On the Road, Part IV: The House of Yes I'll Take a Restraining Order With That Lemon Meringue Pie

We'd had pretty excellent luck on our road trip by the time we'd reached Seattle. We got free lodging and a show in Ashland, a rain-free, comfortable stay in Forks and Twilight-filled goodness, and a money-saving ferry ride o' fun.

OK. It would be unfair to say our luck ran out in Seattle: we still got free lodging (for two whole nights) and were hosted by mostly entertaining folks (whom I'm pretty sure live on another planet, but that is neither here nor there at this juncture)...

Basically, Avaryl's cousin John (or is it Jawn? who knows...) graciously housed us during our time there (albeit, in a cold basement on couch cushions), and he is kind of like people I knew in high school, x10. He and his friend, Tom, make authentic (I think?) costumes ranging from Japanese samurai pants to leather battle hats to big-sleeved tunics that smell like chivalry from... Make Believe Land? They were preparing to sell their stuff at a Comicon-like event in Seattle, so stress was bouncing off the walls. Plus, loads of eccentricity and dorkiness and philosophizing about various video games. It was certainly an experience.

[This picture is Marcus, Tom and John... in the sewing room... possibly unsure that Avaryl is carrying a picture-taking device.] Like I said: Dorks just like my friends, but multitudes stranger.

But then there was the issue of, well, Richard.

I won't go in to what was wrong with this Richard, but we'll just leave it at this: Creeper. Already awkward people just shouldn't be allowed to drink, especially when it's obvious they aren't around girls very often. It's like, "I'm fine without another hug, thanksamuch, and no, I don't want to take a shower in your shower with the broken door." I'm just glad that Av, Kim and I could all agree on him. By the time we did, and our nervousness at this man's presence (and bedroom not 25 feet from where our girl-bodies slept) had been established, we remained focused on the festive-attitude in the house. And John's effin-incredible lemon meringue pie.

We spent our entire one full day in Seattle downtown exploring. Mostly Pike Street Market, which was rockin' awesome. Too much shopping. Too much food. Too much standing around, looking at fish, which, I guess, is the entire point of the Market in general.

I didn't know fish could have tongues the size of pillows. The world is full of surprises.

Not sure what to say about the Market... it involved walking, talking with the nicest vendors on earth (they don't hassle you or anything!), and looking at things we couldn't afford and buying things we didn't need. At one point Avaryl and I banned ourselves from entering anymore used bookstores. They're just unhealthy environments, is what it comes down to.

We had plans to go to the aquarium ('cause, octopuses yo!), but they charged $15. Who has $15 to spend on seeing animals when it can otherwise be spent on coffee? We used aquarium-time to sit around and soak up the rarely-seen-by-Seattle-folk sunlight. And to paint each other's nails.

We knew we should have gone to actually do things in the city, but Tully's Coffee looked so inviting, and coffee sounded so good, and there was a fire inside, guys! So we relaxed and read instead.

The only regrettable part of the day was paying $21 for 6 hours of parking. It hurts just thinking about it, so I'm moving on...

Going to the big places as the last stop on a long trip usually results in driving by the various sights and refusing to get out and pay to experience them like normal tourists. So, with the help of our trusty TomTom, we navigated ourselves around the city, through Capitol Hill (the only place I can fathom living -- realistically -- in Seattle), then around the Space Needle, through Queen Anne and back to John's house. I'd like to think we saw all there was to see.

Except for the bookstores. Oh I love books...

Seattle was nice, but given our lack of direction and the unfathomable size of the city in relation to our time there, we can't say it was worth leaving Forks for. I mean, it was, but Forks... well, we loved Forks. Unfortunately, most of our driving-around-Seattle consisted of us saying "I miss Forks"... though, that could have been as a result of the extreme shift in sleeping arrangements.

Damn, I slept well in the Temperpedic bed in Forks... *sigh* How different it is in the freezing cold floor of a Seattle basement during the butt crack of early Spring.
Seattle is a great city, but it is, well... a city: good parts, bad parts, all that hoodlum, overpriced fun. I'm still considering moving there (I know I will someday), but for now I'm feeling certain a plan of some kind will be necessary before uprooting my poor, jobless ass two states north with no support group of any kind and an already health-threatening addiction to coffee and books.

And I'm too lazy and shy to live alone in a city. I'll become a hermit, despite all hopes to the contrary, and wind up like.... Lyssa! (Don't even ask -- we'll just say that she's the tenured professor of Depressing 101 that acts as the "mother" of John's house of men.)

Anyway. I'm fairly certain we were all looking forward to the long, loooong, looooooooong drive home that was set for the next day.

This is a road trip, after all.

On the Road, Part III: The Curse of the Broken Windshield Wiper

We have been blessed, thus far, with close to no rain on this trip. We're in the Pacific Northwest, for Jeebus' sake! The Olympic Peninsula—the rainiest place on earth! But during our time traveling (heh...) up to Washington and our exploration around Forks, we stayed dry. Shocking, I know, but true.

That is, until today. =/

And, imagine this: our windshield wiper decides it wants to kill me with an aneurism by making a metal-scraping-against-glass sound every time it moves… in the pouring rain. I try and pull out my Eckhart-Tolle-A-New-Earth-knowledge about how the wiper doesn’t mean me any personal harm by making the sound of devil worshippers, but I just can’t seem to stop my face from contorting with pain at the sound of it. And our music just can’t go loud enough.

