the DMV, and have found the whole process to be a bit insane.

I was told (by the oh so helpful internet) that in order to officially change my name on my S.S card, I would need to do so on my license, so I went and got a new license in PA, even though I was moving to Maryland.  So thus began an adventure with my mother.  While this may sound inocuous enough, you need to understand what an adventure with my mom meant to six-year-old Catherine.

My mom loves finding new roads and trying to see if they lead somewhere she knows.  Nine times out of ten they do, and she adds a new piece of the puzzle to the roads around Mechanicsburg.  And that last time, she simply appreciates the sights on the new road, and backtracks to where she began.  Her idea being that you can’t get lost if you know where you’ve been.  However logical this might be, six-year-olds are rarely logical.  Instead of relishing in the new roads, I was convinced that every time my Mom declared that we were heading off on an adventure, we were destined to end up lost and wandering the streets of nowhere forever.  And that we would never see my Dad and little brother again.  According to my family, I tended towards a dramatic outlook on life.

So here we were off to get my license, and the adventure was just beginning.  First of all, I (at this point) about a week from being 23 was asked if I was there to take the permit test.  Not even the driver’s test.  I couldn’t be 16 and a half even.  No no, just 16.  Despite what everyone says, I do not feel that I will appreciate this when I’m older.  I’m sure that I’ll be destined to look 12 for years until I suddenly and without warning appear to be 97 at the age of 54.  Anyway this began what was one of the most confusing trips to the DMV.  First I wanted to set the record straight about my eye color.  Since I was sixteen, my license has declared my eye color: DIC for Dicromatic.  This was supposed to indicate that I have two different colored eyes.  However as the real meaning of this word is color blind, I just didn’t think that this should be on my license.  So with the one woman not believing that I actually have two different colored eyes, and my mom laughing b/c she’s convinced that I just don’t want to have the word “dic” on my license (and yes this is true) I feel like it was all for nothing because as I found out when I finally got my license in Maryland a month later, they don’t care a bit what color eyes you have.  They’ll put your weight on there which (does anyone have that correct on their license?  And if it changes dramatically, are you legally obligated to have it changed?

Anyway once that was done, and I found that they had indeed printed my new name incorrectly on the license.  I tried to explain that my maiden name was now going to be my middle name.  Well I was told I could not do this, as “there’s a law.”  Ten minutes of explaining to the woman that, no there is not a law prohibiting this, and showing the other lady that she had indeed made a mistake on the form and all was well.  So we were off to the S.S. office to get my new card!

Only there is no exit ramp going N on 81 to the S.S. office, only South.  So we ended up in the middle of nowhere, and the adventure continued.  Being sleepy and a bit cranky, I was ready to pack it in and call it a day.  But my mom is not the pack it in type, and insisted that we pick a road heading in the general direction and try our luck.  And because she is my Mom, and the Queen of the weird detour, we ended up in the right place.  Of course this was after a terrifying moment of passing one tractor only to almost collide with another that had a hidden attachment that swung out towards our car.

Oh the joy of adventure!

Books of color

I realized that I had an addiction to books around the age of nine.  That was the first time that one of my teachers scolded me in front of the class for reading a book under my desk, rather than paying attention to the math lesson.  I remember that it was one of the American Girl books.  Molly to be exact.  she never was my favorite, so if one of my books was going to be taken by Mrs. Robiack, it was probably a good one to lose.

It was about a two or three years after I had my first book taken from me in school that I read a book called A Little Princess.  In it, a father describes the reading habits of his daughter in such a way that I was forced to realize that that it was me.  He said that Sara gobbled her books like a little wolf.  That has always been me.  But the problem is that I wish I didn’t.  I always hate finishing a new book that I loved.  After all, I’ll never read it for the first time again.  Any new readings will not hold the same magic as the first.  I might learn to know the characters better and find new aspects of the theme I missed the first time, but it’s never that first reading of “What will happen next?!”

I think this is a left over quality of reading stories mainly for plot.  When I was younger I read pretty much anything I could get my hand on as long as I found the story enjoyable.  Plot is what drives the young reader.  That’s why Babysitters’ Club, with their cookie cutter stories and characters work.  Each book is about what happens, not how the characters deal with it.

A Little Princess is a perfect example of this.  I loved this book when I was younger, but I have to admit that today I think I would find Sara Crew to be a bit insufferable.  She of course was brilliant, and fantastically rich, and more motherly than most adults at the age of 11.  When she is struck with tragedy, after a few weeks/months of sadness, she becomes determined to be noble, and pretends that she’s a princess throughout this suffering, and of course wins the day.  I’m not opposed to the winning of the day, but she was so perfect that I wonder what girl could look at this character and say, yes that’s me.  I like characters who screw up sometimes, and even frustrate the reader a bit.  After all, who doesn’t frustrate people sometimes?  So I find today that I like books about characters a lot more.  The plot is still important, of course.  It’s when I can find books with both aspects that they become colorful.

