The Counting Crows Give Me Hope

I have a milestone birthday approaching, and it's kind of freaking me out. 

Last night, in an attempt to prove I'm still hip, I went to a Counting Crows concert at the Roseland Ballroom with my friend Dennis. Adam Duritz, the lead singer, is one of my favorite performers and I was eager to see him work his magic on the mic again. I reflected on their music as we waited for them to start and realized that the first time I'd ever heard "Mr. Jones" I'd been in 6th grade. There could be no mistake about that: It was morning and I was getting ready to start the day at Space Camp in Huntsville, Alabama (I have never claimed to be cool), and one of our adult supervisors came into our dorm singing it at the top of her lungs. It's a vivid memory, but it gave me pause. Could that really be right? Goodness, these guys were OLD. 

Still rockin', crow's feet and all

Some research today confirmed my conclusion. The bad formed in 1991 - several years before I started 6th grade, actually - and the lead singer, who floored me again last night with his energy, passion, and pure rockstar appeal, is 48. Now 48 no longer seems to me to be outlandishly old - a sobering realization for me - but it's considerably above the range I typically associate with rock musicians. Most of his band must be right around that vintage as well, but they were still spectacular. In fact, I bet they are way more spectacular than they were in their 20's. One of the things I've always admired about the Counting Crows is their talent as musicians, particularly in an age where musical prowess is not a prerequisite for a career "performing" music. They use a huge range of instruments and are constantly experimenting by making their old stand-by songs into medleys, combining various musical styles, and improvising like crazy. Some bands perform their songs just the way they recorded them, making one wonder about the point of going to see them live if one can access the same performance on an iPod. But I'll bet the Counting Crows never play the same song the same way twice. And I'll bet they wouldn't be able to do that, and do it with such skill, if they were still young men.

Receding hairlines do not prevent us from rocking your world.

I left the concert with ringing ears and a hopeful buoyancy in my step. Maybe this new decade won't be so bad after all. 

Religion, Globalism, and Swearing with Rushdie and McCann

Though I always get excited to see authors I admire, I was particularly excited about last night's event: Salman Rushdie would be speaking with Colum McCann about his (Rushdie's) newest book Joseph Anton. Rushdie is someone I've long admired for his unparalleled ability to craft great, swooping stories while dazzling readers at the micro level with word play at the same time. McCann certainly doesn't yet have Rushdie's track record, but Let the Great World Spin - a National Book Award winner and the subject of a Legit Lit post) made me a solid fan of his, and I'm eager to read more. I would have anticipated an inspirational showing from either of these great men individually, and I figured that, together, they'd be better than the sum of their parts.

The evening kicked off with an introduction from Granta editor John Freeman. He started off every bit as awkwardly as he did when introducing David Mitchell just days before, and I felt a little sorry for him; he's clearly a master of the written word, but speaking those words seems to pose a different challenge. But then McCann piped up, objecting to Freeman's calling Rushdie "Mr. Salman Rushdie" when McCann himself had been introduced only as "Colum McCann." The audience tittered slightly as Freeman rolled his eyes and allowed that "Mr." McCann would be speaking with Mr. Rushdie, then was uninterrupted again as Rushdie pointed out, almost under his breath, "It's 'sir,' actually." (Rushdie was knighted in 2007 as part of the Queen's Birthday Honours.) This seemed to break the ice for Freeman, who laughed along with the rest of us, and later, stumbling over "misters" and "sirs" sighed, "This is really going to f*ck me up." The evening was off to a good start.

McCann seemed nervous at first. A New Yorker by way of Ireland, he punctuated nearly every other word with "em" as the conversation began. "So, em, I thought, em, well, em, what question will I, em, will I begin with, and then, em, I thought, I thought maybe, em, we could, em, start, em, with your father. What what what what was it like for you...?" Oh boy, perhaps this wasn't going to be as enjoyable an evening as I'd thought. But McCann seemed to find his stride quickly, and his speaking style, while remaining eccentric, settled into fluency. I was amused by his costume: a plain gray blazer, jeans, and a white button-down with a rather jaunty orange plaid scarf wrapped around his neck. In searching for an image of him for this post, however, I discovered that while the scarf itself varies, its presence seems to be an important ingredient in his signature look. He consulted a small, brown notebook throughout the evening and seemed a bit jumpy, but jovially so.