Oy. Anyway, now we’re traveling, moving from Forks towards Seattle—a strangely long trip to a place that’s not that far away. Damn those big mountains and expansive forests and big, huge bays. The drive up the 101 (then to the 5 North) takes you up around the Olympic National Park (which is effin’ huge, I might add), through Port Angeles (we’ll get to that in a sec), down around the other side of the Park, through Olympia, up through Tacoma and then into Seattle. I mean, anyone ever hear of a bridge??

But we decided to take the road less traveled: A ferry. We’d never been on a ferry before—one that takes your car along with it, so we thought “Hell! Why not?!” And when it costs nothing to travel on it, and only $12 for your car, who could argue??

But first, Port Angeles. Yes, another Twilight stop. We’re unsure how Bella could get lost in this town, but whatever—that’s fiction for 'ya! We didn’t get Italian food (please, we’re not THAT lame!), but we did spend a reasonable amount of time in the used bookstore. I never need a reason to buy books, especially when they're used. But we refrained from taking pictures. We'd had enough of small-town locals looking at us like we're insane.

The town is adorable. I really, really like it, and with ferries that take you right across the bay to British Columbia, how could it be a bad locale? There are worse places to live, lemme tell ‘ya.

So, the drive from Port Angeles to Seattle (via the route I mentioned above) takes about the same amount of time as taking the ferry from Bremerton to Seattle. But that would be an hour of not driving and not wasting gas, so it would be worth it. So much so, we didn’t even feel like fools when we got to the ferry an hour early for the hour-long ride and the guy at the toll looked at us like we were crazy-folk and said, “Uhh... you know, it would be faster to drive.” Psh! Eff-that, toll guy—we’re takin’ the ferry!!

It was a good choice. And the sun came out! The sun likes it when we don’t pollute the earth with our car.

The view of Seattle coming across the water was well worth the not spending money and time driving. Such a magnificent skyline! Plus, Avaryl got to enjoy her sodium snack, a.k.a. Cup’o’Noodles.

Despite the sun coming out, I knew our luck wouldn’t last. My one mission for the entire day was to go to Red Mill Burgers in North Queen Anne (a super nice district of Seattle and where I would totally live someday, had I money of any kind), and try the #17 burger on GQ’s list of the Best Burgers in America (I have mentioned this list many, many times before). But they were closed. It was, I dunno, Easter or some crap like that. And they wouldn’t be open on Monday, just my luck. So I missed that boat.

Then we got to our lodgings in Seattle, courtesy of Avaryl's cousin, John. Um... I'm thinking this story would be better-suited for the next post.

Until then.

On the Road, Part II: Side Effects of Book Reading May Include Loitering

After much excitement and a year of anticipation, it finally happened: I got to see Forks. LIVE! In-person! And, with me, I had the people who I blame for my exposure to this damned place, as well as the last year (and subsequent ones) of insanity and pathetic ineptitude: Kim and Avaryl.

And, after everything, my initial reaction was... Huh. That was it: Huh. The unsure feeling was a little intense. On the one hand, Forks is extremely exciting, because it's where Twilight is set, and it has become so iconic in my mind, even though it's just from a silly book, and the entire day of exploration was filled with comments like "Dude, this is where Bella and Jacob met!" and "The Cullens hunt in these woods!" and "Edward sped on this road, bitches!"

Yes. All of those phrases, and countless others, were uttered unapologetically throughout the course of our time here. And you know what? SO not ashamed.

On the other hand, Forks is a very depressing, run-down little town. One little main road (interestingly enough, the 101), surrounded by a prison of trees, with dilapidated houses and shops and buildings scattered about like a Monopoly board once a five-year-old has thrown it on the floor after realizing it's the world's most pointless game. Yes, it's described that way (though, perhaps, not that exact phrasing) in the books, but seeing it all was a little bittersweet. Everyone we saw in town, we immediately pitied them for being stuck here, but at the same time were a little jealous of them and wanted to find out what it was like to live in a town where a book like Twilight is set.

We have a sickness. Severe and, I fear, irreversible.

But that was all at first. As soon as we saw our resort lodgings, we relaxed. It is, without a shred of doubt, the greatest place I've ever stayed. I love it so much (as Avaryl and Kim have not stopped hearing me proclaim), I can almost not stand it. We had a little apartment-like suite, right on the Quillayute River—simply the most beautiful location in Forks. There were only five other suites on the property, only two of which were in use.

It was serene and lovely. In celebration, our first night, we barbecued. Accompanied (responsibly) by an entire bottle of wine. Yum-O.

In the morning, starting off our full-day of Forks fun!, we relaxed, took our time, made breakfast and coffee, then headed out for Rialto Beach—just down the road from our hotel.

I've never enjoyed a beach so full of rocks and driftwood before. It was like retarded children let loose on their first playground. And their parents were stupid enough to let them use a camera!

Oh, the excitement. Plus, I found the raddest walking stick ever, so that baby is gonna be sanded, polished and carried around with me more often than necessary, in all likelihood.

