OF A GOLDEN AGE

In between serious grown-up novels, I decided to pick up a copy of Wendelin Van Draanen’s Flipped when I saw it at my favorite Goodwill. It cleansed my palate after the intense Isaac Bashevis Singer period piece from my previous review, and it took me back to my life as a precocious thirteen-year-old girl, the same way Anna Quindlen’s One True Thing — my next Cannonball review — spoke to me as I am today.

Juli Baker has loved the same uninterested (uninteresting?) boy since his family moved in across the street six years ago, whereas Bryce, the boy in question, tolerates Juli’s presence, grumbles about her, and finds her a nuisance. In their eighth-grade year, Juli begins to come into her own as a brave, smart, and independent young woman, while Bryce’s wimpy attitude and boringness start to show.

In a clever series of events involving Juli’s pet chickens, she sees through Bryce and his shiny family, and one of Bryce’s most cowardly actions hurts and changes Juli’s feelings perhaps beyond repair. She learns a lesson in style over substance and stops being hypnotized by Bryce’s pretty blue eyes and nebulous short statements. Other characters in the book help to further Juli and Bryce’s progress: Bryce’s best friend turns out to be something of a bully, he makes a really offensive remark about Juli’s family, and Bryce does not confront him about it; Bryce’s grandfather befriends Juli and admires her courage, causing Bryce a great deal of jealousy and mixed emotions.

Van Draanen uses a postmodern he-said-she-said writing style, alternating chapters between the perspectives of Juli and Bryce and illustrating the clear differences between the minds of most eighth-grade boys and girls: Juli is articulate, considerate, reading twenty words into every one Bryce actually says and acting in the interest of other children’s feelings; Bryce is a plain bumbler who reinterprets situations I trusted Juli to remember more clearly in hindsight. Both have moments which are fuzzy (“I don’t remember what we said after that, but . . . “) and these stake out Juli and Bryce’s personalities.

Eventually, Juli and Bryce start to talk and get to know each other, which adds nuance to the stereotypes each has at the beginning — Juli isn’t annoying, and Bryce is no dreamboat. The ending is wonderful and I welled up a little. And I give Van Draanen a lot of credit for having the chutzpah to implicate adults in a way atypical of young adult fiction: She does not spend much time spelling out their personalities but uses vignettes and representative anecdotes to make it clear what kind of people they are, and no one ever says the grown-ups have the best answers.

Cannonball logo font: Sketch Rockwell. For more on the Cannonball Read, see Pajiba.

The Manor describes life in the Polish village of Jampol after the occupying Russian government allows the Jews to move from their segregated settlements. Protagonist Calman Jacoby leases a manor left vacant by the overthrown aristocracy in Jampol and the book follows his expanding and deteriorating quality of life.

Singer recreates the conflict between the conservative and liberal Jews, especially over the behavior of women and whether or not the Jewish populace should assimilate to blend into Polish society. Calman’s relatively young wife dies after wasting away for many years, and he remarries to a young, shrewd widow with her eye on Calman’s business. She stands in for her imagined future of Polish Jews, speaks Polish, visits the beauty parlor, and carries on a completely separate life from her husband’s.

The power of Singer’s character development shone when I found myself rooting for Calman in his fights with his new wife over her style of dress, refusal to partake of ritual baths and other religious rites, and wanton spending — he despairs over her religious uncleanliness and can’t bring himself to eat the food he isn’t sure is kosher. At the same time, his family begins abandoning him, on one side because he is too conservative and religious, and on the other side because his new wife is too liberal.

Calman keeps to himself and is religiously conservative, but he lives the word of God in his works: supporting the poor, striving to help his community and other Jews, and reflecting on his financial prosperity through a lens of self-effacement and skepticism. He is a frog brought to a boil, but once it happens he does not hesitate to give up everything he has in order to make his life right again in the eyes of God.