Rushdie wore a taupe suit with a white checked shirt underneath and, amusingly, maroon socks. He seemed much more at ease than McCann, an attitude befitting his many years of experience and allegedly considerable ego, though he did have a habit of fiddling in his left coat pocket from time to time with the hand that wasn't occupied by the microphone. He has a white goatee and a ring of black hair surrounding a very bald, shiny pate. His most distinguishing feature is his right eyebrow, which juts up at an almost impish angle, making him look like he's constantly amused. And he is very, very funny - he made references to Monty Python and, in regard to a disguise he once wore, deemed himself "gorgeous" in a wig. His smooth British accent contrasted with McCann's perky brogue as they discussed Joseph Anton (Rushdie's pseudonym during the decade he was in hiding, a construction of the first names of favorite authors Joseph Conrad and Anton Chekov) and numerous other provocative and entertaining topics.

Of course, religion was explored thoroughly. Rushdie was raised by a father who was more of a scholar of Islaam than a believer; Rushdie pointed out that most atheists are obsessed with the idea of God. He also identifies as an atheist, though has no objection to people practicing their beliefs in private, and he did tell McCann that, as writers, he was sure they both understood that "there's a thing in [people] that is not just flesh and bone." Discussion of the fatwa was also inevitable. I was a bit surprised that we didn't have to go through a metal detector when entering the theater, and there didn't seem to be any security. When McCann asked about the current threat to Rushdie, the older man asserted that "those days are gone," though allowed that there are certain countries he still cannot visit. McCann made a crack about taking Rushdie on the subway, and Rushdie countered that he takes the subway all the time, as, after all, there are times when one simply cannot get a cab. "Wow, that's fantastic!" McCann exclaimed. "No, it's just taking the subway," said Rushdie mildly.

I've never read any of Rushdie's non-fiction, and it was strange to think about this author, who I associate with magical realism, writing about his own life. But the memoir does sound a bit like a novel - at least the part he read aloud for us, anyway - because it's written in third person. Rushdie said he tried writing in first person and didn't like the resulting test, and that it was just easier to "turn the lens on himself" this way. Rushdie felt sharply criticized by the British media, particularly during the first months of the fatwa, and said that people were making up versions of him all over the place so it was nice to have his own chance to invent a version of himself, though his is factual. I can't imagine what it must have been like to be in hiding for ten years. Rushdie said that the hardest thing to convey to people is "the idea of duration" because people understand a moment of crisis, but it's harder to extend that comprehension when the crisis lasts for a decade. McCann pointed out that Rushdie looks younger now than he did in his 40's due to the stress of the experience, and Rushdie agreed whole-heartedly. That, he said, was the reason there are no pictures in the book. "I looked like sh*t." he said. "It's appalling." He maintains that being a writer saved him. "Writers are used to sitting in a room, looking out the window, wondering what the f*ck to do," he said. (I was delighted that someone who can use English with more grace and skill than almost anyone on the planet was not above the frequent use of casual profanity.)

Rushdie is a notorious social butterfly, and it was rather titillating to hear about how he'd meditated with Allen Ginsburg, played ping pong with Jonathan Safran Foer, argued about Wodehouse quotations with Martin Amis, commiserated with Ian McEwan about their mutual struggles getting published, sent manuscripts to Christopher Hitchens, and spent a weekend with Kurt Vonnegut. It felt, on some levels, like name dropping, but I reminded myself that this was his social circle, after all; of course he's going to use their names. What else would he call them?

"For Beth - With all best wishes"

I most enjoyed the conversation that circled around the craft of writing. Rushdie loves poetry, not just as a genre but because he believes that one can get lazy writing prose, churning out "meat and potatoes sentences" (which have their place, but shouldn't be relied upon too heavily). Poets, he says, really pay attention to language, and he reads several poems each day to remind himself to do the same. He doesn't write poetry himself, however, because it scares him. McCann said that each time he finishes a novel, he worries that he's out of stories, sitting back and thinking, "I'll never be able to do that again." (This from a young author who has already written eight novels and short story collections.) He asked whether Rushdie has every experienced this feeling, and Rushdie responded without hesitation, "Every time." But, he added, "it doesn't show up if you don't plug away at it." You've got to just jump back in and work, and something always comes. As the author of 28 novels, major essays, and collections, I feel confident in trusting him on this.

Despite his spellbinding talent for storytelling, reviews for Joseph Anton have been somewhat critical. Rushdie said that he cut 200 pages from it before publication, but most critics agree that it is still far too long. The popular opinion seems to be that there are gems in it, but that his ego outshines them and makes the whole thing somewhat off-putting, and there is speculation that Rushdie's eye for effective content, while keen for writing fictional stories about made-up characters, is somewhat clouded when it comes to writing about himself. And Joseph Anton contains lots and lots of name-dropping. Each person at last night's talk got a free copy, so I will probably at least read part of mine; the beginning, it seems, is fascinating and superbly wrought.

