tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-69543278743532083202024-03-13T07:09:18.622-04:00Almost AwesomeSherardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05205017772015692462noreply@blogger.comBlogger33125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6954327874353208320.post-43814373933654896742012-06-05T18:01:00.003-04:002012-06-05T18:01:49.221-04:00Nostalgie de la BoueI was having a drink in New York with a friend—<i>I open with, because it makes me sound far classier than I actually am</i>—and catching up with his whereabouts for the past 9 months. It was very spur of the moment. Very fortuitous. Very New York.<br />
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And after that drink and promises to keep in better contact with one another, along the walk to the subway, he called me by my old nickname, “Iowa.” I had met one of his friends years ago, after I had just transferred down from the University of Iowa. One thing, of course, led to another. For some reason, Midwestern states stick to people. But it was just the hearing of it, the Atlantis-esque part of myself that quickly rose to the surface from dormancy. I couldn’t believe that he remembered this part of myself that I had forgotten.<br />
<br />Sherardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05205017772015692462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6954327874353208320.post-59006926823520478322012-04-08T19:56:00.002-04:002012-04-08T19:56:31.621-04:00You Can Stand Under My...I bought an umbrella today. I wish it looked like this:<br />
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cause that would be super cool.<br />
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But really, it's just a regular, sad, umbrella-ella-ella.Sherardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05205017772015692462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6954327874353208320.post-82702073789901019412012-03-26T11:32:00.001-04:002012-03-26T11:32:20.167-04:00In the Eyes of MorboGood news!<br />
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Well, not really. I’ve just been watching too much Futurama. My favorite are the newscasters, Morbo and Linda. I just get a kick out of Morbo always yelling “Puny humans! I will destroy you all!” and Linda’s only response is polite, newscaster laughter. Plus I think it sort of brings me back to childhood a little bit since Maurice LaMarche, the voice actor of the Brain from <i>Pinky and The Brain,</i> is the one who does Morbo.<br />
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My favorite runner up couple would have to be Lrrr, from Omicronian Persei 8, and his lovely wife Ndnd.<br />
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Anyway, my colleague Tamra Martin and I started a co-blog, entitled Writers’ Chai, so I’ll probably start using that for my professional gains and whatnot. This leaves my current blog for personal stuff :)<br />
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Prepare for random gibberish and whatnot.<br />
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Also, I’m defending my thesis on Wednesday. Very exciting. I’m actually kind of a nervous wreck about it, but I’m pretending not to be. I also got into two Ph.D. programs and I’m currently trying to decide between the two. (Correct answer: whichever one will provide the most financial aid.)Sherardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05205017772015692462noreply@blogger.com0Orlando, FL, USA28.5383355 -81.379236528.4267415 -81.537165 28.6499295 -81.221308000000008tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6954327874353208320.post-80939613732816106822012-02-14T14:14:00.000-05:002012-02-14T14:14:09.453-05:00I Want CupcakesHappy Valentine’s Day!<br />
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There’s a comic I wanted to post, but it’s at home, in my external hard drive, and I’m at work, terrorizing young adults.<br />
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So, instead, on this day midway through Black History Month, I leave you with a quote:<br />
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<i>Love makes your soul crawl out from its hiding place.</i> ~Zora Neale HurstonSherardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05205017772015692462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6954327874353208320.post-3667252457379102872012-01-26T14:25:00.000-05:002012-01-26T14:32:46.182-05:00ManeursIt’s recently come to my attention that I love Chloe Sevigny. And not the actress famous for her portrayal of a transgendered man in <i>Boys Don’t Cry, </i>oh no. (In fact, I haven’t seen it. But it’s on the to-do list of things to watch after I climb out from under the rock that is graduate school.)<br />
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I’m talking about parody artist Drew Droege, and his flawless life and fashion updates in the (uncanny) likeness of Chloe Sevigny. Here is one of my favorites of such videos.<br />
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I learned something today: not to hog the disco snow. You can learn a lot from YouTube.Sherardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05205017772015692462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6954327874353208320.post-37415032229079042012-01-24T13:46:00.000-05:002012-01-24T13:46:43.760-05:00A Slice of Beauty<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I was raised Protestant. But, there are two things that cause me to cross myself in the same light as a devout Catholic: the mention of Borders, bookstore extraordinaire, and the mention of Mr. Sisters, an ephemerally exotic—and exotically ephemeral—gay nightclub between the university and downtown.<br />
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(Allow me to stop and mention here that the gay bars in Orlando are all in the general vicinity of downtown, with the exception of a leather bar off Edgewater. Meanwhile, there’s a straight bar directly across the street from the university. And, probably three more that line the pavements of the main thoroughfare that connects UCF with City Beautiful.)<br />
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These were my haunts, my loves. My brand loyalty is through the roof. And once I find a roofing company that I like, I’m sure this won’t be so disconcerting. But it was back when Borders was operational that I found this exceptional novel, <i>Little Bee</i>.<br />
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<i>Little Bee</i>, by Chris Cleave, was sitting on the shelf of the top sellers list. I was, at the time, picking out top sellers for an independent study course. (My course director said to me, “choose the books you want to read and send me the list and I’ll approve it.” I nearly fainted. I thought, <i>This is what graduate school is supposed to be like. This is academic heaven. I have arrived.</i>) I stared at the cover. I flipped it over to the back and saw nothing in terms of plot description. I thought, <i>what the hell</i>. I brought the book up to the register. The girl, about 19 and built like a highly proteined concrete wall looked down at me and said, “Have you read this yet?”<br />
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And I looked up into her acne pocked face, at her dark brown eyes, and said, “No I haven’t. I was thinking about getting it for school, but I don’t know what it’s about.”<br />
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And she said, “I just finished it. I’m not going to tell you what it’s about. It’s really good. You won’t regret buying this book.”<br />
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I had felt uncertain, up until that point. But with the fervor and the finality that she suggested I purchase Little Bee, I relented. Maybe I was afraid that if I didn’t, she would backhand me across the counter and send me flying. Maybe underneath it all I felt like she was a fellow reader suggesting a book that had changed her life and would change mine too. Maybe I was too lazy or too embarrassed to take the book back to the shelf. But one way or another, I bought it, and after reading it, I can safely say the same.<br />
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<i>I’m not going to tell you what this book is about.</i><br />
<i>It’s definitely awesome.</i><br />
<i>You won’t regret buying this book.</i><br />