A rational skeptic in the book comments, “People cling to life as though it were all marzipan and rose water.” Calman’s estate is in direct proportion to his level of suffering, and the marzipan-and-rose-water days flit away along with his fancily dressed second wife; neither he nor the rational skeptic respect the frippery of their temporal environs. The difference lies in the way each man reacts to his feelings: Calman’s life revolves around serious Jewish religious ritual and devotion, keeping him as busy as his frivolous wife but with far greater aims.

On translation

Isaac Bashevis Singer was a major proponent of literature written in Yiddish because he felt the language had a unique way of expressing emotions and experiences related to Jewish life. His works were translated into English with fastidious care and devotion and with Singer’s enthusiastic cooperation. From the Library of Congress:

From the cuts and changes Singer made during the process of translation, it is clear that he was keenly aware of the different literary, cultural, and religious perspectives of his new audience. In many ways the translated versions were new works, and he soon referred to these English versions as his “second originals.”

Singer’s vegetarianism

Singer became a vegetarian and stayed such for the last 35 years of his life, including the time when he wrote and published The Manor. The book contains a thoughtful passage on the ritual slaughter of a chicken during Yom Kippur, when Calman’s rabbi son-in-law Jochanan objects inwardly to what he views as a cruel tradition. This subject is debated with intensity.

For more on the Cannonball Read, see Pajiba.

Some time ago, I played in a charity hearts tournament and made it to the finals, where a mass of older gents — the target demographic of hearts — were shocked by my fluency in the game. “Here!” one of them said, foisting a business card on me. “Email me and I’ll add you to my list for when we have tournaments.”

The tournament is tomorrow, and I couldn’t be more excited. The reason I’m any good at hearts is because of my grandfather, a notorious Dirty-Mary-passer and poor-poker-face-wearer who loved the game and made me and my parents love it as well.

(THAT’S RIGHT: “Me and my parents,” not “my parents and I.” Get your facts straight, misinformed grammar nazis.)

This week’s Modern Love column is grandfather-centric and this, paired with my upcoming public hearts debut, has made me miss my grandfather even more than I do already, which is a lot.

Oh, embarrassing. I am smitten with this singer-songwriter who’s 18 and from Joplin, Missouri, best known as a major pitstop for Bonnie and Clyde. (Did you know they were only 25 when they were killed by the police?)

Never Shout Never got my attention with a short clip of his song “Happy” featured in a TLC promo for their show Table for 12. It’s a sweet song, but the best part by far is the tune he sings on the line “I’m happy knowing that you are mine.” He’s got a Jason Mraz-y vibe in the best and worst ways alternating.

But I love this song and I love these words from it:

I am a man of six feet tall
Just looking for some answers
In a world that answers none of them at all
I’ll say, “Hi,” but not reply
To the letters that you write
Because I found some peace of mind

‘Cause I’m only as tall as my heart will let me be
And I’m only as small as the world will make me seem
When the going gets rough and I feel like I may fall
I’ll look on the brightside – I’m roughly six feet tall.

I have been in a good mood for a straight week or so and I’m digging it.

It also means this is the right time for me to watch lame movies because I’ll cut them a lot of slack! See also: The Proposal and 17 Again, both of which made me feel kinda squishy inside. Reluctantly.

Today a colleague gave me the onceover and said I was dressed “like Michael Jackson in the Matrix.” This is what happens when you wear black shirt, pants, shoes, and long coat, with white socks. Ha! At least my socks match today.

Let’s visit the more fashionable, shall we.

Critical Shopper has a review of the new Armani flagship (more like battleship for the size of it) in Manhattan. Check this out:

[Armani] has built a variation of [the Frank Lloyd Wright stairs at the Guggenheim] inside his store that quite possibly improves on the original. The Guggenheim resembles a collapsible camping cup; the Armani staircase looks like a Slinky made by unfurling a giant spiral-cut endive. It’s wild, organic and throbbing, a veritable turbine generating the store’s giddy atmosphere.