As we lined up for the signing afterward, I was distressed to see that McCann did not seem to have a table set up. I asked an employee, and sure enough only Rushdie was scheduled to do a signing. I was emboldened by memories of my disappointment at the end of David Mitchell's talk last week. I hemmed and hawed for a few minutes, then I asked my friend Jeremy to hold my place in line and made my way up to the side of the stage where McCann was chatting with someone. When he finished, I tremblingly blurted out that I was a big fan and knew he wasn't doing a signing but if it wasn't too much trouble I'd really appreciate it if he'd sign the book I'd brought if he didn't mind. He was happy to oblige, and we chatted a bit as he scrawled a message and his name on the title page. My interaction with Rushdie was less interactive, as I was too nervous to do anything more but squeak "thank you," and flee. Jeremy, however, chatted and laughed with Rushdie (who had a glass of whiskey on the rocks perched on the corner of the table) for a few moments. Jerk.

I am less an unconditional fan of Rushdie than I was yesterday morning after seeing this talk and doing some research. But there's no question that he is a man to be enthusiastically read and admired. And I'm grateful for the ways McCann said Rushdie has inspired him, and many other young authors, who are using gorgeous language of their own to tell the important stories that explore what it is to be human and make me feel more alive.

Almost Marathon Time!

Yesterday afternoon, I went for my second-to-last "long" run of this training season. I'm in taper mode - though my legs don't really believe it after this morning's intervals - so all of my workouts are getting shorter. Instead of the usual 18-20 miles for my long run, yesterday I did just 13, and next weekend I'll do only 10. (Trust me, these seem like small numbers when you're training for a marathon.)  It hadn't really sunk in that the race was really all that close until I got to Central Park, three miles from my apartment, and saw a series of flags like the one below lining the lower part of the running path:

After a bike ride on Saturday, Ed had mentioned that he saw bleachers set up by where the finish line will be.   I heard him, but it didn't really register. Seeing these flags lining the part of the park that will signal the end of the race, and the rows of port-a-potties and bleachers already set up, however, made me feel sort of quivery. In exactly two weeks, I thought, I'll be actually running this thing. I sure hope I'm ready.

One very encouraging piece of news is that my parents, who were planning a trip to NYC sometime this fall anyway, decided to come the weekend of the race. My brother and his wife will also be joining us from DC. It helps a lot to see familiar faces along the course, and I'm looking forward to seeing the whole crew near the finish line and celebrating with them afterward.

New York Road Runners, the club that organizes the marathon, is sending out daily emails to registered runners by now. One of their coaches wrote that, at this point, "the hay is in the barn," meaning that there's not much more we can do to train anymore; now it's all about getting good nutrition and making sure to rest up while still staying limber. That's partly comforting and partly alarming. Have I done all I can to prepare for this race? Probably not, but apparently it doesn't matter at this point. All I can do is try to think positively and think about how good it's going to feel to get to the part of the park where I can see those orange flags on November 4th.

Delighted and Devastated by David Mitchell

A few years ago, I was browsing the shelves at a clearance sale in a bookstore. All prices were heavily discounted as the store was going out of business, so instead of going in with a clear idea of what I wanted to buy, I was doing much more meandering than usual. A book called Black Swan Green caught my eye - probably because of the strange title - and I picked it up when I saw that the accolades of both book and author (Booker Prize finalist, best seller, best book for young adults, etc.) I added it to my Buy pile. I generally do meticulous research before selecting a book to read - life is short and chunks of it should not be dedicated to reading bad fiction - so I come across few books in this random way. But looking back, it feels like providence, because Black Swan Green was my introduction to the truly monumental talent of David Mitchell.

This seemed a fitting picture

I should, nay will, do a Legit Lit post about Black Swan Green, as well as The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet, the other Mitchell book I've read, but for now I will wrench myself away from my urge to gush about his spellbinding skill and describe, instead, the experience of seeing him speak last night at Symphony Space. The event was one of the Selected Shorts series in which a lauded author selects short stories written by other authors and explains why they are fantastic, then steps back to let an actor read them to the audience. First, however, John Freeman, the editor of a magazine called Granta about new writing - which I must investigate - introduced Mitchell. He was an awkward speaker, and his poor phrasing took away from the loveliness of his words, unfortunately. Then Mitchell took over the podium and the atmosphere shifted from squirmy to glowing within a few sentences. He was tall and very thin with short-cropped hair, and wore a green t-shirt, a too-big blazer, and jeans. After thanking everyone at Symphony Space and declaring that his head would be large enough to exceed the baggage restrictions on his flight back to London after Freeman's introduction, he held out a few papers and sort of squinted at them, reading verbatim that he was supposed to discuss some of his favorite authors in 2 to 3 minutes. He expressed his relief, stating that it's much easier to talk about authors than to introduce one's self (and that stuff is all on Wikipedia anyway), then launched into a rhapsodic adulation of Anton Chekov, Tolkein, Isaac Asimov, and Mikhail Bulgakov. He practically knocked over the podium in his enthusiastic promotion of Independent People, by Halldor Laxness. Then he recounted reading Ursula Le Guin as a boy (he still finds her to be sublime) and being filled with the desire to write because "you want to do to others what's just been done to you," to write a book so captivating that "the room vanishes."