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R.I.P. Borders and Mr. Sisters.<br />
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You will be missed.</div>Sherardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05205017772015692462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6954327874353208320.post-15579082984159187412012-01-19T17:33:00.000-05:002012-01-20T07:55:34.764-05:00About SOPADear Government,<br />
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Don’t you have something more important you should be doing...?<br />
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<3<br />
SherardSherardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05205017772015692462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6954327874353208320.post-19609576287798999682012-01-19T13:43:00.001-05:002012-01-19T17:24:02.822-05:00It Probably Had a Bump on the ModelThere’s this great little second hand store on Dale Mabry back in Tampa called “New to You,” and I feel like that pretty much sums up my history with nonfiction. There’s this professor at UCF who insists that nonfiction is this great new genre—this avant garde literary frontier—and maybe she’s right. Maybe it’s sort of like the Reality TV version of cable, where we can’t help but pick up a memoir the way we flip the television stations to MTV, or Bravo, or Fox, or (etc., etc.)<br />
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Or maybe it’s just always been there and I’m just now picking it up, the way just the other day I tried espresso for the first time and that night (sometime between 2 and 3 in the morning) I cleaned and rearranged my entire room (I had been meaning to get around to it, but a delicious cup—emphasis on <i>delicious</i> here; I had no idea it would be so tasty—but a delicious cup later, I was all of a sudden Superman). I’ve known about espresso for a long time, but I never got around to trying it until I went to dinner with Lorri Lores, this magnificent magical realism writer, and her husband offered me some after dessert. Maybe nonfiction is just new to me.<br />
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But one way or another, someone recommended I read <i>It Looked Different on the Model</i>, a collection of linked essays, by Laurie Notaro. And over the winter break, I did! Get a load of this:<br />
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It was a lovely evening, a gathering of grad students and their spouses, significant others, and partners (you have to say all three). The sun was letting go of the brightest part of the day and people were chatting and having conversation when I looked up and saw a young woman several feet away ease the strap of her top down—like she was in a dirty dressing room at Ross—pull her arm through it, and then bring her boob out. Uncovered. Exposed. Unabashed. Then it flopped like a fish and hung loosely, like it had a hook through it, while she had a conversation with two other people. There it remained, exposed to the elements and accessible to anyone who needed to wipe their hands.<br />
I don’t know where the baby was. It wasn’t on her, <i>that’s</i> for sure. I don’t know if the baby ever came in for a landing or what. The baby was not in the general vicinity when the incident began. Maybe the baby had a GPS device implanted and this was all prep work, but I think it would have been more considerate if she had a visual of the baby before I had a visual of her. And the boob sat there, and sat there, and sat there. It actually behaved very quietly for the ten minutes it was left to roam free in my field of vision before I could talk to someone else and face a different direction.</blockquote>
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That was Laurie experiencing a super awkward moment at a party in Oregon. She’s hilarious. A real lighthearted read.<br />
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But, that’s sort of the thing—I thought perhaps it was a little bit too lighthearted. The entire book is funny moment after funny moment after funny moment. So much so that I think they started to lose their punch.<br />
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Maybe it’s because I gravitate towards the stand up shows of Margaret Cho, or because I devoured Kathy Griffin’s memoir <i>Official Book Club Selection</i> because it was equally personal and catty, but I felt like Notaro’s book didn’t have the meat of a strong piece. (My thesis director would insist that what’s she’s lacking in is conflict.) It’s kind of like watching a reality TV show—you know you’re in for a scandalous ride, but you’re not really leaving with anything of value once the show is over. That’s how I would describe Notaro’s latest essay collection out of a long line of essay collections. It’s only fairly awesome.<br />
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But, of course, maybe that’s the formula. She is, after all, a best selling author. Flip side though, Snooki does make thousands per episode she does of Jersey Shore.<br />
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Does that make her Emmy worthy?Sherardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05205017772015692462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6954327874353208320.post-75434543728468781592012-01-17T14:15:00.000-05:002012-01-17T14:15:55.037-05:00Where Did I Go?I’ve been in cahoots.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">This is me, cahooting. <i>“No literary paparazzi! No!”</i> </span></div>
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Okay, not really. I’ve just been really busy, per usual. Here’s the skinny:<br />
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Reading. Grading. Sleeping. Planning for <a href="http://www.awpwriter.org/conference/2012awpconf.php">AWP</a>*. Eating. Planning for <a href="http://www.pcaaca.org/conference/national.php">PCA</a>**. Applying for undergrad degrees in Architecture. Grading. Applying for positions as a Technical Writer. Reading. Applying as a barback. Packing my lunch***. Taking pictures for the <a href="http://www.orlandosentinel.com/entertainment/arts/os-parcels-ucf-reading-cal-1-6-12-20120105,0,3776610.story">newspaper</a>****. Cleaning. Sleeping. Drinking chai. Grading. Sleeping. Driving. Hanging out with colleagues. Staring at my toes. Hanging out with family. Freaking out about the future.<br />
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Ok, a chunky skinny. A more to love skinny.<br />
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But, I’m back, chronicling books <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<![endif]--><!--StartFragment--><span style="font-family: Times;">à</span> la awesome factor. I may be on the fence about my future in creative writing, but once a reader, always a reader, am I right?<br />
<br />
<3<br />
<br />
* Association of Writers and Writing Programs<br />
<br />
** Popular Culture Association<br />
<br />
*** Blueberries and a sandwich and salted almonds<br />
<br />
**** I am now in the Orlando Sentinel and I secretly wish that they would hire me and turn me into a paid photographer.Sherardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05205017772015692462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6954327874353208320.post-7372461416009205662011-09-19T23:34:00.002-04:002011-09-19T23:34:27.646-04:00I ThinkI think I could stare at my ceiling forever.Sherardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05205017772015692462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6954327874353208320.post-65222093042730013472011-07-15T05:29:00.008-04:002012-01-17T14:16:43.075-05:00Why Does The Wind?Decommissioning the first pair of shoes I bought with my own money.<div>Realizing the futility of a damp pillow.</div><div>Finding out that Rita Repulsa (Machiko Soga), the first female evil super villain on <i>Power Rangers,</i> died of pancreatic cancer.</div><div>Graduating from high school.</div><div>Drinking coffee without the intention of looking cool.</div><div>Replacing 4 black and 3 glow-in-the-dark bracelets with a kinetic watch.</div><div>Scrubbing the sink clean after I shaved.</div><div>Driving to Philadelphia.</div><div>Waking up in the orthodontist’s chair...with braces.</div><div>Pointing out to my mother that Alice Sebold had a better idea of Heaven than the Bible.</div><div>Buying my first bottle of beer.