"In vacant or in pensive mood..." I am: Bekah; 24; Law Student / Favorite Things: Carbs (so there!), Johnny Damon, Smiling at babies, Grilled cheese, Comfortable silence / Favorite Supreme Court Justice: Brennan / Favorite Wilson: Owen by an inch / Today's Special: Song: Elliott Smith, "Bled White"; Quote: "You know, there's like a butt-load of gangs at this school. This one gang kept wanting me to join because I'm pretty good with a bowstaff." Please love me: mmbekah@yahoo.com

 
Europe is Tasty, But I'm Ready for a Nice Warm Slice of Americana Now, Please

My European adventures have come to an end, and, as is always the case with endings, I am left with mixed feelings. Amsterdam, and Europe generally, were wonderful. I met interesting and intelligent people (who also liked to have a good time), had great classes ("great" clearly being a relative term as applied to law school), saw incredible art and architecture, and experienced a beautiful new culture. I saw The Sunflowers, Gaugin's Chair, and Bedroom at Arles (Van Gogh), I and My Village (Chagall), The Death of Marat (David), The Jewish Bride (Rembrandt), Night and Day (Magritte), works by Dutch and Flemish masters, Picasso, Miro, Haring, deWit, Matisse, Pollock, Gauguin, Seurat, Turner, Hockney, Reubens, and many, many more. I saw Anne Frank's secret annex, her actual diary, and the pictures of movie stars pasted to her walls. I saw Brussels' Grand Place and Bruges' canals, Amsterdam's Dam Square and Red Light District, Edinburgh castle, and everything in between. I tasted the most glorious waffles in the world, the freshest mangos and blueberries around, and Greek salads with chunks of feta so big that calling it a salad was almost ludicrous. I ate Malaysian and Indonesian food for the first time, and discovered my new favorite beer, although right now I can't remember its name. Something like Neuberg (it's Dutch and comes in a beautiful blue glass bottle). The list goes on.

And yet, with all of this excitement and wonder, when I touched down last night I was actually somewhat comforted by the "Jerry's Pork and Rib Shack" that greeted me in the airport, along with the small mulletted children and businessmen in cowboy boots. Yes, when the stewardess called me "hon," I knew I was home. You see, it comes down to this: At some point, everyone needs clean underwear. Not "washed with shampoo in a hostel sink" underwear, or even "washed in a shady European Laundromat" underwear, but empirically clean underwear. When your desire for this luxury surpasses your desire to explore the glories of Europe, friends, there is no better indication that it's time to go home. I love my apartment, I love my bed, I love my tea, I love my music, and I love my America. For all its faults, it's definitely home. I will miss those hookers in the glowing red windows though. They're nice girls.

Quick Book Review ("But you don't have to take my word for it!"): Happiness (TM) by Will Ferguson

The premise of this book is essentially "What would happen if a self-help book really worked?" The answer, as you might guess, is total death and destruction, and, occasionally, somewhat strained hilarity. The problem with the book is that Will Ferguson had a cool Vonnegut/Hornby-inspired vision, but couldn't pull the book off the way either of those two glorious writers could have. Ferguson's humor is often too self-conscious and too forced, and he really expects far too little of his audience. For example, one scene involves Edwin (the protagonist) having a typical conversation with his Office Space-style boss. After a particularly infuriating comment on the boss's part, Edwin goes into a completely insane and ridiculous tirade, after which Ferguson assures the reader, "But of course, Edwin didn't really say that. What he really said was..." I mean, give us a little credit! Follow the tirade with a "yes, sir," and been done with it! It's kind of an overdone stylistic device anyway.

Ferguson also has a tendency to write something wry and quite funny, and then spend a paragraph digging himself into the ground, doing the joke to death. If he just had a little faith in the reader's ability to infer some things, he'd be a much more effective writer. For example (last one, I promise), there is a funny line about Edwin being interrogated by the police, while Cats Muzak plays in the background. Ferguson writes something like "Edwin didn't think Cats was part of the interrogation, but he couldn't really be sure." That's funny! But then he kills it with imagined dialogue between the interrogators about turning it up, performing tests, etc. Ferguson constantly explains himself, as if screaming to the world, "That last line I wrote was really funny! What? You didn't get it?? Here, let me show you why it's funny! You see, Cats Muzak is bad. It's horrible and painful, kind of like the interrogation itself. That's why I said Edwin couldn't be sure about whether it was part of the interrogation or not. Get it? Get it?" Oh man, Vonnegut would not approve...and Vonnegut readers should feel duly slighted by this Ferguson character and his inablility to leave well enough alone.

Oh, and he used the phrase "genuinely sincere" without any ironic intent.

posted by Bekah at 1:06 PM :: |