If you've read any of Mitchell's work, and I can't recommend strongly enough that you do, you'll know instantly that here is a man who has a nearly unprecedented way with words. However, he seemed to be struggling sometimes to find the right word, and this hesitancy was compounded by the unbridled joy evident in his voice and gestures as he talked about writing he loved. I had a hunch that this wordsmith couldn't possibly be searching for the right word - his overall eloquence was too great for that - and I recalled that the protagonist in Black Swan Green has a stutter. A bit of research today confirmed my suspicions that Mitchell himself suffered from a stutter as a child. I don't think the casual observer would have made the connection, though; if his difficulties with speech were as bad as Jason's, he's come so far that he comes off as someone lovably bumbling instead of a sufferer of a speech impediment.

For his short stories, Mitchell selected "Vanilla Bright Like Eminem" by Michel Faber and "The Burning Palms" by Claire Keegan, and both were brought spectacularly to life by actors Daniel Gerroll and Patricia Kalember. Mitchell read his notes from a black Moleskine notebook. When he described Keegan's writing, he seemed hardly able to contain his admiration for the way she put words together to convey meaning far deeper than their individual definitions. He read us a short sentence from the first part of the story, then twittered, "She packs so much into this little suitcase [meaning the sentence] and then, blaugh [estimation of spelling; word accompanied by exploding gesture made by hands], it just...spills meaning and implications and resonances..." He followed this with a happy sigh.  Then, of another sentence, "'...rain dripping on the rhubarb leaves.' You can just hear the drops in that sentence, can't you?" He tapped the microphone with a finger several times, murmuring dreamily,"drip, drip, drip." If Mitchell wasn't an author, he should be teaching poetry to sullen youths, as there's absolutely no chance of their being able to remain less than enchanted by the art of the written word after three minutes with this man.

After hearing the short stories, we were treated to a discussion between Mitchell and Freeman. We learned that Mitchell writes a long, thorough biography for every one of his characters before beginning a novel, which explains why his characters are so astoundingly three-dimensional and also why it takes him three or four years to write each book. He said that events from their lives often work their way into his books, though he's never had one of these biographies turn into its own book. Freeman commended Mitchell for the breadth of time periods, settings, and genres covered by his books. When asked about his vision of the movie version of Cloud Atlas as compared with the book he wrote by the same title, he laughed that he was really glad the director had re-imagined so much of it because a film made to follow his book exactly "would suck." The movie comes out in just a few days. We watched the trailer, and then one last actor (wonderful Campbell Scott) read a chapter from the book that took the form of a letter written by an irreverent  witty, gay composer in the 1930's whom I'm devastated I'll never meet. It was, he was mind-blowing. I must read this book immediately.

I've written a lot about being delighted by David Mitchell. Now for the devastation in the title of this post: because he flew back to the UK immediately after the talk, he did not do a book signing. I was crushed, and ordered something very unhealthy at the diner we went to afterward, hoping smother my pain in french fries and American cheese while Ed tried very hard to make cheerful conversation, even offering to sign my books for me while feigning a charming, bumbling British accent.

So David Mitchell, if you stumble across this post some day, reach out. Let's make a deal in which I get one of your signed books and you can have...my firstborn? It would be a fair trade to own a book signed by a writer with as titanic a talent as yours.

On a Boat!

The staff at my office is pretty small, and there are even fewer of us - just four - who are 30 and under. Of those four, one is a crabby part-time receptionist who seems uninterested in being friendly or doing her job. So when it was decided that we should do something youthful(ish) and social together, there were only three takers: Lindsay, Rishara, and me. Lindsay is a school psychologist who does our standardized testing, and Rishara works directly under our office manager as she saves up money for med school. We were supposed to go out for margaritas a while ago, but it never worked out, and so we were in limbo until Lindsay found a deal on Living Social* for a $10 "party cruise." We all bought vouchers and headed over to the East River after work last night, unsure what to expect.