</div><div>Hearing that my best friend’s mother had a heart attack in the grocery store.</div><div>Receiving my first “D” on a critical term paper in A.P. Lang. & Comp.</div><div>Kissing the first guy I was ever able to admit I liked.</div><div>Buying my own school supplies.</div><div>Worrying if I get enough beta-carotene in my diet.</div><div>Accepting that I’ll never be taller than 5’6.</div><div>Saying to my cousin, “don’t grow old. You’ll wish you hadn’t.”</div><div>This video:</div><div><br /></div><div><iframe width="480" height="390" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/gai_V-SsyWc" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe></div><div><br /></div><div>while knowing that Tracey Thorn is singing alone because she and her husband—which comprises the entire band of <i>Everything but the Girl</i>—have split up. </div><div><br /></div><div>Knowing that I can’t change anything on this list.</div><div><br /></div><div>//end of childhood.</div>Sherardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05205017772015692462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6954327874353208320.post-48910318079718438142011-07-13T18:12:00.004-04:002011-07-13T18:20:05.106-04:00Publication ValidationI’m so excited! I just can’t hide it! I’m about to lose control, and I think you know how I feel about that...<div><br /></div><div>Guess who’s story is forthcoming in <a href="http://www.thelinermag.com/">The Liner Magazine’s</a> maiden edition?</div><div><br /></div><div>Yah!</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I know, right?</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I could kiss the moon right now. The Liner may not be a big name, but, my first official publication occurring in a magazine’s first official publication is like...ah, screw analyzing it; I’m going to go back to dancing.</div>Sherardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05205017772015692462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6954327874353208320.post-34719445849383687182011-07-13T09:12:00.003-04:002011-07-13T10:09:57.267-04:00That Price Is Right<div style="text-align: left;">Joe is tall, good looking, and says whatever the hell he damn well feels like saying (and usually, it’s something inappropriate). He’s my idol. I plan on being just like him when I turn 64.</div><div><br /></div><div>Well, at least 2 outta 3. That ain’t so bad.</div><div><br /></div><div>The last time I saw him, he was telling me about when he used to live in Miami, and his neighbor would call him the f-bomb. On a particularly sunny morning in Miami (as if there’s any other kind), his neighbor called out “good morning f*g,” from his stoop, and Joe turned and said, “and a good f*cking morning to you too; keep this sh*t up and I’ll stick my d*ck up <i>your</i> *ss and we can both be f*gs together—you can take me antique shopping, you piece of sh*t.”</div><div><br /></div><div>What’s not to admire?</div><div><br /></div><div>Every time I see him, he gives me a great big hug and updates me—complete with pictures—on his two border collies at home. Even though he tends to whisper when he’s telling a good story, you can hear his laugh two rooms over. I was hanging out with him the week after New York passed the gay marriage law. </div><div><br /></div><div>“You know, it really doesn’t matter whether or not my partner and I can get married,” he told me. “We’ve been together 15 years. Why would we want to get married now? Just to get divorced?” He then told me about how smart his mother was; never divorcing her first husband, so that when he died, she collected all of his pension checks. We both had a laugh at that; milking the system? That’s the American way of living right there. But, I had to double-check. I had to be sure. So I asked him flat out, would he really not get married to the guy he loved?</div><div><br /></div><div>He said that going this far without government validation didn’t make their relationship any less real. Maybe they’d do it for the benefits, if Florida legalized gay marriage in his lifetime (and, he quietly informed me, he wasn’t holding his breath), but otherwise, he “couldn’t give a flying rat’s *ss.” They still fight like a married couple. They still care about each other like a married couple. What would it matter?</div><div><br /></div><div>Lee, who’s 62 and divorced with 2 kids, and a grandkid, agreed. Marriage for him was a disaster. Probably because he likes men, he’d be the first to agree, but he tried to make it work with his wife, and it just didn’t. Life’s funny like that, am I right? C’est la vie?</div><div><br /></div><div>I myself...I’m not in my sixties. I haven’t had a relationship that lasted an entire decade (just think of the time warped photos; I still look back on pictures of my parents when they were dating and ask them if they <i>really</i> went out like that in public. Sometimes my dad says, “we were young and stupid,” and gives me the once over). But, you know, as crazy as it seems, I believe in the sanctity of marriage. </div><div><br /></div><div>That’s rich, right? The guy who thinks God may be an overzealous lesbian and who pictures hell as an upper-college level trigonometry class where <strike>Satan</strike> the professor randomly calls on you to answer the questions, and everyone around you gets the material and had 8 wondrous hours of sleep last night while you’re trying to pass off the fact that you hadn’t even had time to shower that morning as embracing a low-water, pro-environment lifestyle? He believes in marriage? He saw what Britney Spears did. He knows what’s up.</div><div><br /></div><div>But, when you come down to it, I really do believe in, and support marriage. It’s not this wonderful union where birds chirp in the morning and your spouse gets up at the crack of dawn to make you breakfast while you sleep in (and for those of you who have this, <i>be grateful, you sons-a-bitches</i>). It gets ugly. You’re left alone with them after a long day at work and you just feel tired and want to lash out at someone. And then, they wake up next to you, and in choosing to swat you or the alarm, the alarm tends to win only because it’s making more noise at that particular moment. It’s a scary thing, this thing called marriage. You discuss bowel movements with each other, hopes and dreams and really stupid ideas that you would have otherwise kept to yourself...if you’re not prepared for that (Disney’s not so hot on that sort of preparation these days), then yeah, divorce might be eminent. But at least you tried. </div><div><br /></div><div>*Consolation prize*</div><div><br /></div><div>I haven’t really told anyone this. I don’t like to jump into personal politics, because it feels too good when we win a battle and it hurts too much when we come up short (it’ll leave a guy emotionally unstable, I tend to think). But, this shirt?</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mwlvRX5XtfU/Th2nBWVyw3I/AAAAAAAAAdM/M7LLC7_C6fY/s1600/new_york_gay_marriage.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mwlvRX5XtfU/Th2nBWVyw3I/AAAAAAAAAdM/M7LLC7_C6fY/s320/new_york_gay_marriage.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5628838750901683058" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 234px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>I’d wear it.</div>Sherardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05205017772015692462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6954327874353208320.post-5270335316466967302011-07-10T09:40:00.006-04:002011-08-14T12:19:22.733-04:00Crotch Thought<div style="text-align: left;">“His Stories...pierce and leap, are always bitingly funny, and are so, so alive....Klam is telling the truth while almost no one else is.”—Dave Eggars</div><div>
<br /></div><div>“A knockout.”—The Oregonian</div><div>
<br /></div><div>“Ruthlessly insightful...Klam has a major bead on women.”—Harper’s Bazaar</div><div>
<br /></div><div>A finalist for the <i>Los Angeles Times</i> Book Prize</div><div>An <i>Esquire</i> Best Book of the Year</div><div>A <i>New York Times</i> Notable Book</div><div>A <i>Kansas City Star </i>Book of the Year</div><div>
<br /></div><div>
<br /></div><div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9S26q4Kfhb4/ThnDDLygevI/AAAAAAAAAdE/1BJSVh3xMEk/s1600/Samthecat_matthewklam.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9S26q4Kfhb4/ThnDDLygevI/AAAAAAAAAdE/1BJSVh3xMEk/s320/Samthecat_matthewklam.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5627743668847803122" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 207px; height: 320px; " /></a></div><div>