Then we made our way to Sully's Drive-In, obviously the happenin' place in Forks. I resisted the urge to order the "Bella" Burger (with pineapples and special sauce!) 'cause I didn't want people to think I was some fan or something! I mean, embarrassing....... We then toted our little burgers and fries to the Quileute Reservation (that's right—where Jacob lives!), wandered our way to First Beach, located the perfect log (you know... the log!) and had our lunch.

Other than talking about Twilight, the only thing left to do was soldier over the mountain of driftwood (why people chop down trees when it is clearly falling from the heavens and washing up on shore is beyond me) and be thankful that there was no rain... just the grayest, saddest looking sky on earth.

I don't think we talked about anything but Twilight, to be honest with you. If we did, I don't remember it, so it doesn't matter. We were practically handed a gift-wrapped opportunity to talk about the books and the characters without shame or embarrassment and no other witnesses but our sad, obsessive little selves. And we opened that fool-package, right quick.

(You think this hurts to read, but imagine the pain of actually writing all this, not to mention the embarrassment of not being remotely embarrassed by it. We're all allowed a vice.)

The day rounded off with an excursion down the highway to the Hoh Rain forest. We drove, stopped, took pictures, harassed an elk (whom we lovingly named Laura—apparently they don't acknowledge you when you yell, "Hey! Elk!"), hiked down a mini-trail, and avoided paying any type of fee. Eat that, Olympic National Park rangers!

The great thing about road-tripping here is that there are so few things to do; there is no need to plan out the day to a T, no need to make sure you have enough time. Just go with the flow, and that's what we did. We spent the night in the apartment, soaking up our last night of comfort and warmth.

I'll say it again: The Quillayute River Resort is a STEAL! The greatest locale in the Pacific Northwest (not that I really know much of anything), and I will be coming back someday for a week of writing and reading and sitting around.

It's what Forks was clearly made for.

I guess the scariest part of our trip in terms of our insanity is how, the next morning, before saying "goodbye" to Forks, we went all over town, down most of the streets, in search of all the places "talked about" in the books.

We had to have pictures. We had to dub things appropriately, and we all had to agree. We also had to find the places we already knew existed, which, obviously, didn't take any searching so much as it took diligent coasting/camera abilities.

We found Bella's house near the woods (notice the red truck!), the hospital, the sporting goods store (we ignored the lack of the actual name), and Forks High School (above). I think of all the places, Jacob's house on First Beach (left) is my favorite, 'cause it's just too perfect. There's even a garage in the back!

We're sad, pathetic loiterers. I'm honestly surprised we weren't arrested. The simple fact we aren't actually IN most of these "hunting" pictures just goes to show you how truly lame our drive-by tendencies were. (And it doesn't stop in Forks, I'm afraid.)

I love this place. I love it. I love everything. No, I wouldn't want to live here—at least, I wouldn't want to raise a family here or grow old here or anything (too many trees!) but I want to come back all the time.

It's the feeling. What else can I say?

On the Road, Part I: The Rules of Subaru Tag

People in Oregon are nice. The people who are driving, the people who are walking past, the people who are pumping your gas. This is interesting, considering the intensity with which the cloud-cover can shift and how depressing the condition of so many buildings seem. A little state where developments and cities are rare.

The kids here must want to shoot their brains out.

The expanse of trees is breathtaking, and its strange to know it only gets greener the more north you drive. And if the people continue to get nicer, I may start freaking out a little.

Maybe its all just a facade for depression? Maybe it's just an ignorance about how terribly mean people can be just a few states southward? Either way, I think Europeans need to come to Oregon and learn a thing or two about customer service from the pump-guy at the Shell station off the 101. (But dudes, gas is effin' expensive enough without me having to tip the guys for pumping it -- which, of course, I do and will continue to do, 'cause duh... But still: I'm poor.)

Obviously our drive is meant for picture-taking -- we are desperate to not be skimpy on pictures. Here is me in the land of Stand By Me (actually, it's Shasta CA, but whatever -- the train tracks are there.) And there was some snow, too.

This place is all kinds of ready for our arrival.

Even the bottom of the Pacific Northwest is an entirely different country than California -- though NorCal tends to be... You know. People are courteous drivers. L.L. Bean and Northface and Dock Martin are the designer labels of choice.

And everyone drives a Subaru hatchback! (Hence our new road game, Subaru Tag -- Avaryl is sooooo winning.)

Our first day was pretty great, just to up Ashland, so I'm used to the drive. The very hospitable Chris Kong let us invade his little "cottage" and even got us comp tickets to see Altar Boyz at the Oregon Cabaret Theatre. The show is a fine satire of hip-hop and Catholicism. A fabulous night at the theatre, save for some retarded people.

Two great performances can't always make up for the dreadful ones. Oh well. C'est la vie. At least Chris was incredible, as to be expected.

Driving now, through the wilderness that is Oregon and oh-so-very-close to Washington. Headed directly up to Forks: an entirely different type of wilderness. Mr. Joe Gunn (reportedly) has so plainly asked, "Who goes to Forks?!" Yes. Who, indeed. Apparently Twilight-obsessed fan girls with too much time on their hands and an odd fascination with photo-opportunities.

People are going to think we're freaks, but you know what? WHO CARES! We'll just avoid the locals at all costs. But we are not ashamed. Future updates will further reveal this.