Our fair vessel was called the Cabana. I'd gone home to change and so made my way east by myself, and when it looked like the bus I was riding might not get me there on time, I hopped into a cab for the last few blocks. This turned out to be unnecessary, as the advertised push-off time of 7:00 was delayed by about half an hour, for some reason. There were two floors on the boat, and we sat at a table on the lower one because Rishara gets a bit seasick and we thought the rocking might be minimized there. We watched the DJ in amusement as he enthusiastically played song after song to a dance floor populated only by dancing dots of colored light. There was a bar, too, but few people visited it. There were only about 20 other people on the boat anyway - I guess fall isn't really the peak of cruising season. Just when I'd despaired of our going anywhere, a horn somewhere above us gave a blast and we watched the dock start to slip away.

The ride itself was nice, though I was glad we paid only $10 for it. We went south, and were treated to views of the Empire State and Chrysler Buildings on the right and Brooklyn on the left. We went under several bridges, the circled the Statue of Liberty before heading north back to where we started. All told, it took about 2 hours. The views were nice, but the boat itself didn't offer much of a party. Exactly one couple ventured onto the dance floor for one song, and then the male half of the couple returned to the dance floor later for a few minutes of meditative, solo gyrating. The DJ bravely kept pumping clubby beats into the room, however, and the bartender sort of bobbed his head now and then as he served drinks to the few customers. Rishara was the sole purchaser from our group. She got a small cup of Coke for $3. It was fun, and I enjoyed seeing New York from the water, but I was glad when we pulled back into the dock. It was getting late, and my throat was sore from yelling over the music. 

I think a party boat would be a lot of fun if you went with a big group of friends. I enjoyed looking out the windows and chatting with Lindsay and Rishara, too. But if we had been drawn more by the party and less by the cruise, we would have been disappointed.

For the uninitiated: Living Social is just another one of many companies that offers special deals and discounts on services. You can either browse their website or sign up for a daily email to find out about what they offer. Usually, they're discounts on haircuts, massages, and spray tans, but sometimes there are deals for restaurants and events, too. We got tickets for this boat cruise for half of what they're supposed to be.

Legit Lit: City of Thieves

How I love a good black comedy! There's something immensely satisfying about laughing at bleak situations - perhaps it makes them easier to cope with. David Benioff's superb City of Thieves certainly has the "black" covered. It takes place in the dead of winter in Russia during World War II. Its hero is Lev, a young man living along in Leningrad after his father has been arrested and his mother and sister have fled. Like everyone else in the city, he's starving. And then he's arrested and told that he and fellow prisoner Kolya will have the opportunity to perform an impossible feat in exchange for their freedom. If they fail, they will be executed. Yup. Black. But here is where things start to get too ludicrous not to make you giggle: the pair is charged with finding a dozen eggs, desperately needed to bake a cake for the colonel's daughter's upcoming wedding.

Who says you can't judge a book by its cover? The image that adorns the outside of this novel captures the tone of the tale perfectly. Most of the space is occupied by an expanse of white snow and a black sky. The only other color that jumps out immediately is the blood red used for the author's name and some underscoring. Two tiny figures, looking isolated and cold, trudge past a skeletal tree. It looks bleak and hopeless. But then, if you look very carefully, you notice that the pair are walking toward a tiny chicken, perched nearly out of sight on the horizon. In this picture, it's nothing more than a white speck, but trust me, it's there. The tone of the image changes instantly the moment you see it. The absurdity of a pair of nearly grown men pursuing a chicken in the middle of a winter's night makes the whole image turn from desolate to humorous. And the dark situations Lev encounters during his desperate, madcap adventures with the inimitable Kolya - if I could have a beer with any literary character, Kolya would be among the finalists - which include starvation, illness, cannibalism, injustice, and forced prostitution, are absurd as well. Benioff masterfully relates grim situations with an impossible cocktail of grave respect and buoyant levity that makes horrifying Stalin-era Russia a backdrop for a thrilling, entertaining, page-turner. The writing is buttery-smooth and vivid. You won't like the ending of this book, mostly because it has one.

Another really interesting aspect of this book is the guessing game you'll find yourself playing at the beginning and at the end of it. Benioff begins the book with a short chapter about going to interview his Russian grandparents about their experiences during the siege of Leningrad.  His grandmother refuses to talk abotu it, but his grandfather, whose name is Lev Beniov, reluctantly agrees to answer some questions. And then the story begins, with the introduction of the main character, Lev Beniov. OK, (you'll think to yourself), this is the grandfather's story. But "Beniov" is pretty darn close to "Benioff."  Is this narrator - who disappears after the first chapter and reappears only at the tail end of the book -just a fictional creation, or could Benioff be sharing his real family history, here? But the events in the book seem too unbelievable to have actually occurred. Did he invent it, or is he simply sharing his grandfather's story? (I know the answer, but I won't tell you.)