<br /></div><div>All raving reviews (I mean, sure, no one posts their rejections on their jacket covers, but this book has received notable praise). So why am I giving Matthew Klam’s <i>Sam The Cat: And Other Stories</i> a non-awesome review?</div><div>
<br /></div><div>It goes like this: there are seven stories in Klam’s collection, six exclusively from the heterosexual male perspective, with the last story being a stab at the omniscient narrator. All of the stories revolve around the protagonist and their girlfriends/fiancees/wives; they’re cheating on them, ignoring them, trying to get them to have an abortion, or so emphatically in love with them they’re bringing fake guns to their girlfriend’s door just to scare them a little after they’ve had a fight. (Men of real caliber, am I right? Who else is really turned on right now?) They feel up other women on the beach. They eat their boss’ hooha on the ground of a construction site. This is the soon-to-be-married crowd. No wonder marriage doesn’t work; half the partnership consists of a straight guy and his penis.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>Ok, ok, I guess that isn’t fair. But it does bring me to my biggest concern with <i>Sam The Cat: And Other Stories</i>—several of the men depicted in these stories take absolutely no responsibility for their dicks. It just gets hard on its own accord. It just inserts itself into places without their having any control over it. Oops; broke their marriage vows. Wasn’t their fault—their penis made them do it.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>Now, don’t get me wrong. Men can get sexually aroused against their will, same as women. But, just because the men in these stories get sexually aroused doesn’t mean they need to act upon those hormones and the blood surging to their crotches. They could go cool off. Frustrating, but a bit more responsible. </div><div>
<br /></div><div>The flip side to this is the outdated concern these protagonists experience when their significant others get aroused:</div><div>
<br /></div><div><i>She lay between the rows of corn on the bedspread and let me touch her and wanted more.</i></div><div><i>‘I like that,’ she said, pulling at me.</i></div><div><i>It terrified me when she acted like a slut. I said, ‘Let me get unbuckled.’ </i></div><div>
<br /></div><div>Because, as we all know, it’s fine when a man wants to screw some girl, but when a woman wants to get screwed? What a slut. And from another story:</div><div>
<br /></div><div><i>At the end they’d done it so hard—Rich fucked Gynnie so hard he forgot he was marrying her.</i></div><div>
<br /></div><div>According to this world view, you can’t fuck your wife really hard because you’re marrying her. Marriage is supposed to kill the sex life, and after the “I do”s you’re only supposed to make sweet, missionary style love to each other once every two weeks (optimally, on or after pay day). This is perhaps a truer reason for failed marriages; people who are sexually voracious don’t just lose their sexual drive once they enter a social-economical agreement. The woman who liked to be spanked will still want a good spanking after she’s married, just as the guy who liked to be tied up won’t drop his ropes in the trash once he’s found the one he wants to be with for the rest of his life. The people who believe that their sexual enjoyment has to stop once their enter marriage vows wonder why their relationship isn’t fulfilling them the way it did before. To stop doing the sexual activities that a couple performs before marriage would be to seriously maim the sex life thereafter, and considerably lead to a less fulfilling marriage. To promise wild and zany shower sex with the lover before the chapel would be to imply wild and zany shower sex after, <i>simply because it’s something that they both enjoy</i>. And if one of the pair doesn’t enjoy it, then they had better speak up, or expect soap in unwelcomed places until someone dies or files divorce papers.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>And then gets themselves a divorce ring! I sort of want to get married and divorced, just so I could wear a one of these. </div><div>
<br /></div><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-R1TSmApS6Xo/ThnDC_1u6JI/AAAAAAAAAc8/PWpghTEH7l8/s1600/divorce_rings.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-R1TSmApS6Xo/ThnDC_1u6JI/AAAAAAAAAc8/PWpghTEH7l8/s320/divorce_rings.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5627743665640106130" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 290px; height: 300px; " /></a></div><div>
<br /></div><div>...*sigh* <i>Jewelry.</i> But yes. Where were we?</div><div>
<br /></div><div><i>Sam The Cat: And Other Stories</i> adheres to a certain group of men of which I wouldn’t be interested in obtaining entry to. Their ideals about women appear old-fashioned and tired (“major bead on women,” Harper’s Bazaar? Really? Did you not <i>read</i> the collection?).</div><div>
<br /></div><div>Unless you’re the kind of guy who thinks about his dick and where he could stick it every six seconds, I probably wouldn’t recommend this book. Not so awesome. </div><div>
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<br /></div><div>--</div><div>And by the way, it took me forever to grasp the placement of the title on cover. I didn’t realize it was at that location, in that shape, for a reason. Here’s me, reading this book all over town, with people giving me off-colored sideways glances in Starbucks and Pei Wei...kind of embarrassing, really.</div>Sherardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05205017772015692462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6954327874353208320.post-12173998308240800732011-07-04T11:38:00.005-04:002011-07-04T16:03:51.917-04:00Google, Baby<div style="text-align: left;">Google is my lover.</div><div><br /></div><div>I can turn off my phone and walk away. If I lived in a city that was more pedestrian friendly, I would walk (or bike) instead of jumping in my tired and sagging car. I could even give up creamed goods. (Hypothetically, this is hypothetically; you touch my ice cream, you may die. You’re a guest in my house until you near my freezer. If I catch you with my Haagen-Dazs, you better run.) But, at this point, I can’t imagine my life without Google.</div><div><br /></div><div>I mean, every time I jump on the internet, I end up on google’s homepage. Not only do I use gmail and blogger (which is owned by...Google), but I swear by google maps, use google images, and find that any time I’m fairly curious about a subject (yesterday, I googled bilberries, roiling, and the lyrics to Tom Jones’ “She’s a Lady” after someone asked me about the hot librarian picture I downloaded—from google—and plastered onto a binder. I explained that “she has style, she has grace,” and then I realized that I was quoting from a song I couldn’t remember the complete lyrics to) I jump on google, which links me to Wikipedia, dictionaries, and the World Healthiest Foods website. Google is my lifeline. If Google left me, I would pitch my own personal hissy fit.</div><div><br /></div><div>::My friend Paul is a lawyer who works for Google. He undoubtedly is brimming from ear to ear in smugness because I’m writing about his favorite employer. Hush it, Paul. Shh.::</div><div><br /></div><div>Google not only is my source for all things random, but sometimes it presents random information to me without my even trying. It reminds me of birthdays of astronomers, of foreign independence days, of national holidays, all within its title. My absolute favorite was it’s animation in celebration of Martha Graham, the famous dancer.</div><div><br /></div><div>(In case you weren’t on Google that day.)</div><div><iframe width="560" height="349" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/Dlj-n0ouPFo" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe></div><div><br /></div><div>This (and Grey’s Anatomy) is the sort of thing that totally impresses me and makes me feel all tingly in my mushy places. How beautiful; I felt like, just by hanging out on Google, I got to be reminded of an important artist in our American culture. Today, for the Fourth of July, Google posted this image:</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--D43d0J7Ox4/ThHpl7V5BAI/AAAAAAAAAc0/J4QU07PVbz8/s1600/fourth_of_july11-Google.