Two thumbs up for Oregon. Despite some places being a prime location for a pick-ax, slasher movie (what the hell is up with the Enchanted Forest?!? 'cause inquiring minds want to know!), the state is beautiful. Amazing what trees can do to spruce a place up.

Heh... see what I did there? Hey! Subaru! *smack*

An Open Letter to Rufus Wainwright:

photo by Mattias Clamer, via - added to this post after original publication

After all this time, after all this waiting, after all this psychological preparation, it strikes me as numbingly unsurprising that I resort to this outlet to reach out to you. Maybe it's more appropriate than I'm letting myself think.

I didn't get to meet you, despite my efforts. I didn't get to tell you all I wanted to, which was no measly "You were amazing." Because Fate had other plans, here it is: Bare, and deeply from the heart: Everything I could ever want to say to you (though I could probably discover more), that I would never (even if given the opportunity) be able to adequately verbalize. (Apologies in advance: I am a crazy person.)

Last night, at the Marjorie Luke Theater in Santa Barbara, I had the immense pleasure of hearing you sing your own songs live for the very first time. This is no small accomplishment; after almost 7 years of loving you, adoring your music, being inspired by your lyrics and moved by your miraculous voice, Fate had always worked against me to ensure that I could not see you. Whether it was a 104 degree fever, a choir concert on the same night, being out of town, being without transportation, or just finding out too late, I wasn't sure if I'd ever get to see you. I thought I was doomed to never experience your always comedic and lovably diva-esque presence for myself -- no shoddy bootleg recording would do forever.

Even seeing you perform Judy in LA, a football field away, your face projected on giant screens was only enough to stir up teary emotions of "Oh my gosh, he's right down there"... But they weren't your songs. They weren't the words and the music that had been fixtures in my life through so many years, and so many issues. Would I ever get to hear "Foolish Love" or "Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk" in person??

And finally I did. And Rufus, it was everything I had expected. I didn't think it would be possible for me to love you more, and yet... it came about with a surprising lack of effort.

You don't need an ego boost, but I am not in the business of lying, and it would be a lie for me to underplay what it is you mean to me -- what feelings seeing you sing these songs ignites in me -- and truly emphasizing your brilliance, because brilliance is what it is, and you are unparalleled. How can I express this enough?

When you opened with "Grey Gardens," I thought I would bruise my friend's hand from excitement; when you followed it up with "The Maker Makes" (and thoughts of Heath Ledger flashed through my mind), the tears just started to fall; when you burst out with "Beauty Mark" I thought I would pee my pants, and by the time you hit "Peach Trees" I thought I was going to faint. Then the cycle started over; very song thereafter brought forth some eruption of emotion that the poor middle-aged man next to me was not prepared to endure. He had no idea what he was getting himself in to by sitting next to me.

With every song you sang, some extremely genuine variation of "This is my favorite!" rushed from between my lips, and I found myself effortlessly following along with every word, silently moving my mouth as I took in every Rufus-inflection and every syllable of Rufus-poetry.

Listening to your music transports me. I hear "April Fools," one of my absolute favorites from the days of my young love for you, and I am a Junior in high school again: It's winter and it's cold and I'm sitting in my car in the school parking lot, waiting to be forced into class and soaking up every moment of excitement that the simple phrase of "Oh, what a shame that your pockets did bleed" pushes through me; I hear "The Consort" and I fall into a sleepy, meditation stupor, immediately seeing myself in the passenger's seat of my father's Explorer, heading over the Bay Bridge towards San Francisco through a sheet of falling rain and wishing the moment would never end.

Listening to your lyrics, despite the poetry that is not meant to be fully understood and the personal commentaries on a life I am by no means part of, it makes me feel as though I know you and understand you. I hear "Go or Go Ahead" and I think of your struggle with drugs, and the period of your life that I followed from afar, loving you and worrying about you and hoping that you would be happy, and simultaneously feeling astounded that a song so beautiful could come out of using crystal meth; I hear "Dinner at Eight" and tears come to my eyes, thinking of how terribly complex and heart-breaking your relationship with your father must be; I hear "Matinee Idol" and I feel as though you and I unite in our sadness at the loss of River Phoenix, another idol of mine, whose loss I did not feel (in my young age) until your song for him was already available to the world; I hear "11:11" and I know what true poetry is: It touches the soul and it inspires and I know -- I feel -- that "So patch up your bleeding hearts and put away your posies, I'm gonna have a drink before I ring around the rosies with you" is being sung directly to me. (This 'lyrics' section could go on for ages, so I'll leave it at that.)

Listening to your voice transports me to the highest echelon of musical experience. The passion of your voice at the opening (and, let's face it: during every second of) "Agnes Dei" forces my eyes closed and my head to swoon in response to what must be audio-ecstasy; the swoon of your voice on the words "dove" and "surrender" and "sin" in "I'm Not Ready To Love" cause an embarrassing rise in pleasure throughout my entire body; and the precision of your voice in "Between My Legs" when you're singing "I can't fake it" and the astounding power of your range in, well, every one of your songs (whether it's high in "Vicious World" or low in "This Love Affair"!) reassures me over and over that you are, without a shred of doubt in my mind, the most skilled singer/songwriter currently alive and working today.