My goodness, a spiral-cut endive? And we wonder why people claim New York City is a symptom of the yuppocalypse.

A Suitable Wardrobe linked to Stowers Bespoke in a recent post, leading me to discover my new favorite woman’s ensemble, ever, seriously. If you’d ever told me I’d fall in love with a pink tweed three-piece suit, well, I wouldn’t have eaten my hat but you may have eaten my tomboy fist. But as I told Marty earlier, I’m loving the three-piece suit lately.

And for those of you who want to and can walk in stilettos: Watch out, they’re about to get even higher.

My original plan was to see now-confirmed-poofest 2012 on my birthday, which happened to be the movie’s opening day, but when I found out it was TWO AND A HALF HOURS LONG and the friend with whom I’d intended to go turned out to be busy, that plan went out the window. Instead, by pure serendipity, I learned ATHF Live was happening and the 7:30 show was not sold out. A prompt excited text message was sent.

The Lakeshore Theater is small, and they packed us in one party at a time to avoid people leaving a seat between themselves. My knees bumped the seat in front of me and a cupholder dug awkwardly into my leg the whole time. They were also rather liberal with some blinding disco lights and a smoke machine. The “preshow” previews, shown on an automatic pulldown screen from a projector in the back, were embarrassingly bad in every way: unfunny comedians, poor video quality, even worse postproduction. They also wedged in a dumb intermission about 3/4 through the show for no reason. In other words, I hated this venue and would have to be lured back with another incredible act or group.

“Why isn’t Frylock here?” Dave Willis and Dana Snyder asked, rhetorically, at the beginning. They said something about appearance fees, and it may have been a joke and maybe not, but really . . . Three out of four ain’t bad. Dave does Meatwad and Carl and Dana does Master Shake, so there was plenty of voice variety, and a Meatwad voice contest at the end of the show where the best contestant was voted out because he admitted that he’s an auditor. Whoops.

There is something wonderful, surreal, and certainly memorable about seeing regular people and hearing your favorite cartoon characters coming out of their mouths — At first I couldn’t stop laughing even when nothing was funny, because of the plain incongruity. Dana (here on the right; picture from online) wore a tuxedo and Dave had on bright green preppy pants and the whole evening had a good feel to it. The Meatwad contest was judged using kazoos.

Dave and Dana showed two brand new episodes that won’t air for a few months, and they were both amazing. A guy in a porkpie hat stalked around the theater yelling at people for taking photos or recording during these, and Dave made a throwaway remark about them ending up on YouTube tomorrow.

There aren’t a lot of things I like or think about that my parents aren’t at least passingly familiar with (recent exception: My Halloween costume was a Fraggle, and they don’t know Fraggle Rock at all), but besides vaguely knowing that Adult Swim exists, they didn’t know anything else about it — so I found myself explaining about Aqua Teen and hearing it in my head and thinking, “This all sounds so ridiculous.” Which is, I think, its appeal.

Related news: How I originally spelled it “gaff,” but learned that without the e it means something almost opposite in tone. Vocabulary!

Related additional news: Made my own birthday graphic last night? . . . Maybe.

Today is my birthday, and it was a surprise when the coffee shop guy added 4-5 years to my age while guessing. Of course, my aptitude for age-guessing is several standard deviations past the 50% mark, so I won’t be winning any contests either. I gave him a fiver for my bagel and tea and he gave it right back, indicating that it was “free birthday breakfast.” (In case you wondered: this is the best.) I gave it to him again and he gave it back again, which officially put me past the “No, seriously, I’ll pay” mark so I put two singles in the tip jar instead.

And it turns out the earlier of tonight’s two Aqua Teen Hunger Force Live shows is not sold out, so this is shaping up to be a fine Friday the 13th birthday.