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--D43d0J7Ox4/ThHpl7V5BAI/AAAAAAAAAc0/J4QU07PVbz8/s320/fourth_of_july11-Google.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5625534247356400642" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 125px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Adorable, right? From Hawaii to New York, with the West, Midwest, and the South involved as well. Artistically and politically correct, one might say, for a day celebrating our birth as a nation. And so, on top of saying, “Happy Independence Day,” I want to draw attention to, and thank, Google for making me smile day after day. With just a simple sketch, Google makes me feels better, even though as search engine extraordinaire Google really doesn’t have to do <i>anything</i> extra to draw me to its homepage. It’s like the boyfriend who brings flowers “just cause.”</div><div><br /></div><div>I think I’m in love.</div><!--StartFragment--><!--EndFragment-->Sherardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05205017772015692462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6954327874353208320.post-48660404782760774592011-05-30T15:22:00.009-04:002011-07-06T21:31:12.547-04:00Death by Relaxation<div style="text-align: left;">Just recently I sent a letter to a friend of mine overseas. I know, I know--I send <i>letters</i> to people. I'm such a softy for pen and paper and stamps and starting monologues off with "Dearest" and ending them with "Love." The world could be going to hell in a hand basket and my first thought would be to find a more upbeat radio channel. But anyway, on the back of this particular envelope, I taped the following Baby Blues comic strip:</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-CNWLqiPQ6lc/TeP_WGQEGZI/AAAAAAAAAcI/hDzAmSxWWEM/s1600/photo.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-CNWLqiPQ6lc/TeP_WGQEGZI/AAAAAAAAAcI/hDzAmSxWWEM/s320/photo.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5612610315733965202" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>In case you can't see it (as your eyes have smoked over due to backyard barbecues and summer sweat sneaking down your brow), click on it. But if you're looking for a transcript, the first panel says: "I'm going to the kitchen to get some crackers..." The second: "...WHILE BALANCING THE STEPSTOOL ON TWO SKATEBOARDS AND A BANANA PEEL!!!" The third: "Boredom is for the boring!" "Tell the gang at the emergency room I said hi." </div><div><br /></div><div>I picked it because I wanted to send this person a summer comic, from one workaholic to another. He's going to Cambridge University and has exams coming up. Summers are scary for students like us. We work through fall, with the leaves changing from green to technicolor, and we trudge through spring, replacing our winter coats with summer shorts (although in Florida our passage of time is basically switching from flip flops to tennis shoes and back again). But then summer arrives and all of a sudden we're supposed to do nothing.</div><div><br /></div><div>Nothing. </div><div><br /></div><div>Nothing-<i>othing</i>-<i>othing...</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>Do you know what nothing translates to for a workaholic?</div><div><br /></div><div>Auto maintenance, house repair, storage cleaning, calling distant relatives, volunteering, varnishing the furniture, deleting unnecessary files off the computer, birthday shopping, christmas shopping, any activity that will get you ahead in the fall, trying that new recipe your coworker gave you (you forgot that you were supposed to be an excellent chef!), going to a yoga class, clearing out the email inbox, reading the latest best seller, organizing a committee, revamping the wardrobe, double checking the budget...</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">...sleeping (if it's not on the task list, it will not happen)...</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: right;">...trying out a new skin cream, organizing the organizer/calendar, clipping coupons, re-accessing life goals, watching CNN, HBO, QVC, ABC, MSNBC, TMC--while wondering to yourself why you don't have Tivo...or a secretary--and of course, questioning if you're <i>really</i> doing your part to try to save the planet. You gas guzzler, you. </div><div><br /></div><div>As Americans, we're raised with this Puritanical sense of right and wrong. We grew up with the rags-to-riches mentality floating around in the back of our minds; if we just worked a little bit harder, for a little bit longer, we could become successful. Just look at Rockefeller, or Donald Trump, or Madonna. Maybe even Oprah, if you're feeling particularly generous. Working hard will get us so very far, but, in the attempt to make it to one of the top tiers--in our thrill of the chase--what if we're all working ourselves just a little too hard?</div><div><br /></div><div>It occurred to me over the three day weekend that while I know how to change my oil, fix a runny toilet, and catalogue the difference between anaphoras and caesuras, I really don't know how to take a vacation. I tried to imagine myself going away, leaving my life behind me for a day or two. Would I relax? Would I focus on the here and now and not on what I <i>could</i> have been doing had I stayed at home? </div><div><br /></div><div>Should I have chosen a Cathy comic instead of a Baby Blues one? </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>(R.I.P. Cathy comics)</div>Sherardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05205017772015692462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6954327874353208320.post-36835094243444539642011-05-24T01:55:00.014-04:002011-06-01T03:53:24.747-04:00Seduction by Goldfish<div style="text-align: left;">It's completely normal to read about men who dress up in drag, complete with live goldfish swimming around in their plastic boobs, right?</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-jx2eyvL7rso/TdtdsyJ6OXI/AAAAAAAAAbw/MIybAwPZtAI/s1600/Aquadisiac.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-jx2eyvL7rso/TdtdsyJ6OXI/AAAAAAAAAbw/MIybAwPZtAI/s320/Aquadisiac.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5610180784779049330" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 218px; height: 320px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Sounds normal to me. Sound normal to you?</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm actually quite shocked at the amount of books I read before I stumbled upon the <i>memoir</i> category. I don't think I touched a single memoir (especially not if it was leisure reading) until graduate school. "Memoir" was synonymous with "biography," which in turn was synonymous with "old but politically important dead guy who may/may not have had venereal disease." The venereal disease was always the selling point (not to name names, Communist leader Mao Zedong). People's parents are born, they are born, they do great things, they die, a book is written. Not a record I want to reread on a Saturday afternoon. But every once in a while, someone does something <i>interesting</i> instead of <i>great</i>. In Josh Kilmer-Purcell's case, it was get perpetually trashed, dress up in drag, and date a drugged up male escort in his memoir <i>I Am Not Myself These Days</i>.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-oEjIAFnGJUY/TdtfUqK01LI/AAAAAAAAAcA/fsAyPZKaXi8/s1600/IAmNotMyselfTheseDays.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-oEjIAFnGJUY/TdtfUqK01LI/AAAAAAAAAcA/fsAyPZKaXi8/s320/IAmNotMyselfTheseDays.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5610182569341801650" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>All of a sudden, Saturday afternoon just got a little bit more scandalous, am I right?</div><div><br /></div><div>We follow Kilmer-Purcell through his day job at an advertising firm, and his nights as drag queen "Aquadisiac" (or Aqua for short) in the gutter laden gem that is New York City, equipped the entire way with caustic wit and a large glass of vodka on the rocks. </div><div><br /></div><div><blockquote><i>I think it's a little presumptuous on his part to think that I would want to talk to him anyway. I mean, sure, I went home with him, probably slept with him, ate breakfast with him, and wore his clothes to work the next day. None of this I see as necessarily flirtatious on my part. All in a night's work as far as I'm concerned. But there's something flirty/sexy about his voice that's appealing to my inner-romantic comedy actress. Then again, maybe it's just his penthouse apartment I'm hearing. My inner-gold digger frequently beats the crap out of my inner-Meg Ryan.