My Favorite

So I've been thinking about all the reading I've done this year, and decided that I should choose a favorite for 2007. There were many great candidates, such as the book I've been keeping secret so my mom wouldn't buy it herself before opening her Christmas presents, A Field Guide to the North American Family by Garth Risk Hallberg. Other contenders were Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro, Mountains Beyond Mountains by Tracy Kidder, This is Your Brain on Music by Daniel J. Levitin, This Side of Paradise by F. Scott Fitzgerald, Grief by Andrew Holleran, and Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami.

In the end, though, there was one book with a story that is never far from my thoughts. It's a short, but great book by Ben Rice called Pobby and Dingan. A girl's father takes her two imaginary friends to work and somehow manages not to bring them back. The family and most of the town searches for the two imaginary creatures. Ben Rice tells the story beautifully, illuminating the characters of the family as well as the town. If you are the kind of person to make resolutions for the New Year, then one of them should definitely be to pick this book up.

Books, Books, Books

I am to embark on what I have entitled "The Weekend of Extreme Nerdiness." Tonight I am going to see Dave Eggers speak at the Strand about his book What is the What. If you have not picked it up, you must. I have been looking forward to this all week.

The rest of the weekend is filled with events from the Independent and Small Press Bookfair. I have printed out a schedule of the two day event. I have starred the time for the reading of one author (the one who wrote the book I was so happy about in my last entry but can't reveal because I don't want my mom to buy it.)I'm excited to see the likes of Tama Janowitz and Katha Pollitt in person. And the crowning event is the "Literary Trivia Quiz Smackdown."

The only thing that's kind of getting me down is that I don't have quite enough nerdy events to call the weekend epic. If only...

Good Reading

I'm reading The Adventures and Misadventures of Maqroll by Alvaro Mutis. It's a fantastic (and looooong) story in the form of the found journals of traveler and explorer Maqroll. At one point, he states in his journal the following:

"I realize suddenly that another life has been flowing next to mine. Another life right beside me and I didn't know it. It's there, it goes on, it's composed of all the times I rejected a bend in the road or refused another way out, and the sum total of these moments has formed the blind current of another destiny that could have been mine, and in a sense still is mine, there on the opposite bank that I've never visited although it runs parallel to my ordinary life. Alien it may be, yet is carries all the dreams, illusions, plans, decisions, that are as much mine as this uneasiness I feel, that might have shaped the events of a history taking place now in the limbo of contingency. A history perhaps identical to the one I've lived, yet full of everything that didn't happen here but exists there, taking shape, flowing beside me like ghostly blood that calls my name yet knows nothing of me. The same insofar as I would have been the protagonist and colored it with my usual clumsy foundering, yet completely different in its events and characters."

This part of the fictional Maqroll's journal caught my eye, perhaps because it's a different way of expressing the feelings that have been building in me for the past two or three months. I find myself in a great situation: working in a stable environment with much potential for a long career, living in a city I love and don't want to leave, surrounded by friends, in a serious and wonderful relationship with a person who figures into my future in a big way. And part of me is ecstatic about where I have found myself. But there's another part of me that glances toward that "parallel river" and wonders.

Funniest Thing I've Read in a While

This is one of my favorite blogs (as you can see to the right here) and this is one of the best things I've read in a long time. I hope you enjoy this as much as I did!

Rereading

This year I have done a lot of rereading. It started with Anne of Green Gables. Then I reread The History of Love by Nicole Krauss. And just recently I reread A Wrinkle In Time. Prior to this, I had never been big on rereading because I always feel that there are so many good books out there that I have yet to get my hands on. But since these three rereading experiences were good, I decided to pick up East of Eden by John Steinbeck.

I first read this about four years ago and loved it. Now, on the second time around, I am stunned by how fantastic it is. What is most interesting is that I distinctly remember reading the other three books the first time. What I remember most is that while reading A Wrinkle in Time, I felt somehow as though I were an adult reader. I can't explain it well, but upon rereading I could see some clear ways in which the book is different from other children's literature.

East of Eden, however, I remember the dedication more than the story. It made me view the book in an entirely different light, which I have carried with me since I last put it down. After a couple of pages, I was fully engrossed in the story once more. I keep asking myself, how does a writer do this? And will I be able to one day?