After years and years of doodling, painting, collages, newspaper layout, graphic design, and generally obsessive aesthetic behavior, I have a very particular eye. The phrase “Don’t let perfect get in the way of good” should be tattooed on the inside of my eyelids because I spend a LOT of time letting perfect get in the way and have long given up on trying to make other people see things my way.

All that is to say: I am picky. Book covers are one of the major reasons I can’t get behind the Kindle and never will. And you know what? I LOVE this book cover made by one of Kelly’s art students. Not only in that “What great student work!” way — this is a really clever, well-thought-out design.

In fact, I like it better than any of these Amazon search results.

Those of you who know me know that I am very fond of Jewish literature, mostly American. My friend Nathan is a Twin Cities Jew whose mother grew up in the same suburb as the Coen brothers — St Louis Park, or “St Jewish Park,” Nathan informed me.

Mild spoilers. Read at your own risk.

The Coen brothers set their movie A Serious Man in St Louis Park in 1967, when Nathan’s mom was a girl and would have seen a similar landscape in her everyday life. And after their more spectacular movies, relatively speaking, this is a small character piece. Very little happens — main character Larry, an uber cerebral physics professor, has a sudden onslaught of bad luck and attempts to find a reason why. He ventures through traditional Judaism, the crazy-seeming mysticism of his sad brother, and pure science.

Near the beginning of the movie, a student who has failed Larry’s physics midterm tells Larry he understands all the anecdotes but did not realize physics involved actually doing the math. As Larry struggles to convince the student that physics IS the math, not the stories, it’s clear that he’s about to learn some kind of lesson.

Once my boss described me by saying I hate it when people aren’t logical, and in a way, that’s dead accurate. To dig into it deeper, I am really frustrated when people act without any regard or thought in a world that already makes no sense most of the time. Nathan probably feels the same way, and I think the movie hit home for both of us because we share this attitude. You can see it on Larry’s face when the events in his life confuse him, and he can’t even make enough sense of them to get angry. Near the movie’s end, Larry’s brother has an emotional outburst and says a lot of what Larry hasn’t articulated for himself yet, and it’s a wonderful, purgative moment. Larry’s life perplexes him because he has done everything right, accurately, or at least unexceptionally; when it begins to fall apart, he has to rethink all of his actions.

This movie is thick with references to Jewish life and culture, which I really enjoyed — I told Nathan, no movie I can think of has spent this much loving detail on American Judaism: Hebrew school, bar mitzvahs, Yiddish phrases, a mezuzah in every doorway.

A recent New Yorker featured an interview with Wes Anderson, inadvertent king of the near-autistic movie genre we now describe as “quirky.” Anderson’s movies mostly feature preciously upper-class people in unrelatable situations (wealthy people with thirtysomething ennui because of their failed personal genius? Seriously?) and this is kind of his trademark. As the interview notes, Anderson is a harbinger of the “Stuff White People Like” era.

There are mild spoilers in this review, so don’t make a big deal about it.

Sitting opposite Anderson on the spectrum are movies like Jack Nicholson’s Five Easy Pieces, a relatively small movie by a writer and director of whom I’ve never heard, about an unhappy, dissatisfied grunt worker named Bobby. His girlfriend is sweet, kind of dumb, and uncouth; their two best friends are thrilled to hear that Bobby’s girl is pregnant by accident, after the foursome spends the evening bowling.

Bobby’s father falls ill and he returns to the homestead, telling his girlfriend she must stay behind at the motel so he can “check things out,” when it’s clear he’s embarrassed to bring her to his family. They’re all intelligent, well educated, talented people, and Bobby is their bizarro remittance man: living away in order to shirk all of their money. At the same time, he’s flighty and antsy, and does not seem as though anything will truly satisfy.

This is a great movie, and the difference in feel between Bobby’s life and his family’s life is pronounced: He dresses differently to go meet them, walks into their museumlike house. His father’s health has left him unable to speak, and in a climactic scene, Bobby has a one-sided conversation with his mute father. It doesn’t seem to cure whatever ails either of them.