What a rambling, mushy mess I am. But I told you I wouldn't lie, so mushy I must continue to be, even if slightly hyperbolic.

Rufus: I have been enamored with your voice since the moment I heard you for the very first time with "Complainte De La Butte" from Moulin Rouge in the spring of 2001; I have been addicted to your music the second "Poses" hit my ear in episode 16 of the second season of "Queer as Folk," and I was a goner the instant "Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk" came trickling over my car speakers the first time I put in your CD.

There aren't enough of your songs to sate my hunger for them. Even with 14 -- an entire album-full! -- songs on various soundtracks over the last 10 years, from The Myth of Fingerprints to Meet the Robinsons, there still isn't enough. Even with another full album's worth of unreleased recorded songs, another of guest appearances, and another two of unreleased, bootlegged live songs, I can't get enough. You could release a song-a-day for a century and I still think I'd be yearning for more.

Your music is magic to me.

You have been with me through everything: High school and college, friendships and family, and every note and lyric has stuck with me and filled me up in ways I know I can probably never really grasp myself. Until the day I die, you will be my favorite singer and the greatest artist in my world. I don't know what I would be today without you, who I would be. I shudder to think.

I will see you in concert again, and this time I won't let you get away so easily. I, of course, want all 7 of my CD inserts signed, and the posters and my autograph book, too, as well as a picture that can capture the moment forever. But even if all I can say is a resounding "Thank You" I will feel complete and honored to have been able to verbalize even just that to you.

Something tells me I wouldn't come off too well if all of this insanity came pouring out of me, though I'm certain you've experienced crazier.

So until I can tell you face-to-face: Thank you. I am so utterly happy that you are happy now, that you have found the love you've always wanted with Jorn, and that you are off to write your opera Prima Donna that has been waiting so many years to emerge. I will be there to see it in New York when it arrives.

You have meant the world to me.

Your most loyal and far-away devotee,
Stacy

Reservation Blues — Sherman Alexie

Picking up a new book can sometimes be a challenge, especially if it means acclimating yourself to a new author's voice, their style, their bad structural habits or overly detailed prose. The more you read, the easier it becomes to distinguish style, to discover the many varied echelons of being a Creator of Stories. Given this, in my opinion, there is probably no voice or style in contemporary fiction more poetic or easily identifiable than that of Sherman Alexie.

A Spokane Indian from eastern Washington (known most notably for his short story collection, The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven, which was later adapted into the film, Smoke Signals), Sherman Alexie has an uncanny ability to ignite words with such vivid tenacity towards imagery that opening up one of his books sometimes feels more like looking at a collection of paintings than reading words on a page. Plot is often simple—full of humanity and yet wrought with magical realism; there is nothing out of the realm of possibility for the characters of Alexie's world, whose dreams are merely extensions of day-to-day reality.

His novel, Reservation Blues, builds on to the lives of Thomas Builds-the-Fire and Victor Joseph, who are first presented in Tonto. Thomas is kind-hearted, but talks a little too much, and has stories for everything, which are sometimes true, sometimes not; Victor, along with his close friend Junior Polatkin, are usually drunk and/or causing some sort of havoc on the reservation or in Thomas' life.

But everything changes when Robert Johnson, a guitar player from the 20's who died in the late 30's, arrives on the rez with a magical guitar in hand, hoping to escape someone called 'The Gentleman' who has control of his soul and who once bestowed on him the power of Music. He passes his guitar to Thomas, who then gives it to Victor in exchange for his and Junior's help in starting up a band. This band is Coyote Springs, and despite the boys having close to no musical talent whatsoever, they hold nothing but the highest hopes of musical stardom, as well as a guarantee for drama.

Thus begins Alexie's tale of Indian dreams: some lost, some only just being discovered. With the help of two Flathead Indian sisters, Chess and Checkers Warm Water, the band takes a running leap across the States, free from the reservation but now facing the reality of the White Man's World.

Full of fantasy and dreams, imbued with wit and love, there is also an urgency in the sadness that lies within Alexie's story. The truth regarding the conditions of life on the rez, the place of religion in the saving of these Indian souls, the effect of alcohol on an Indian's sense of being, their families, their lovers... It all resonates with such power and honesty that Reservation Blues becomes so much more than a simple story of poetry, friendship and the desire for success. It is commentary on the American Dream and the limitations forced upon its earliest inhabitants, the pain that comes with accepting or transcending tradition, culture, Home and race.

Alexie uses all aspects of art in his writing: the music is there, between the lines and in the flow of his prose and poetry, and you soar when reading. The book is less about events than it is about art and language and cultural identity, so this read may not be for those who simply wish to be entertained. The humor is subtle and beautiful, but could easily go over some people's heads. The ending is a bit anti-climactic, but if your expectations for some sort of shocker are low, you'll probably handle the dramatic 'letdown' fairly well. Just take your time.

I'd recommend looking into one of Alexie's short stories to see if you enjoy is style. If you do, it is consistent throughout his work, so you're likely to enjoy Reservation Blues. If poetry and subtlety and a highly ethereal experience don't interest you and you just want some mindless action, skip this and go read The Da Vinci Code, again.