On My Mind

Recently I've come across a couple of statements that have stuck with me. One of my high school friends used to call this "letting it marinate in your mind." Well, my brain is soaked through and through, but I still have come to no steadfast conclusions. So, I'm sharing. I invite conversation...

(1) Last week I was talking to a friend about the expansion of the universe. (This is yet another thing I cannot wrap my mind around.) He started talking about the speed of light. He made this statement: The speed of light is the fastest measureable thing in the universe. Speed of thought might be faster, but that is not measureable. I am fascinated by this concept of the speed of thought. When I tried to discuss with another friend later, it was much trickier than I would have expected.

We stagnated at the definition. She was recognizing thought in a form of complete words, while I was focusing on the thoughts we don't even realize we're having. I imagine these thoughts to look like brightly colored speeding cars blurred in photographs. I decided to check the ever-trusty wikipedia, but for the first time it's definition didn't help me much. "Thought or thinking is a mental process which allows beings to model the world, and so to deal with it effectively according to their goals, plans, ends, and desires." All in all, the page on thought was pretty bare, and didn't mention anything about speed.

(2) I've been reading Suite Francaise, a graduation gift from my dear friend Paddy. It's an incredible book and is quickly filling up with underlined sentences that I want to read and reread. One of these sentences was: There is nothing more consistent in people than their way of expressing anger. This sentence caught me offgaurd, mostly because I am in a career in which I am trying daily to get students with emotional behavioral disorders to change their way of expressing anger.

Now I realize that this one sentence in Irene Nemirovsky's book is not the utter truth, but it still got me wondering. Much of what I do is teaching kids how to cope with frustration and anger, how to calm themselves down, think before acting, etc. However, when they do get angry, when all those strategies have failed them, they express it in the same way. This gets me going on my typical circle of thought about whether or not people ever actually change. My general conclusion is no, but in the end I guess it depends on the day you ask me. Or the minute, for that matter.

A Few Thoughts

ONE - An old college friend and I just signed the lease for a new apartment in Brooklyn. Fortunately, he did all the apartment research (since my research time has been completely taken up with grad school subjects) and we found an amazing place at a great price that's very close to work and to some of my favorite spots in Manhattan.

Over the course of the past year, I have been feeling more and more settled here, but suddenly it's hitting me with suprising force. I am a resident here in a way that I have never been a resident before. New York's not just a pitstop for me, and I'm not dreaming of the next place I want to move to. Instead, I'm carefully choosing what neighborhood I want to live in because I want to stay for a very long time. It's a great feeling.

TWO - People have been coming by to view my apartment since the roommate and I will be moving in an absurdly short amount of time. The rent the new tenants will be paying is $300 more per month than what we pay now. New York is ridiculous...but I forgive it.

THREE - I love this French Hyundia commercial. I can't imagine that this would ever be played in the States, so this just shows what a long way we have to go to being a fully accepting society. (And I apologize...I would usually just put the video right on the blog, but I couldn't get it to work today for some reason.)

FOUR - I've spent the morning alternating between putting the finishing touches on my research study and catching up on TV. I've watched the final episode of Grey's Anatomy (somewhat disappointing), gone through my bibliography with a fine toothed comb (not a tangle anywhere), seen Sarah Jessica Parker's new inexpensive line of clothing on Oprah (jury still out on this one), gone overboard on my section detailing recommendations for future research (still trying to reign myself in), and now I'm preparing to watch House (as usual, I saved the best for last.) Now I've almost completed the paper and my saved list on the DVR...which means I'll have a few free hours with nothing scheduled. Is this what life will be like after grad school?

FIVE - Realizing that I am going to have free time soon, I have gone crazy with the book reserve option on the Queens Library website. All I can think is Murakami and Fitzgerald and Wodehouse, oh my!

SIX - I thought I was done, but I almost forgot the most important bit!! The Mets have beat the Yankees twice in two days. Now I can read and make a few trips to Shea. Oh, life is too, too good.

My Snobby Side

In today's New York Times, Joe Queenan wrote an essay called "Why Not the Worst?" about why he loves reading bad books. During most of the time I was reading the essay, I was thinking, I usually love Joe Queenan, but this argument is idiotic.