Not that this should convince you to read his book more than anything I've already written, but you should know that David Benioff is pretty handsome, too.

Two-Play Play-by-Play

During her visit, Ed's mom treated us to two plays. Both had small casts (four actors apiece) and famous appearances (Paul Rudd, Ed Asner, and Jake Gyllenhaal). Both had innovative sets. Both had funny moments, though were, overall, sobering pieces. But I'd recommend only one of them.

Grace, a play about religion, was fantastic. Steve (Paul Rudd) and Sarah, a fundamental Christian couple, have just moved to Florida from Minnesota to open the first of what they hope will be a chain of Christian-themed hotels. Sarah, lonely in her new home while Steve works all day, eventually befriends Sam, her brilliant, lonely, injured (physically and mentally), and initially hostile neighbor. The drama escalates when the investor who promised to back Steve's venture fails to come through with the money just as Sarah's friendship with her neighbor is causing her to question her relationship with Steve. The play starts with three corpses onstage, then moves backwards for a few minutes so that the audience sees each person being shot, though the murder's motives are not clear. So instead of wondering how the play would end, I spent a tense 90 minutes trying to figure out why it ended that way. The script for this play was excellent. Each character was fully developed and distinct. The performances were all so outstanding that I couldn't decide which actor was best. One of the most interesting parts of the play was that there was only one set, though it represented two different apartments. We could see Sam in his apartment in the beginning cursing at the Christian music Sarah blared through the wall as she folded clothes only feet away from him. It was really interesting to see the action that usually would not have happened at all but rather been alluded to in lines scattered throughout. Also, the whole set slowly rotated so we could see it from all angles, and when time began to move backwards, the direction of the spinning would reverse. Very cool. This play was a hands-down winner.

I wish I could say the same about If There Is, I Haven't Found It Yet. The acting, again, was superb, and the story was compelling, on paper at least. The characters were George, a distracted father who is so consumed by writing a book about the effects of global warming that he has no time for his family; Fiona, a frazzled mother who teaches high school and misses her husband; and their obese, fifteen-year-old daughter Anna who is bullied and miserable at school and ignored by her busy parents. When George's deadbeat, profane, lovable brother Terry (played by Gyllenhaal) arrives to stay for a while, he immediately sees the mess the family is in and rather awkwardly befriends Anna. But he is an inexpert parent, and she has difficulty interpreting his unexpected kindness; she is initially confused and hostile, then grateful, then too attached, and at one point even attempts to kiss Terry. Confused and upset, Terry argues with Fiona and leaves the house, abandoning Anna. He later leaves town without saying goodbye. Meanwhile, Anna's depression is further fueled by her parents' separation, and she makes a desperate move. In the end, all the characters are working towards healthier relationships with each other.

Somehow, despite all this drama, If was a very, very slow play. The biggest fault, I think, was the lack of character development, which was rather surprising in a play with only four characters. Each of them got tons of stage time, but I felt that, while I understood their relationships with each other, I didn't really get a good sense of who each was as an individual. It was difficult to sympathize with, and therefore care about, any of them. Ed's mom commented that she'd found If much  more depressing than Grace. I thought this was interesting, because Grace ended with a triple murder whereas If ended with redemption. I agree with her, though. Grace somehow seemed more uplifting despite its grim ending. It was just better all around.

On thing If did have going for it, though, was the staging. In the beginning of the play, all of the props and scenery were stacked in a giant, messy pile in the middle of the stage. Rain came down from the ceiling into a moat that separated the stage from the audience. At the beginning of each scene, the characters would grab whatever props they needed from the pile - tables, chairs, etc. - put them in place, and use them. Then, as each scene ended, they'd shove the prop into the moat or into another place onstage. The building chaos on the stage mirrored the disintegrating state of the family. The stage also flooded during the most dramatic scene due to an overflowing bathtub, and the actors spent the last ten or so minutes of action sloshing around in ankle deep water. I thought this depiction of crisis was an interesting allusion to George's constant worry about the melting of the polar ice caps. Like Grace, If also played with the idea of multiple rooms being represented on one stage. For instance, when Anna rushed home after a traumatic experience and locked herself in the bathroom, we got to watch her curled up on the floor while her parents and Terry fought around her. She was there in the midst of them, but no one went to comfort her even though they were practically tripping over her. I thought this was pretty effective staging.

Despite the redeeming qualities present in If, I still don't think I can recommend it in good conscience. Grace, however, should not be missed.  