</i></blockquote></div><div><br /></div><div>Instead of beginning at conception and ending at death (of either Kilmer-Purcell or his alter-egtress Aqua), the piece covers the span of time in which Kilmer-Purcell dates Jack, an escort who at times would bring his work home with him, leaving Aqua to come home at 4 or 5 in the morning after doing a round of shows at the nightclubs and finding a middle aged man hogtied in the foyer, or a trio of men having an orgy on the couch.</div><div><br /></div><div>They say love is a many splendored thing. Whether that's a diamond these days or shattered glass, you'd have to tell me.</div><div><br /></div><div>What makes this an interesting read is Kilmer-Purcell's treatment of the surreal quality of his life. He's not shocked by the crack den in the kitchen, but he is disturbed by the acrid smell of the fumes. He's not surprised at coming to in a train with his left boot and purse missing, but he is incredibly tense at the prospect of hosting his mother while she's in town on vacation. He grapples constantly with the balance of his current "abnormal" life and the respectable extra-credit student he was raised to be. He just wants to say the right thing. Maybe this is what makes his memoir so relatable.</div><div><br /></div><div>It's pretty awesome. </div><div><br /></div><div>--</div><div><br /></div><div>Also, the TV station <i>Bravo</i> has announced that they're going to be turning this novel into a television series, so look for that to come out.</div>Sherardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05205017772015692462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6954327874353208320.post-58723185315577970992011-05-16T20:32:00.005-04:002011-05-16T21:47:19.816-04:00Blood is a Big Expense<div style="text-align: left;">I loaned some kid $25 today.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm not really sure how it happened. I mean, I remember hearing about Kiva years ago and brushing it off. I remember a professor at school mentioning how she had just re-loaned the same $25 to three different women in developing countries. I remember thinking that it wouldn't <i>kill</i> me if I coughed up some cash to help someone out in a business venture, especially if I just end up getting the money back. </div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-HhfHvMbYc74/TdHSJhp1BmI/AAAAAAAAAbA/2VI8aG_OCNA/s320/kivaloans.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5607494072147445346" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 142px; " /></div><div><br /></div><div>But after that things got a little hazy.</div><div><br /></div><div>I went to their website, I registered, I poked around their "About" and "Community" sections, I went shopping in their gift store (I mean seriously, I'd consider toting around a bag that said "Wanna Help Buy a Goat?"). I started hunting for my first lendee. I clicked on South America on their world map. (It was a Risk factor. As in, the game of Risk--I always ended up staying on the board because South America just seemed so in-the-corner that no one ever fought me for it.) And up popped Emmanuel.</div><div><br /></div><div>Emmanuel is this 19 year old kid in Ecuador who opened up a grocery store with his mom, and is aiming to expand the shop to include rice, sugar, and oil. Next to his bio was his picture, standing outside of his shop. Simple, nice looking kid. Non-threatening.</div><div><br /></div><div>Last night I was telling a friend and potential colleague the horror stories I heard about teaching college students. "It's hard when you look young, but especially so if you're a woman," is what I heard. I told her about how the guys can make sexual advances, and that she had better come prepared, I warned, as her boyfriend who was sitting right next to her clung to my every word, and seemed to have carefully wrapped his hand around her wrist. </div><div><br /></div><div>But truthfully, most teenagers are like puppies: all energy and no attention span. Things come and go for them in leaps and bounds. It's scary to think that just a few years ago <i>I</i> was that energetic, that full of hormones. It's scary to think that if I wasn't in graduate school, working, and starting a volunteering repertoire in my "off" time, I would still be that energetic. If I take a vacation, I'm pretty sure I'd revert straight back to that high energy state, like a perm on a hot summer day. Somehow I looked at this kid's picture and in the back of my mind my id said "me. That's me," and the next thing I knew, I was lending him $25.</div><div><br /></div><div>I was lending <i>me</i> $25. Does that, on some account, make me selfish? Or more so like a faint and distant fairy godfather granting secret wishes and unlocking dust covered doors?</div><div><br /></div><div>Will I get to whisper Italian truisms and talk with my hands while I'm taking care of business?</div>Sherardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05205017772015692462noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6954327874353208320.post-37335884002869504752010-12-21T12:06:00.006-05:002010-12-21T13:23:43.325-05:00Dangerous Doll Dilemmas<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><u><br /></u></span></div>Omg, throwback!<br /><br />So, you know how there are those cultural icons that we all recognize and "get" even if we haven't checked out the original? We all know the line, "it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all," but was it Shakespeare or Yeats or wrote it? (It was Alfred Lord Tennyson, in case you were curious.)<br /><br />Well, this month's novel is one of those. It's <span style="font-style:italic;">Valley of the Dolls</span>, darling.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Valley of the Dolls</span> was first published in 1966 by Jacqueline Susann. 1966. That's kind of way before my time. Super Mario didn't even <span style="font-style:italic;">exist</span> yet. (Do you see how history can be a cruel mistress?) But people reference this novel left and right; "oh God, this is like a scene out of Valley of the Dolls," people say, especially when referencing one of those tragic soap operas. *"Nadia's Theme" starts playing in the background*<br /><br />But what is <span style="font-style:italic;">Valley of the Dolls</span> really about?<br /><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_NbokcgynIys/TRDvMCtqMYI/AAAAAAAAAak/QkJdi34h4Pk/s320/Valley%2Bof%2Bthe%2BDolls%2B1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553201330713670018" style="float: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; cursor: pointer; width: 188px; height: 320px; " /></span>I'll tell you, so you'll know, and you can impress your friends. It's a novel about three young women, Anne, Jennifer, and Neely, who work in the arts and discover the helpfulness of little dolls (codeword for pills) that help them lose weight or sleep. Anne is the most formal of the trio, and is more or less the main character. Jennifer is a sweet girl known only for her amazing body, which causes her to question her intelligence capacity, and Neely is a young woman trying to make it big in Broadway and Hollywood.<br /><br />The novel is a clear reflection on another cultural icon we have (that I won't try to explain here): the feminine mystique. All the girls really want to do (except for Anne, who feels crappy about the fact) is get married and bang out kids. That's the goal, and career comes second. Way to reach for the <s>sky</s> er, uterus, right? That's what makes this novel so interesting; it's Betty Friedan's <span style="font-style:italic;">The Feminine Mystique</span> in fiction form.<br /><br />One thing that Susann does that really kind of shocked the pants off me was use the "f" word. And she used it a LOT. Not the f**k one, but the f*g one. Consider this exert from one of the secondary characters, Helen, a famous but lonely actress:<br /><blockquote>"Oh, I can always scare up someone. My designer will take me, or Bobby Eaves, my accompanist. But they're both fags. That's the trouble--no real men these days. Plenty of fags, but no men. I hate to go to an opening with a faggot. It's like wearing a sign: 'This is all I could get.'"