When authors manage to paint characters and stories for me, that’s when books become silvery and deep scarlet and warm gold to me.  I know that won’t make sense to most, but the books with the most beautiful colors are the ones I love the most.

ads aren’t sweet (too lame?)

My parents are to blame for the looks of confusion and even offense I recieve when watching TV with a person for the first time.  Convinced that comercials don’t need to be watched, my parents are some of the biggest proponents of the mute button.  To get my brother and I to comply with only a modicum of complaint (especially during prime christmas gift searching season) we’d play “What are they selling here?!”

We’d watch the comercial with the sound off, and we’d have to guess the product.  This started out with pretty simple answers – car, shampoo, Pretty Pretty Princess – but eventually became more involved.  Soon we were deciding if the comercial was selling sex appeal, fear of germs, or that parents are stupid.  This one is usually only seen on networks with a high cartoon frequency.

So now that I am programmed to hit the mute button whenever a show goes to comercial.  I usually have a book ready when I’m alone, or I’m prepared to discuss the plot/characters if others are with me.  However, I have found that this behavior is not always appreciated by friends.  According to everyone except my parents, comercials should be left alone.

But yes, the point.  I sometimes do not always reach the mute button.  I have on occasion watched a commercial.  What I’ve been noticing lately that one of the ideas most sold in commercials is that men are dumb.  I love my husband, and believe that he is one of the more intelligent people I know.  So no, I do not believe that this is true, but I’m convinced that the ad agencies of the world do.  Or that at least they are using this idea to sell everything from cleaning supplies to tax help to high fructose corn syrup.

Alternative sweeteners are only the latest to jump on the “men are idiots” band wagon.  Now we can see women condesendenly informing men that they have nothing to fear from non-sugar sweeteners made from corn.  Silly men.  So why are we making fun of men?  Well as we can’t make fun of anyone else, men are the only ones left.  If the roles were reversed and the man acted condesendingly towards the woman, there would be complaints.  Ages are off limits as are races, and this is how it should be.  But why are poor men left out in the cold.  True some might say that as they’ve sort of won the life race over the past few decades, so maybe they can take a few swift kicks in the pants in the ad world.  But still, couldn’t we find a better way (other than the idiot factor) to sell products?

sidebars and biscuits

I’ve decided that I find google a bit scary.  I’ll admit that I am a fan of the iGoogle page.  I enjoy my NPR headlines and my literary quotes of the day.  Granted, I never could get the “Pearls Before Swine” (Do you italicize comic strips?) widget to work, but such is life.  But yes, I like Google.  And Gmail makes me especially happy.  It is organized enough for me, and I like the chatting aspect, so all is well.  But I can’t help but be a bit creeped out by the sidebar ads.

I got an email from Sarah today.  She told me that Stephenie Meyer will be on the Ellen show this week.  On the sidebar were ads for travel guides through Markham, and info about Sarah Palin.  I’ve had others, where a friend asked about my engagement ring, and there were ads for the ring.  ESL classes were advertised when Ruth detailed a class for me.

Google I enjoy you.  But the Big Brother aura is just creepy.  I have almost forgiven you for promoting that English teacher’s hell of a site – Wiki – as a main source of research on your search engine.  But my overly giddy emails about Vampire authors should be private.

On a less technology centered note, I’m finding myself a bit addicted to baking.  I’m home a lot, and while Project Runway is a lovely guilty pleasure, there is only so much you can take – same with laundry and cleaning bathrooms, though the guilty part only comes in when I neglect these in order to bake.

So I find myself in the kitchen a lot, arguing with myself about whether or not Lazy Cake is a good idea.  Would banana bread be a shining moment in my husband’s crappy day?  I don’t want him to have a crappy day.  I just want him to be happy about banana bread.  So now in our kitchen is the remainder of upside-down pear gingerbread, the end of a loaf of oatmeal bread, 5 Lazy cupcakes and here I am contemplating whether it would be easier to convince Greg that baked oatmeal, banana bread of biscuits that Ruth gave me the recipe for would be a better thing to have in the house.  I’m banking that the baked oatmeal from the weight watcher’s book would be the easiest sell on the “oh look sweetie, a healthy breakfast” spin.  But those biscuits taste like melting clouds of happiness. What is a girl to do?

Forgive the lameness of that last metaphore, but when I last ate them in the kitchen of the K-House, I was dancing around moaning in delight in a most unseemly way.  In a house dedicated to Christian living, I fear that gluttony almost got ahold of me as I devored savory biscuits in utter joy.