After all, I am one of those snobby readers who would never sink so low as to pick up a copy of The DaVinci Code. And this week it took every ounce of strength I had to smile and thank a coworker who, after telling me she noticed that I always had a book, presented me with a gift of a Richard North Patterson thriller she loves. I spent a good hour feeling miserable that now I'm actually going to have to read this book because it is the polite thing to do. And it was only a few years ago that friends forced me to read The Notebook by Nicholas Sparks. Their punishment for doing this was having to reread the sections I had edited, recieving print-outs of what I deemed to be the worst sentence ever written, and listening to me rant every time I got the opportunity.

So, yes, I am one of those people Joe Queenan describes as reading only good books and thinking it makes me better than everyone else. (More of the former than the latter.) As I was reading, though, I realized that I'm slightly hypocritical in this area. Indeed, I have no shame admitting that I watch American Idol every week, enjoy People magazine, and have Ashlee Simpson music on my ipod.

By the end of Queenan's essay, I was willing to admit that he had a somewhat good point. And while I will probably always do everything in my power to avoid "bad" books, I will at least try not to scoff so much when I see someone else enjoying one.

Amazed

I mentioned previously that I've been reading as much as F. Scott Fitzgerald as time will allow. I just finished This Side of Paradise and find myself in quite an excited state. Fitzgerald's last line made me want to go back and read the entire book again, which is ironic because about 150 pages ago all I wanted to do was put the whole mess down. In many ways, this book turned my brain inside-out, shocked me with statements that are apt for situations of today, and (to put it most simply) just made me feel.

I have been thinking a lot lately about books. Why do we write them? And why do we read them? What exactly do I expect when I pick a book up? For me, the answer is at the very least vague. I look at the books I've loved in recent weeks: Kazuo Ishiguro's Never Let Me Go, Michael Weisskopf's Blood Brothers, Tracy Kidder's Mountains Beyond Mountains, Daniel J. Levitin's This Is Your Brain on Music, John Kennedy Toole's A Confederacy of Dunces, Paulo Coelho's Eleven Minutes, Philip Roth's The Ghost Writer, Dan Savage's The Commitment, Ben Rice's Pobby and Dingan, Jessica Hagedorn's Dream Jungle, and of course, The Great Gatsby. I can't find a common theme here. There's nonfiction and metafiction and just plain fiction. There's war and poverty and love and mystery and science. I don't think that reading any one of those books and enjoying it would automatically make someone recommend another from my list.

As I think (and ramble here) I realize that the way I feel after finishing This Side of Paradise is just incredibly open. It's a physical response. It's almost like falling in love, but instead of falling in love with a person I've fallen in love with an aspect of humanity that has been represented to me in a brilliant light. I've connected with the outside world while inside my own home (or in today's case, while walking from 31st Street to 49th Street and trying my best not to get hit by a car or trip over a crack in the sidewalk, all the while dogearing pages that I want to go back and underline or notate later.) But with this book, I feel as if I have connected to a distant self, the person I was not too long ago, maybe only one or two years ago, trying to make sense of the life I had stumbled into.

Can I boil it down to one word? Do we read and write simply for connection, whether it be for connection to a part of our selves, to someone else, or to the greater world? I'm about to leave to run a few errands. I guess I'll contemplate my questions on my walk to errand #1: the library.

A Good Day

Oh, how I love a slow weekend day. I got up early to go take two exams for my teacher certification. They were relatively easy, and on the second one I actually got two ideas that I can use in my own classroom from the test questions. Afterwards, my roommate and I went for a walk around Battery Park and all along the path beside the Hudson River. This wasn't just any walk, it was a four hour walk. Towards the end of our walk, we stopped by a store, where I bought my first summer dress of the year. I am definitely ready for warmer weather.

Beyond completing those tests and enjoying the nice weather outside, I also completed the first book and started the second book of my F. Scott Fitzgerald kick. I was inspired to start this kick for two reasons: (1)I recently purchased the latest edition of McSweeney's which held a competition for the unwritten stories of F. Scott Fitzgerald, and (2) The Great Gatsby is the favorite book of a certain man I know. I intend on ending my Fitzgerald festivities by reading the stories from the McSweeney's contest winners. This part of my good day is just the beginning of many good reading days to come.