</blockquote><br />(Welcome to the entertainment industry, toots.)<br /><br />With such a pottymouth, it's no wonder that this novel was so salacious, on top of scandalous infidelity moments, including that of one of the men sleeping around on his wife with other men. But in terms of narrative structure and social issues raised without bashing the reader across the face with them, Susann performs an excellent job. For being such an old (and therefore potentially outdatable) novel, it's certainly worth the read in one's free time to consider more than just it's cultural quote. It's rating? <span>Totally Awesome</span>.<br /><br />--<br /><br />But as a warning, totally don't skip out on the novel and only watch the film. I watched the film, and it was a bit of a disappointment. They changed the ending entirely, so, don't try to pass off as having read the novel and have just watched the film. You might get called on it. And barbiturates may get shoved down your throat. <div><br /></div><div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_NbokcgynIys/TRDvYp-3M5I/AAAAAAAAAas/qoSWSDnX0Wk/s1600/Valley%2Bof%2Bthe%2BDolls%2B2.jpg"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_NbokcgynIys/TRDvYp-3M5I/AAAAAAAAAas/qoSWSDnX0Wk/s320/Valley%2Bof%2Bthe%2BDolls%2B2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553201547413238674" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 266px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div>Sherardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05205017772015692462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6954327874353208320.post-80573043964638106822010-12-20T20:04:00.004-05:002010-12-21T09:06:19.833-05:00Ok, One More Christmas VideoBecause, I couldn't resist. I'm going up to New Jersey/New York for Christmas and I actually have family that sorta sound like this. Plus John Roberts is just hilarious.<br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/BV3MqtN6D4Q?fs=1&hl=en_US&rel=0&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/BV3MqtN6D4Q?fs=1&hl=en_US&rel=0&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Who wants Baileys?</span> Yes. My Holiday. Please.Sherardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05205017772015692462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6954327874353208320.post-15591917136760539562010-12-20T07:08:00.008-05:002010-12-21T09:06:39.042-05:00Have An Awesome Christmas*!<object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/ARq6uYSsUq0?fs=1&hl=en_US&rel=0&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/ARq6uYSsUq0?fs=1&hl=en_US&rel=0&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><div>My FAVORITE Christmas song, from me to you. Time to chug some eggnog.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><font size="1">*And other assorted winter themed holidays.</font></span></div>Sherardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05205017772015692462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6954327874353208320.post-87398492015944537062010-12-19T09:53:00.004-05:002010-12-19T11:10:20.767-05:00It's a Cruel, Cruel Cruel Summer...So...<div><br /></div><div>I'm not dead. Although it seemed like it because I couldn't remember what day it was for about 3 weeks.</div><div><br /></div><div>My intention was to do a sort of "this semester in numbers" post where I listed an object or an activity and then the number of times performed, but it kind of got boring after "numbers of books read," "number of pages written," and "number of wine bottles consumed." Maybe next year.</div><div><br /></div><div>Instead, I'm going to reflect back on this year with remembrance and a fondness that mirrors sharks giving birth. (You know they eat all of their siblings in utero, right?)</div><div><br /></div><div><b>1/2 Winter 2010</b></div><div>I know, it's super weird that I'm starting with winter, but you can't really consider January "Spring," now can you? It was cold. Super cold. I was living in Tampa in my own apartment, and working hard going to school and working part time to pay for all of those graduate applications. I fell in love with my crockpot and Netflix (these are ongoing affairs, in case you're curious. *rubs crockpot gently*). I like never slept, and was freaking out about whether or not I'd finish undergraduate school, but I made it.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Spring 2010</b></div><div>The problem with applying to so many graduate schools is that they all send you rejection letters in the same 2 week period. It was completely Pavlovian; I started to avoid going to the mailbox at all costs, but then one accepted me! And it was exciting because I got into grad school - yay! So I made preparations to move and to say goodbye to Tampa, a city I still miss greatly.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Summer 2010</b></div><div>You know what song never goes out of style? "Cruel Summer" by Ace of Base. Every year, you have to listen to it at least once. In fact, it's December, and I must listen to it now. During the Summer, I resurfaced on this earth as a bright eyed, bushy tailed kid with a degree and respectable Fall plans. I applied to over 67 different jobs (I stopped writing down the number after 67, but I'm sure there were a few more after that). The only one that got back to me was the one that didn't pay - the internship. So, to add some experience to the old resume, I drove an hour outside of town and back twice a week. It was dull work, but I loved their computers. (Giant screens FTW! *computer nerd* :B)</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Fall 2010</b></div><div>New town, new school, new hair-do. I just like to refer to this semester as rough, and leave it at that. I'm still impressed that I made it through. There's so much I learned so quickly that my head's still spinning. My days began to blend together, and for a while there, I forgot how to spell my own middle name. </div><div><br /></div><div>Then I remembered that I didn't have one. </div><div><br /></div><div>It's been really bizarre standing around in that place where you're a student, but you're a teacher too. I went out to dinner with people who had Doctorate degrees and who were successful businesspeople, and they treated me like one of them instead of the kid who tagged along. All of a sudden, people were listening to what I had to say, and I had to keep double-checking myself to make sure that what I said wasn't my usual vapid air-headed drivel. (Omg, speaking of, did you hear about Michael C. Hall - the dude who plays Dexter on <i>Dexter</i> - getting a divorce from his wife and co-star, Jennifer Carpenter? Granted, I will forever picture Michael as the uptight homo on <i>Six Feet Under</i>, taking it up the butt from his black lova, Matthew St. Patrick, who just happens to be from one of the coolest cities on the eastern seaboard, Philadelphia. That's the home city of P!nk, who's totally starting to show in her pregnancy now. Could you imagine being like, "yeah, P!nk's my mom"? Why can't my mom be a pop icon? Are you reading this mom? Now's your chance to lead the nation in the latest drinking ballad!)</div><div><br /></div><div><b>1/2 Winter 2010</b></div><div>Well, that pretty much brings us up to date. Next week, I'm heading up north for Christmas and New Years. Maybe I'll take a bunch of pictures of me hanging out in snow and stuff. Or maybe just some sophisticated stuff like some pictures of me standing next to influential works in the Museum of Modern Art or something. </div><div><br /></div><div>Or maybe another great picture of me slipping on black ice and falling on my ass. What a magical time of year.</div>Sherardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05205017772015692462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6954327874353208320.post-61241346391905824852010-11-17T07:38:00.009-05:002010-12-21T12:12:52.398-05:00The Little Black Dress That Could<div style="text-align: left;">So, I've decided that once a month, I'm going to do a book review!</div><div><br /></div><div>What? People get paid to do this. I'm doing it for free. Be grateful. God.</div><div><br /></div><div>Seriously though, lately I've been reading some pretty awesome books, and since I'm reading, I figure, I might as well suggest some books if I find them worth suggesting. </div><div><br /></div><div>The first novel I'm going to review is <i>Mennonite in a Little Black Dress</i>.