****/*****

Day — Elie Wiesel

Sometimes, when reading a book or watching a movie or experiencing any type of story art form, I find myself struggling between remaining objective and responding naturally to my personal feelings. If I say something is well done, that may naturally imply that I liked it; if I say that I didn’t like something, it may imply that I think it was badly done, or just plain awful. But reality is far more complicated.

Elie Wiesel’s Day (once entitled The Accident), the third and final book in his Night trilogy of memoirs, is causing some clenching in my brain. After reading Night some two years ago—which was by far the most resonating and heart-breaking of the three books—my entire mindset concerning the suffering and guilt associated with Holocaust survivors has shifted: witnessing that type of human destruction and atrocity on such an astonishing scale can rip the humanity right from a person’s core. Death becomes life.

Which leads us to The Question: “Is it ever possible for Holocaust survivors to create new lives for themselves without remembering their old ones?” In Day, Wiesel gives a brief glimpse of his life in New York City—many years after the war—and the struggles he faces connecting in love, feeling undeserving of life’s gifts and pleasures, being incapable of honesty to others, as well as himself… The list goes on and on. You cannot read two sentences without being reminded of the tragedy day-to-day life brings. Wiesel will remind you, constantly and unwaveringly, lest you forget.

The basic premise is this: Wiesel is struck by a cab and critically wounded. He welcomes death, but is refused it. Life is simply not worth living, but he can’t seem to stop doing it. As he remembers the events leading up to this moment and the time that follows—centered mainly on his “relationship” with Kathleen, a woman he in no way deserves—he philosophizes on the things in his past that make it impossible for him to move on with Life.

Simply put, I did not like this book. I did not enjoy it. I did not empathize. I did not have patience with it. But there was something that affected me. Good, bad, I don't know—essentially, it’s irrelevant, because I responded, and sometimes: That’s all that matters. It may not be enough, but it matters, nonetheless.

Although the book is well-written, his self-pity and self-loathing was too much for me to stand. I know this is unfair: I’ve read Night, I should know better. But I still couldn’t stop myself from despising him.

Then it hit me: This is his intention: To detach us from him, to push us away, to force us to look at him through eyes of judgment and hatred. It is how he looks at himself. It is how he believes others should look at him. And he does it unapologetically, which cannot have been easy.

The book is short, which is a relief; 109 pages of self-imposed suffering isn't so bad. The ending will leave you hanging, but at least it is wrought with symbolism. The best character in the book, arriving too late for my taste, is the voice of reason concerning Wiesel’s suffering. I would like to think that this person is none other than us—his irritated readers—having a chance to say what we’ve all been thinking for the last 106 pages. I’m paraphrasing here, but basically: Get over it.

I’m probably going to Hell, but my forced detachment will not let me escape the thought. I’m going to assume he got the message. I’ll also admit now that, in all likelihood, I’m probably not objective enough. Wiesel deserves far more credit than I’m giving him.

Not an enjoyable read, despite some enlightening moments, so it is not coming recommended. Do yourself a favor and read Night instead.

***/*****

Becoming [a] Hopeless [Romantic]

21 Valentine's Days. 0 Valentines. It would be stupid of me to think for a second that I'm the only one. God knows the world is full of lonely girls, almost relieved to be working on Valentine's Day, rather than sitting alone at home, eating peanut butter with a spoon and watching the last week of Oprah on TiVo.

This is one of many sad options that awaits me once I get off work.

And what a place to work! A movie theater. Showing 2 romantic comedies, no less. And I'm the one selling the tickets, so all smiling, blissful faces must first go through me. Seeing the couples is hard, kind of: they're cute and cuddly and the boy is paying like he's supposed to and willingly (we'll assume, for the sake of argument) seeing a Chick Flick, just for the chance to spend the pinkest day on God's meant-to-be-green Earth with his special honey. These are the older couples — ones my age and up. They don't bother me too much. No, they're nice and I wish them a chlamydia-free evening of love. No, no, the problem, dear children o' mine, is the 15-year-old "couples" who are on quadruple dates, calling home to make sure they're allowed to see a movie past 10 pm. These people make me sick.

Where was my movie-date on Valentine's Day in high school? Where was my greasy, teenage boyfriend? Why did I never get the chance to get home late after making out with a boy in a steamy car and smelling like cigarette smoke and booze while my father waits by the front door with a loaded shotgun?? Or even now, for that matter. What's up, Universe? Why the injustice? Haven't I been a good person — honest and fair? A good friend to animals and smushy babies and mean, undeserving strangers? These little hormone problems make me feel far older and beyond my years than I truly am; they make me realize that in the 6 years since I was 15, the development in my romantic life has been... not. And these prickly little teens probably aren't even virgins anymore.

Damn, cruel world.

But even the teen-fuck maniacs weren't the most unsettling part of my evening. On the contrary, I grasped desperately for the humor of their youth in romance, knowing that chlamydia is likely not far off in their future. And I hear the Herpes Fairy has no patience for midriff-tees and saggy pants. I'm just sayin'...

No, the unsettling part came in the form of girls — several of them — all separate, none of them together, arriving at different times and for different movies. Girls my age. Girls alone. Girls who are spending this Valentine's Day by themselves, enjoying a cute, happy movie... alone. And they arrived at my Box Office with smiles on their faces and a sincere goodbye of "Happy Valentine's Day." I imagine that after leaving me, they each went inside and bought a small popcorn and a small soda — enjoying their outing to its fullest and yet still not wanting the over-priced movie-snack to go to waste.