I finished up my evening with something that I love to do that just happens to completely terrify my roommate: the home haircut. I don't know why my roommate hasn't grown accustomed to this habit of mine after two years living together, but she was able to breathe a sigh of relief and give a thumbs up when I emerged from the bathroom minus a inch or so of hair.

Now, after lots of exercise, exposure to the sun, and hair trimming, I am ready to return to Mr. Fitzgerald and This Side of Paradise.

Beware: A Rant

Last night I went to see Adam Rapp's latest play Essential Self Defense. It was hilarious in a crazy, quirky way (one of my favorite scenes was performed on roller skates) but also had an underlying serious message about the institution of fear in our country. This "culture of fear" has been discussed frequently in the media for several years now, with no real change yet.

Today, I finished up The Commitment by Dan Savage. This book discusses Savage's own family relationships, especially with his boyfriend and adopted son, while also tackling the political and social issues related to gay rights. In one section, he writes, "While the rest of the world moves toward full civil rights for gays and lesbians (even overwhelmingly Catholic Spain has legalized gay marriage!), here in the United States we're banning books with gay characters, relegating gays and lesbians to second-class citizenship, and doing all we can to further isolate and terrorize gay and lesbian teenagers."

Much like my feelings about the Skywalk in the Grand Canyon from my last post, I wonder what has happened to our priorities. I'm starting to think that America is developing some sort of social hypochondria: because the majority of people in our society don't face the real difficulties and fears that many around the world live with daily, many of us are developing irrational, unrealistic fears about our nation's social health.

I used to say that if the mayor had to spend a week as the teacher in my classroom, his policies would be radically different. If the policy-makers had to spend a week living in real fear, whether it be in the Marcy Projects in Brooklyn, as a closeted homosexual in high school, or as an unemployed undereducated parent trying to feed four children, they might see what is really important in relation to policy.

The more I'm thinking about and connecting recent things I've read or seen, I'm just getting angry. To live in such a wealthy country with innumerable resources at our fingertips, and choose to focus on denying someone's sexuality rather than helping those who are less fortunate receive at least the basic necessities is unconscionable.

So what has this culture of fear wrought in me? Well, what do you know? Fear! But not of homosexuals or local crime or God or (as in Rapp's play) a howling wolf in the woods. I am afraid of the short-sighted people who feel no shame in spending the hours of their lives spreading hate through speeches and legislation rather than using that time, energy, and creativity to improve the world in real ways, such as getting foster children into loving homes, ridding our cities of high-rise government housing projects, or (gasp!) spreading a little acceptance of our fellow men and women.

Amusing and Useful!

I often make book recommendations in the course of blogging here on aisle life, so I knew when a came across Use This Book by Melissa Heckscher I had to share it immediately. The book literally contains everything you could ever need. Job opportunity suddenly come up? Check out the cover letter on page 91. Thirsty? There's a disposable drinking cup on page 193. Uncertain about your future? Never fear, just cut out the psychic cards on page 145. Hot date and not sure what to do? Why don't you practice the dance steps on page 131? Bored? Play tic tac toe on page 149. (I've always detested having to draw my own tic tac toe board.)

Of course, with this new book that has everything I need in life, I thought it best to read Heckscher's other book Be Safe!: Simple Strategies for Death-Free Living. It contains life-prolonging tips on the best position to watch tv, what time you should go to the bank, and which stall you should go into in a public restroom. With all this information, the only question I can think to ask is what will she come up with next?

Magic! and Magic?

I have two types of magic to discuss here today. First is the magic of mom. Unless you've never read this blog, you know I think my mom is the greatest woman to ever walk the earth. I have now discovered that she is also the greatest woman to ever take NYC public transportation with. We have caught every train and bus almost automatically--the N at 10:00 on a Sunday, the Q on the weekend, and even the Q19A bus pulled up right as we rounded the corner. Of course, my mom finds another aspect of her visit equally magical. "I like coming here; someone else refills the toilet paper." I guess it's the little things that makes a trip successful...

Now, on to a whole new dimension of magic. Of course, this is the magic with the question mark. Harlequin romance has teamed up with Nascar. (Feel free to reread that sentence to be sure you fully understood.) There is a whole series coming out in which Nascar provides the backdrop of a budding relationship. Now, while I may have recently had a great date as a result of the NYC version of speed-dating, this series takes it to a whole new level. The first book is entitled Speed-Dating, and the romance starts when, (I'm sure you've guessed by now!) the heroine is hit by the Nascar driver's car! You have to wonder what those Harlequin folks will think up next. Till then, just get yourself to Nascar.com to order yourself a copy...or just quietly shake your head in disbelief and pick up something real to read.