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_NbokcgynIys/TOPdBOT9E-I/AAAAAAAAAac/PuTOOGdO8bw/s1600/Mennonite%2Bin%2Ba%2BLittle%2BBlack%2BDress.jpg"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_NbokcgynIys/TOPdBOT9E-I/AAAAAAAAAac/PuTOOGdO8bw/s320/Mennonite%2Bin%2Ba%2BLittle%2BBlack%2BDress.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5540514979687240674" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 211px; height: 320px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><i>Mennonite in a Little Black Dress </i>is Rhoda Janzen's first novel. But fear not - the woman totally comes to bat facing the right direction. In fact, she has experience; she's a Poet Laureate (this means that if her poetry was a car, it would be a Lexus) and holds a Ph.D. from the University of California. So, as you might expect, it could help to keep a dictionary handy. I learned words that didn't even show up on the 'top 500 GRE vocabulary words study guide'.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'd be really, really scared if Rhoda took to working for the GRE. Seriously.</div><div><br /></div><div>But, her saving grace (besides spacing these words out so as not to make you feel incredibly stupid, as you are apt to do when reading the work of a Ph.D. - and take that little bit of advice to heart, from me to you, as a person who's studying underneath 3 or 4 of them on a weekly basis) is that she is absolutely hilarious. She's got gall, you guys. And any writer who's willing to make fun of themselves, and actually be good at it, is worth checking out. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>Mennonite in a Little Black Dress</i> is a fictional memoir piece - in the same style as Elizabeth Gilbert and David Sedaris - about how Rhoda falls apart and heads back to her Mennonite home after her husband Nick leaves her for a man he met on Gay.com. (Oops, right?) The quirkiness of Rhoda's crazy family stands out in stark contrast to her liberalized educational life as a college professor, with the help of Rhoda's well crafted writing. She pulls out several of the unorthodox stops to really keep you interested, and she's just insightful enough to make you smile a little bit at the end of each chapter. You won't want to put the book down. And when you do, your mom will pick it up while she's visiting, read the back, and say, "this sounds funny - I want to read it when you're done."</div><div><br /></div><div>And then you'll have to say, "Sure mom," but hide the novel because, even though Rhoda is anything but homophobic, her husband still leaves her for a man on Gay.com. There's just no getting around that:<blockquote></blockquote></div><div><blockquote><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" >One day Nick came home with a pair of Yohji Yamamoto gloves that had cost $385. This was in 1996, mind you. Granted, these gloves were wondrously conceived: over an interior pebbled leather glove, a leather mitt unzipped and folded back into a gauntlet of sorts. It was just the kind of witty sartorial gesture that a dandified socialite might affect, very Oscar Wilde, if Oscar Wilde would have ditched the lily and firmed up the tummy and got full-sleeve tatts designed by the famed Los Angeles artist Bob Roberts. Nick wasn't a dandified socialite, though. He was a grad student. We were supposed to be living on the ten bucks an hour I was making as a receptionist at the law firm.</span></span></blockquote> </div><div><br /></div><div>The man clearly sucks cooooooo...pper piping. *ahem*. Which he does. Metaphorically. </div><div><br /></div><div>But my absolute favorite sentence from the novel is this: <i>At twenty all I wanted to do was read philosophy, feminism, and fashion</i>. Oh, didn't we all, Rhoda? Didn't we all?</div><div><br /></div><div>That is why this novel is forthwith gaining the rating, "totally awesome." She's smart, she's classy, and she's not afraid to turn her mother down when she tells her that her very Mennonite first cousin is on the market after she gets divorced.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.rhodajanzen.com/">Her website</a>.</div>Sherardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05205017772015692462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6954327874353208320.post-66841358347911980792010-11-07T16:46:00.008-05:002010-11-17T09:08:54.315-05:00Confessions of a Third Wheel<div style="text-align: left;">This is my friend Clint.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_NbokcgynIys/TNcnkBqjfQI/AAAAAAAAAaU/0jEUVS1aoYo/s1600/Clint.jpg"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_NbokcgynIys/TNcnkBqjfQI/AAAAAAAAAaU/0jEUVS1aoYo/s320/Clint.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5536937766751010050" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 238px; height: 320px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Once, in one of our many playfights, I replied with the classic nerdy throwback, "well...YOUR MOM!", and without missing a beat, his retort was: <i>My mom died. Thanks.</i> And I thought he was serious. I believed him. I apologized and everything.</div><div><br /></div><div>I went on thinking that his mom had passed for over two years. </div><div><br /></div><div>So, that's right Clint; revenge is a dish best served in displaying your incredibly tight tights all over the internetz. Work it, baby, work it!</div><div><br /></div><div>Last night, he drove over two hours to come and see me, and hang out with a potential love interest. It was a really nice night; we went to dinner downtown, and then - I'm still not quite sure how this happened - ended up dancing at a lesbian bar. And then he and his newly budding boyfriend spent the rest of the night on my couch talking about Marvel comic books and the premise behind Wonder Woman's character. "You can't watch Wonder Woman cartoons in the context of her being just another superhero - you have to think of her as a liberated woman in skimpy outfits with a boyfriend whose biggest virtue is that he doesn't want to get into her wonder panties." And on and on they went, two geeks in pre-Let's-Make-Out matrimonial bliss.</div><div><br /></div><div>It was cuter than two puppies learning how to wag their tails at full speed.</div><div><br /></div><div>And, it was a really nice thing to watch, as I sat in an armchair across from them, researching and grading papers at four in the morning. We always have this self-absorbed complaint floating around in the US that we're always the bridesmaids and never the bride (ignoring the fact that the bridesmaids outnumber the bride like three to one, and that if they worked together, they could take that marrying heifer out before anyone, anywhere could even eek out a single <i>mazel tov!</i>), but think about it. We all know people in relationships, and how many of them tend to last? Cooing couples are everywhere, and yet virtually non-existent in this regard. Why complain about how their couple-ness is not your couple-ness? Why not enjoy the few brief moments of <i>amor</i> as they flash before your eyes as well as theirs? Is this not an amazing treat in and of itself?</div><div><br /></div><div>So, yes, Clint. To answer your question - since you asked - I did feel like a third wheel last night. But, I felt like an awesome third wheel. The kind of third wheel who doesn't question happiness when he sees it. The kind of third wheel who appreciates the highs of young love.</div><div><br /></div><div>The kind of third wheel with neon glow in the dark beads in its spokes.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Sherardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05205017772015692462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6954327874353208320.post-6187874638564752252010-11-05T03:45:00.004-04:002011-06-14T14:20:09.161-04:00I Know the Feeling<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_NbokcgynIys/TNO2ROow8MI/AAAAAAAAAaM/FMxnE0vsOvc/s1600/Unluckygirl.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 288px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_NbokcgynIys/TNO2ROow8MI/AAAAAAAAAaM/FMxnE0vsOvc/s400/Unluckygirl.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5535968774071578818" /></a>Sherardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05205017772015692462noreply@blogger.com0