The only difference between me and these girls was that I was working and they were not.

They were not depressing. They didn't seem depressed. And I realized: That's me. I'm not depressed anymore. After 21 years of being genuinely alone, depression has almost disappeared. In its place is the resignation into hopelessness.

I saw myself in these girls, knowing that going to a movie alone never makes me feel lonely, and I do not get depressed at not having a boy to take me. But there is a pain there. And if these girls are anything like me, I saw that pain in them. 'Cause I felt it on my own body: the muscles under my cheekbones that are sore from forcing smiles onto a face that feels as though it rarely so much as grins; the dry skin and mutilated cuticles on hands that have forgotten what it feels like to be pampered, just for the sake of feeling and being pretty; a tragic ache up my back that comes from stasis and the physicalization of apathy.

More than anything, in seeing these reflections of myself, I'm reassured that this compliance with being alone doesn't mean we don't want to find Love. On the contrary, we probably want and deserve it more than anyone else. And without having any way of knowing, there is the feeling that we would never take advantage of it or abuse it or misunderstand it if it were finally to come our way and take us in its arms.

That is what makes a hopeless romantic. We want romance, we want love so hopelessly that we become conditioned to bide our time until it finds us.

But in the meantime, I only wish that all those girls could have found each other and enjoyed a Large Combo and chocolate candies together.

The Perks of Being a Wallflower — Stephen Chbosky

There are some books that only get better the more you read them; each time it reaffirms the reasons you loved it to begin with, but also you'll find new reasons—things you may have missed the first, second, or third time. However, there is something lost with each new read, something that can only be experienced the first time. For me, The Perks of Being a Wallflower is that a book, with a simplicity and emotional resonance that each time crawls in and nestles against whatever remnants still remain of my teenage heart.

Stephen Chbosky’s first novel, The Perks of Being a Wallflower, is the stunning coming-of-age story for the 21st century. It leaves blistering metaphors about innocence lost and not-so-subtle references to the biblical behind and focuses instead on just the inner-struggles of a young boy named Charlie who tries with all of his might to find a place where he belongs.

I've heard people claim that Perks is "too full of it's own emotional importance" to be taken seriously as a great work of fiction, and I admit to understanding why someone would think that... at first. But I disagree that this is a hindrance to the story; on the contrary, what Charlie goes through is not merely unrelatable fiction designed to entertain adolescents. Sounds corny, perhaps, and certainly clichéd, but every step that Charlie takes in discovering how he fits in and what makes him different manages to grip onto you and pull you effortlessly along, because it's real. This self-referential, narrator-to-reader relationship is a rarity in modern novels written for teenagers.

Charlie tells his own story here, and he does so through a series of letters that he writes to an unknown person—unknown, essentially, even to him. He explains that he heard good things about this person from someone, and he wants to write to him/her with the hopes that they will simply listen. No strings attached. His voice is young and fragile; his understanding of the world and himself is sadly naive; his kindness and compassion towards even the most terrible of people is inspiring. Charlie is brave, but is often a coward. He’s incredibly smart, but doesn’t quite get it. He knows how to read others, but doesn’t really know himself. He wants nothing more than friendship, but struggles with knowing what it really means, and how to deal with the pain of falling in love.

This may sound all too familiar; what coming-of-age tale doesn’t cover these themes? But there is something unique about Charlie’s story. Perhaps it is his sweetness and innocent view of the world. Perhaps it is his variety of friends—most notably Patrick, who is gay (and written by Chbosky in such a way that draws attention away from stereotypes, yet is simultaneously not afraid to show a “dark side” to young gay life), and Sam, who is a voice of reason and understanding throughout Charlie’s journey, and yet struggles with her own dilemmas and mistakes. Perhaps it is the fact that Chbosky doesn't shy away from the topics that are relevant to modern teenagers: drugs, sex, music, loneliness, depression, abuse, homosexuality, and young love.

For me, what takes Perks from being just another decent novel to one that's "nearly perfect" is how exactly it reflects me on a personal level: struggles, fears, and insecurities. As the title implies, Charlie’s story is all about what happens when you don’t participate; what life is like for those who sit on the sidelines; the benefits and struggles of sitting and watching and understanding, but never really being part of the experience.

That is my life. This book is me.

Like Hector tells Posner in Alan Bennett’s play, The History Boys:

“The best moments in reading are when you come across something—a thought, a feeling, a way of looking at things—which you had thought special and particular to you. Now here it is, set down by someone else, a person you have never met, someone even who is long dead. And it is as if a hand has come out and taken yours.”

That’s what The Perks of Being a Wallflower was to me when I was 16, and what it still is today. More than anything—more than the way Charlie is or how he views the world—it’s what people make him realize about himself; it’s finishing the book and realizing the mistake of living a life only for others… of never truly participating. Charlie learns, and to my surprise, I did too.

I recommend this book to anyone accepting of some melodrama (what teenager isn't an emotional mess who thinks no one understands them?) and personal self-reflection, though I feel there is something special about reading this book in high school—something that, otherwise, might be missed. If you are not in high school, you may not understand what it is that makes the story so great, though you would likely be touched in one way or another, if you are open to it. Every freshman high school student should read this book. Everyone should see the world through Charlie’s eyes.