Can't I Just Read in Peace?!

I sit down on an empty bench on the N train with my new copy of Mountains Beyond Mountains. All I want to do is get some reading in before meeting my friend for lunch. Suddenly, a rowdy family with two kids who are jumping all over the place and yelling at the top of their lungs sits down beside me. The father is right next to me with a huge subway map completely unfolded. He is turning it this way and that, elbowing me with each turn, then loudly apologizing. I nod politely and try to smile each time, then start rereading the first paragraph of the book again. I am trying not to be bitchy.

Then a man from outside the train yells, "Hurry!!" He jumps onto the train, then stands in between the closing doors, holding them open for his very slow family of five, paying no mind to the annoying "ding" that is repeating, along with the robotic words, "Please stand clear of the closing doors." I start on paragraph number one yet again...

It soon becomes clear that the daughter of this family is the one who lives in New York, while the others are just visiting. She is desperately clutching her NFT guide, going around to her parents and two older siblings and asking each individually where they want to eat. Each responds that she should just pick a place. She is whining, "I don't know where to eat. I can't afford to eat out." Finally, she appeals to her father. "Just pick a neighborhood!" He says, "How about the Lower East Side?" Her response? "Ummm...I don't think it's open on Saturdays." I conclude she is either a hermit or an idiot. Then I start the first paragraph of my book. AGAIN.

After about ten minutes of her whininess, her brother gives her one of the most condescending speeches I've ever heard about how choosing where the family eats lunch gives her a chance to practice her leadership skills. "This is what leadership means: making decisions without having to consult anybody." I openly gape when he says this. I conclude he is probably a huge fan of George Bush.

Just when I thought it couldn't get worse, a group of four middle schoolers jump on the train at the next stop. They are seeing how long they can hold the doors open before the train conductor yells at them. Finally, the doors shut. They begin a game of running up and down the train car. When we get to the next stop, these four jump out and play the same game in the next car over. Four more of their friends jump into our car, playing the same FREAKIN' game!! I try not to scream. They get off at the next stop, and I restart my book for the seventy-sixth time.

Except now the idiot/hermit-girl's brother is talking loudly to his father. He is posing "moral dilemmas" in an amazingly snobbish tone of voice that he clearly wants everyone in the near vicinity to hear. He says, "Okay, answer this one: There is a small child drowning in the middle of a lake. Do you jump in and save him, even though it will ruin your expensive, new pants?"

At this point, I loudly slam my book shut, glare at him, then take out my ipod, put in the earphones, and turn the volume up far too loud. Maybe it is rude, but it isn't as rude as screaming at him, "That's not a moral dilemma, you idiot. That's not even a dilemma!" Even over my blaring music, I can hear him saying, "Three percent of the population answered 'no' to that question. And to think, they walk among us." Meanwhile, I'm worried about the three percent sitting among us on the train.

Maybe I've lived in New York long enough to catch a small bit of the rudeness contagion, or maybe I just channeled some of the Matthau-esque crotchety old man that hides in the darkest corners of my being; but I'm not so far gone to stop appreciating the humor in the ridiculousness of the whole scene. In the end, I had a great lunch with my friend, did a little shopping, and finally got to start my book on the train ride home.

Calvin Trillin

It's true, I have a celebrity crush on an old man, if you can call Calvin Trillin a celebrity. But there's no argument that he's a brilliant prolific writer whose style is simplistic yet moving. Whether it's fictional stories such as Tepper Isn't Going Out (about a New Yorker who finds a great parking space and refuses to leave his car,) nonfiction stories about his family, or funny poetry about the Bush administration in The Nation; you really can't go wrong with Trillin.

Needless to say, I jumped at the chance to see him read some of his work at The Strand tonight. The third floor was absolutely packed to hear him read about his late wife, Alice. Having read much of his work over the past few years, I had this strange feeling of knowing him, his wife, and his children. This quickly dissipated after hearing him speak in a voice and cadence I never imagined him to have. However, as he began to share stories, I was just as enthralled as I am when reading one of his books.