Highway Robbery

On Friday night, Ed, his mother, and I were standing on a busy corner near Grand Central Station trying to flag a cab. We'd been trying for ten minutes. I was on one side of the street and Ed and his mom were on the other, but all of the cabs that went by were either gypsy cabs (illegal), off duty, or occupied. We had dinner reservations in 10 minutes, and the subway was not an option. Finally, Ed's mom gave up on the yellow cabs and flagged down one of the pedicabs that was pedaling by. A minute or two later we were squashed in the seat behind a friendly cyclist, on our way at last.

It was sort of fun, really, if a bit cramped and bumpy. It was a relief to be moving at last, and our driver turned over his shoulder to chat and joke with us at red lights. We sympathized with him on the uphill sections and cheered on the downhills. We pulled up in front of our restaurant after about ten minutes and piled out, happy to have arrived in a somewhat timely manner.

This is where things got ugly.

Ed had either read the sign on the side of the cab or had heard somewhere that the rate was a steep $10 per person, plus $1 per block. A cab would have been cheap, in comparison, but since there were none to be had and this guy had gotten us to our destination, Ed assembled the wad of bills stoically.

"It's a million dollars," the guy said, jovially.

"This is a million dollars," Ed replied in kind, handing him the money with a smile.

Our driver's face instantly turned stony. "You know how much you owe me, right?" he asked, suddenly seeming almost threatening. He pulled the sign off the side of the cab to wave in Ed's face, and we saw that Ed's rate was correct, but that we would be charged per person. So what would have been a pretty expensive ride anyway was in fact going to run us about $125. Seriously.

There was no way out of it; Ed's mom took the blame because it was her idea, and Ed took the blame because he hadn't checked the rate more carefully. Our driver took off with his exorbitant fee, and we went into the restaurant poorer and wiser. I learned after a few minutes of online research that this kind of thing happens all over the city with pedicabs. Apparently, drivers are allowed to charge whatever they want as long as the rate is posted, but they downplay the fact that they're going to charge per person until it's time to pony up the fare at the end. So be warned, fair readers.

In other news, I will be quitting my job as a learning specialist to become a pedicab driver.  

Legit Lit: House of Sand and Fog

First, a critical disclaimer: This book is seriously, seriously troubling. It will gnaw at your soul and leave your gasping. I saw the wonderful movie version, starring Jennifer Connelly and Ben Kingsley, several years ago, and even though already I knew everything that was going to happen in the book, I was still in tears as I turned the last few pages. It is wrenching the way a Shakespearean tragedy is. So why should you read it? It will make you want to bury your face in a pillow and howl, but it is also a book that presents very authentic conflicts in a balanced, fair way that is all too rare. In most rivalries, it's not terribly hard to recognize the side that most appeals to you, even if you can empathize with both parties. I defy any perceptive reader to decide who is right at the end of House of Sand and Fog. Still not convinced you should get into it? Let author Andre Dubus III say it better than I can: "The truth is, life is full of joy and full of great sorrow, but you can't have one without the other." This book is full in equal measure of beauty and grief, and without either of those qualities it would not feel like life. Having plenty of both, it does.

The storms in this novel rage around a house. It belonged to Kathy, a recovering addict who has finally managed to get her life back together. Her father left it to her in his will, and she's been clean for a while and cleans houses to support herself. She pays what is owed on the house, but due to a filing error, the city evicts her because they claim she owes them for its mortgage. It is bought on auction by Behrani, a former Iranian colonel who had to flee the country with his family for political reasons. Despite his education, work experience, and legal status, no one will hire him in the United States for the kind of work he's qualified to perform, so he struggles to make ends meet by working at a gas station by night and on a road crew by day. He uses all his savings to buy the house and moves his wife and son there with plans to renovate and sell it, then use the profits to do the same to a larger house. By rights, Kathy never should have lost the house, but when she did Behrani bought it fair and square. Both have followed the rules, but,  obviously, only one party can have the spoils. During the eviction process, Kathy meets a cop named Lester who ends up falling in love with her and joining her crusade to get the house back. Things quickly spiral out of control. The story slowly starts to tear the seams of the expected, and the rip grows faster and faster until chaos reigns and only frayed ends of sanity are left. The ever-faster unfolding of the plot is magnetic. Near the end of the book, I read a few pages on the train during my morning commute, hurried to my office, and read while I waited for and rode up on the elevator. I felt a bit ridiculous - who needs diversion during the 90 seconds it takes for an elevator to arrive? - but I couldn't put it down.