*****/*****

In Memoriam: Heath Ledger

It's really only the people who have known me well for the last 2 or more years that can really understand how impossible this is for me to write successfully. Everything I've felt regarding Heath Ledger and what he's done for me with his work has been impossible to explain. At least, impossible to explain succinctly. So in the matter fitting post-Brokeback Mountain discussion, this will not be short.

To say I am still in a state of shock doesn't quite begin to express it. To say that I still can't really believe it's true would be an understatement. It feels as though time has stopped; nothing else is happening and no one else exists while my brain is trying to process — not only the event — but how to express how it makes me feel. Things like this don't happen. Young, successful artists don't just drop dead this way. NOT at the height of their career. Or, at least, none have for a while.

I am sitting in silence, in a class about Chicano Theatre, waiting to explode in a mountain of grief for Heath, his daughter, and the world who has lost — potentially — the greatest young Method actor since Marlon Brando. But an explosion doesn't come. The shock is too much. And waiting for the explosion that I know will be a doozy is more frightening than I can say.

Heath Andrew Ledger was born April 4, 1979 in Perth, Australia. His acting career was rather short-lived, breaking out as a star in America in 1999's 10 Things I Hate About You, which has resonated as one of the defining teen comedies of this generation. Everything that followed, though sometimes fluffy (A Knight's Tale) and poorly received (The Four Feathers, The Brothers Grimm), led Heath down a path to an array of vastly different and strikingly emotional roles in some really quality films. The Patriot, Monster's Ball, Lords of Dogtown, Brokeback Mountain, I'm Not There, and, soon, The Dark Knight. These are the roles he'll be remembered for.

That was the obligatory "in the career of..." portion of this post. I certainly couldn't leave out a few basic facts. On to my personal thoughts...

I "met" Heath Ledger in January of 2006. Met certainly isn't the right word, because I didn't introduce myself and there wasn't much talking going on. But I met him, as much as a fan amid an ocean of other fans can meet someone, getting his autograph, taking pictures (see left, with Michelle Williams), and telling him how much his performance had moved me.

The Santa Barbara International Film Festival honored Heath with Breakthrough Performance of the Year at the Lobero Theatre. And I was there, with my dear friend Jessie, to see it. (To read extensively about the event and see all the pictures, go to my old blog here.) It meant something to me, more than I can express. It meant something because Heath Ledger, as Ennis Del Mar in Brokeback Mountain, meant something to me beyond what words can describe.

After seeing Brokeback Mountain during its limited release in LA on December 7, 2005, the molecular makeup of my very being shifted and morphed. I had trouble explaining it then; I have trouble explaining it now. Heath created a character so sad, so lost, so genuine that he entered into my soul and took root there. That is not an attempt at poetry; that is exactly what happened.

His pain and the subtlety of his expression established Heath, in my eyes, as the next Marlon Brando: pained, emotional, struggling, but capable of tapping into a part of the human expression that is beyond most people's reach. When he lost the Best Actor Academy Award to Philip Seymour Hoffman, I felt as though I was the only person who knew it had been a mistake. What Heath had created was so unique, so fragile and so relatable on the most devastating scale that it is undoubtedly one of the greatest original performances in the last 20 years. That is no small task.

I knew then — I felt then — that although he had been brutally snubbed by the Academy, his time would come. He would make another mark on film that defied anything that came before it. He'd done it with Brokeback, he would do it again. I need not even express how terrible the reality of this truly is. It's possible, and likely, that Heath's performance as The Joker in The Dark Knight will be so breath-taking, so original, so mind-blowing that the Academy may recognize it despite his death. That is, of course, not important in the long-run. But in my mind, were he still alive, he would be headed to the Oscars with that performance anyway.

It is early yet. People are still finding out. I think the shock will grow. Hollywood and the world it touches will know and understand what has been lost here. I don't know what happened to Heath. I don't know how sad his life may have been — how anxious or alone or depressed he may have felt. He couldn't hold still, that I knew from seeing him be interviewed live. Sleeping pills, at this time, seem to be the likely culprit, and we'll know more as the days, weeks, months pass.

Is he destined to become this century's James Dean — lost and gone before reaching his full potential? Perhaps. Perhaps not. To me, this echoes River Phoenix (one of the acting loves of my life), who grew and grew, so close to proving a skill beyond any other actor of his time.

Either way, Heath Ledger will be remembered. He may have been young. He may have started as a teen heartthrob. But his performances are nothing to scoff at. Before the age of 29, Heath managed to create several career defining performances, Ennis Del Mar and, likely, The Joker being above and beyond the rest.

To Heath Ledger: You've grabbed and moved my soul in a way that it never will be again. You've shown me what an actor is capable of. You've illustrated the beauty of subtlety, the strength and impact of emotions. You've shown how dedication and creativity could resonate. I'll always wonder what you could have become, and how the world of film will be at a loss without you there.

love, support, and devotion always,
Stacy

(My heart goes out to Matilda Rose, Michelle Williams and all of Heath's family, friends, and fans. Best wishes and deepest condolences to all. God bless.)