After he read, the floor was opened for questions. It seemed that I was inspired by my middle school teaching environment...I avoided all opportunity to talk to the man I so admired. Many members of the audience asked deeply personal questions based on the subject matter of the book, such as "How do you find love again after the death of your wife without comparing anyone new to her?"

I wish I had gotten up the courage to ask him how he handled being asked such personal questions by strangers, when the writer's life takes place so much in solitude? What do you do when faced with such an audience, with such a multitude of fans? Instead, I never raised my hand. And I declined to stand in line to have my book personally autographed (I've never been big on autographed copies,) my last opportunity to exchange words with him, and walked out of the bookstore. Maybe I should've struck up a conversation, but I don't really know what sort of small talk I would be able to offer to Calvin Trilin. Especially since most of my thoughts tonight have been "I saw Calvin Trillin. I saw Calvin Trillin. Omigod, I heard Calvin Trillin read his stories."

Maybe next time...

A Christmas Carol

This year I have had the chance to revive a favorite tradition of mine: the yearly reading of A Christmas Carol. The past two years I have been too stressed out and crazed to even think about starting the book until five days into the Winter Break, aka after Christmas.

I think that I have a pretty evolved imagination (my mom might say overly-evolved.) However, I cannot imagine a time before A Christmas Carol was written. As I read it again, every line is as familiar to me as old family stories. The story is a part of me in a way that no other story is.

As I read I have my own mental images of the story, along with the images from many movies and plays that have interpreted it. The thing that is the most striking to me is that almost every one of these interpretations is line-by-line almost identical to the original manuscript. Few writers, directors, producers, or actors consider it necessary to improve upon the story, no matter the time in which the story is set or the manner in which characters are portrayed (by humans or cartoons or muppets.)

It is actually impossible for me to imagine the poor souls who, before 1844, did not have access to the ghost story to top all ghost stories. The one thing I can imagine is Charles Dickens sitting down to write this. I can see the seed of an idea, the pen meeting the paper to scratch out those first words, his pen moving faster as ideas poor forth, and his amazement as those first 6,000 copies sold in one day. And I think that one of the reasons that I am amazed by this story so much is that there are so few things that capture our imagination as a nation the way that this story did in England over a century ago.

I won't go on any more about my extreme love for this book. I will only encourage you to pick up a copy of your own, or watch my favorite movie of the story--Scrooge starring Albert Finney. (Be warned, it is a musical, but it is fantastic.)

Special Topics in Calamity Physics by Marisha Pessl

I just finished the best book I have read in 2006. It has made me view goldfish, guts, trivial pursuit, high school, democracy, and many famous quotations in a whole new light. Five hundred and fourteen pages and it seemed every word, sentence, metaphor, and character was alive. It was not only a book that makes you want to read, but want that makes you want to write.

I know, I'm raving too much, which is why I'm telling you not to run out and buy this book now. I want you to open up the book with no expectations, the same way I did. So, write the title and author on a sheet of paper and stick that paper in the bottom of your purse, in your glove compartment, or in the pocket of shorts you won't be wearing again until June of next year (unless you're one of those people who doesn't check your pockets before throwing clothes in the washer.)

Anger Management

Recently New York Magazine had an issue devoted to urban etiquette. For the most part I found that I fall in the polite category, though I am prone to being one of those annoying people talking on the cell phone while checking out at the CVS.

While it doesn't fall in the realm of etiquette, I get very angry at the super-trendy girls who insist on wearing cowboy boots in worst heat of the summer, though not as angry as I become when I see the egomaniacal idiot riding his motorcycle up and down Ditmars Boulevard with a stupid grin plastered to his face that I can easily see because his helmet is resting on top of his head.

Being annoyed by these things is completely logical and acceptable. But my supreme annoyance at some cell phone users is at the very minimum hypocritical. I consider my time spent using public transportation to be ideal for reading, which means that I want the equivalent of a library-environment whenever I am on the bus or train. However, this rarely happens. And from time to time, depending on my mood, I might just glare at the offending passenger who by merely speaking loudly has caused me to reread the same sentence three or more times.