Kathy, Behrani, and Lester all take turns narrating chapters. I found it a bit difficult to relate to Lester; he was sympathetic, but he didn't resonate completely with me. I wonder whether I'd have read him differently if I were male. I found myself easily able to identify with both Kathy and Behrani, on the other hand. Each seemed, in my mind, to have an equally solid case. At the end of each of Kathy's chapters, I was always pulling for her, but then I'd read a chapter narrated by Behrani and find myself swayed to his side. It's tough to read a book that leaves you agonizing over who should "win" when you hate to see either party lose. While I certainly didn't like some of the things Kathy and Behrani did, particularly towards the end as things fell apart, I could completely understand what caused their actions and am not confident that in the same situation with the same profile I wouldn't have done the same, reprehensible things.

House of Sand and Fog is not a beach read, and it's not a book to begin if you are short on time or looking for something light or uplifting. But those who are not afraid of a provocative story that makes them wrestle with gritty dilemmas like addiction, love, bureaucracy, status, family, culture clashes, expectations, immigration, and justice should waste no time in getting their hands on this gem.

Marathon News

There are 32 days left until the marathon, which is both exhilarating and a bit scary. Today, I found out the following information:

1) My bib number will be lucky 39,208. There will be 46,999 other bibs bouncing on all sides of me.

2) My wave will start the race at 10:30. This means I'll barely have gotten warmed up by the time some of the pros are starting to cross the finish line. It also means that, barring disaster, I should be finished before 2:30. If it were up to me, I'd get the ball rolling a little earlier, but at least a late start means I won't have to worry about being too cold. I'm part of the third wave, and there will be one more wave after mine starting at 10:55.

3) Race highlights will be broadcast on ABC from 4:00 to 6:00 P.M. nationwide. While the only way I'll be part of any highlight reel is if I get maimed by a falling tree branch in the park or end up running right next to Christie Turlington for a while (she's one of the celebrities running this year), it may be interesting for people who have never seen the marathon before to tune in. Even a few minutes should give you a sense of the scope of this eveng. It's pretty phenomenal.

Legit Lit: The History of Love

I could describe this novel to you in ways that make it sound like an anthology of the same, tired old cliches. I could tell you that the lives of the two narrators seem unconnected, and you would know that they were destined to meet. I could further tell you that one of them, an old man, is trying to escape a troubled past, and that the other, a fourteen-year-old girl, seems in every way his opposite except that her past is troubled, too. I could tell you that both feel very alone in the world. You'd be yawning at this point, predicting that they're destined to fill the holes in each other's lives. All of that is true (sort of), but so is all of this: First, the author, Nicole Krauss, is married to legendary, wonderful, awe-inspiring Jonathan Safran Foer. How cool is that? Further, Leo Gursky, the old man, is one of the best characters I've read in a long time. His poignancy is matched only by his good humor. His unromanticized observations about the world around him and his own aging process are sharp, true, and often humorous. Alma, the girl, is an equally fascinating case. She wrestles compellingly with the typical questions that plague teenage girls - many of which have to do with her appearance and her relationships with boys - and more unusual issues such as how to move on after the death of your father, especially if your mother can't, how to persuade your brother to be a normal kid and shake this conviction that he is one of 36 people on Earth chosen specially by God, and how to survive in the Arctic/desert/rain forest/ocean should you happen to find yourself there. The plot thickens.

And it gets better: Leo wrote a manuscript as a tribute to his childhood love when he was a young man in Poland, passed it on to a friend with whom he lost touch, then hid in the woods when the Nazis invaded his village and killed everyone they could find. He was the sole survivor. After the war he left for America, searching for his sweetheart, also named Alma, after whom he named every female character in his manuscript, The History of Love. Unbeknownst to Leo, someone had published his manuscript after all, and teenaged Alma is named after Leo's long-lost Alma from the Polish village so many years ago; her father discovered the book in a used bookstore and loved it so much he named his daughter for its heroine. Yeah, it's pretty complicated.

I spent the majority of this book trying to predict how the worlds of these characters would collide. Obviously there were lots of connections, but it is a tribute to Nicole Krauss's mastery that I couldn't figure it out until just about the moment it actually happened. This book is filled with twists and turns and mystery, and there are still a few unanswered questions in my mind which I enjoy mulling over even now that I've finished reading it. This is a sad, lovely book, and I'm not the only one who thinks so; it is a New York Times Bestseller, winner of the William Saroyan International Prize for Writing, winner of the Borders Original Voices Award, finalist for the Orange Prize, #1 Booksense Pick, winner of the Edward Lewis Wallant Award, and winner of France’s Prix du Meilleur Livre Ėtranger Award. Never mind that you've never heard of most of those. This book is resting on so many laurels you have to stand on tip toes to reach it. Read it and fall in love.