Today, I learned my lesson. I was sitting on the bus, completely caught up in Paulo Coelho's new book The Devil and Miss Prym. Suddenly, a cell phone belonging to the man sitting beside me started ringing so loudly that I jumped at least eight inches. Once I landed back in the my seat, I gave him a glare I usually reserve for students who have just said something nasty. Couldn't he see that I was trying to read!!

Apparently not, because he had more important things on his mind. The one side of the conversation I heard:

"Yeah, I'm a little stressed out right now."

"I'm on my way to the court house. I avoided them for years, but now they figured out where I live."

"I know, I've been lucky. So I'm going to try to take care of it, see what happens. I hope you won't be visiting me in jail."

By this time I was, of course, pretending to be fully enthralled in the world of Paulo Coelho once more. In reality, I was sneaking glances at street signs, counting down to my destination.

I hope that the man saw my glare and was appalled by how rude I was to assume that it was my bus and should remain completely silent so I could read no matter what was going on in the lives of those around me. Then, to teach me a lesson, he took the phone call as an opportunity to poke a little fun at me and teach me to lighten up. If so, he did a great job.

If, however, he really was on his way to the courthouse and didn't mind advertising it to the many bus patrons this morning, I hope I don't spot him on the bus again...it shouldn't be too hard to avoid him, from now on I really am keeping my eyes on my book.

A New Malady?

As I have mentioned, I have undertaken War and Peace this summer. I do not usually refer to reading books as an undertaking, but in this case there is no other word that is more appropriate.

Recently I was overcome by sadness at the thought of all those other books I want to read stacking up endlessly as I try to finish War and Peace. So I made a deal with myself. For every 200 pages I read, I will set down War and Peace (which I am enjoying slightly less right now because it's all wars and no parties,) and read one of those other books.

So Friday I read Ladies Poker Night by Jill A. Davis. The entire thing. It's a great read, very funny, and true to New York City life. But I spent a lot of time on the train that day, and read it cover to cover. I just wasn't ready to return to the world of Tolstoy.

Then I picked up The Mole People by Jennifer Toth, a shocking book about the homeless who lived underground in New York City. And then, at the library, I found The Keep by Jennifer Egan, which I read about recently and have been wanting to read. So I started reading it, too. And I've been reading chapters from Good Catholic Girls: How Women Are Leading the Fight to Change the Church by Angela Bonavoglia, an amazing book that has made me look at nuns in a whole new light. Add to that the fact that the new Vanity Fair, National Geographic, and more will all be coming within the next week.

I was reading the Sunday paper this morning (because I didn't get to it yesterday)and read an article called "Why I Can't Stop Starting Books" by Joe Queenan. I am noticing Queenan's behaviors in myself. And I know my mom has a similar habit of starting books. When I am in a bookstore, I pick up every book I possibly can. I like to feel books. I like to touch the pages. On occasion, I have been known to sniff a book.

I have gotten better about sticking to one book, but this summer is bringing out the old habits in force. Did I mention I am typing this from the library?

Number 170

This is the 170th post on clean up on aisle life. Yet, I'm somehow not running out of things to say. My most recent problem is that due to unexplained intermittent internet access at home, my blogging style has been cramped to an unreal degree.

You may feel that you haven't missed out on anything because of this, but you'd be wrong. I didn't write about my feelings about a particular paragraph I read in The Tipping Point this week, or a funny phone call I received from the mother of one of my students, or my newfound love of the well-named country song "Save a Horse (Ride a Cowboy.)"

Fortunately, the wireless is working fine now, and I can tell you all about Adventure NYC, which took place in Central Park. Last year I went, and it was a small number of tents and booths in Union Square. It's grown quite a bit, coming complete with rock climbing walls, the flying trapeze, a children's section that was unbelievable, free nalgene bottles, a nice man who gave my roommate 12 sets of materials needed to build kaleidoscopes with her class next year, a contest entry for your dream trip (mine was for my mom and I to go to the Galapagos,) free copies of Backpacker and other magazines, fly fishing practice, bicycle test rides, free kayaking, endurance challenges, and more.

If you missed it this year, write in your calendar for next June to look it up. It's hard to find anything related to the outdoors in New York City, but the growth of this event makes me hope that interest in the outdoors is growing, even in this super-urban environment. Maybe I'm not as missplaced as I feel from time to time here.