The year in books

It’s a little late to do a round-up of the books I read last year—but so what?

As usual, the preponderance of my reading was non-fiction plus a solid helping of mysteries. I’ll deal with the latter in a separate post, and there are a couple of non-fiction works that deserve individual reviews (God’s Hotel, by Victoria Sweet, and Engines of Change, by Paul Ingrassia). So here’s the overview of the 147 books I took in in 2012.

I read lots of bios—a really bad one of Marlene Dietrich, a couple on Hedy Lamarr, one about Liz Taylor being The Accidental Feminist, Lillian Hellman and Wallis Simpson, amongst others. There was one male in the bunch—King George VI, mostly as an offshoot of the feud between La Simpson and George’s wife, Elizabeth (the late Queen Mum). I’m not above looking for the lower things in life.

The usual history, including the usual fistful on WWII, because there’s always something to learn. Although A Train in Winter: An Extraordinary Story of Women, Friendship and Resistance in Occupied France, by Caroline Moorehead, was so crappy I actually skimmed it. Because apparently, it turns out, every Frenchwoman in Occupied France was noble and self-sacrificing. I was a little surprised because Moorehead’s biography of Martha Gellhorn is actually well-researched and -written.

I did some armchair traveling via books focused on various cities. (Okay, in Europe—maybe this year I’ll venture into Asia or Africa. If someone writes something enticing.)

I’ve already told you my opinion of Robert Hughes’s Rome : A Cultural, Visual, and Personal History. He natters on interminably (I suspected he was being paid by the word) and is incredibly sloppy with his, you know, historical facts. Johnson’s History of London, on the other hand, by London mayor Boris Johnson, is everything Robert Hughes tried to do with Rome, but done successfully. Very enjoyable, and Johnson is definitely a recommendation for even the British Public School system.

In Seven Seasons in Siena: My Quixotic Quest for Acceptance among Tuscany's Proudest People, Robert Rodi falls in love with the city, its culture, the Palio and the contrade that compete in it. I absolutely understand being enchanted by Siena, and Rodi really knows how to tell a civic love story.

I can’t quite decide what Paris versus New York, by Vahram Muratyan, is. I mean—not quite a travelogue, not entirely a graphic love story and not strictly social commentary. But it is delightful. Here’s a sample:

See what I mean?

I state unequivocally that I stand ready to be improved by all forms of literature, including that intended for kids. I got a kick out of Madame Pamplemousse and her Incredible Edibles, by Rupert Kingfisher; The Invention of Hugo Cabret, by Brian Selznick; Adèle and Simon, by Barbara McClintock, after reading a WSJ story on exploring Paris using children’s books as your guides. (Madeline was part of the story; but I’ve already read them all.) First-rate stuff, both stories and illustrations, although Hugo was a bit graphic novel-ish.

Getting back to the adult world, kind of, I quite enjoyed Jonah Lehrer’s Imagine: How Creativity Works, so I was mighty disappointed to find out Lehrer was a lot more creative with his facts than a work of non-fiction should allow for.

And in the rare instance that I actually read an adult novel that doesn’t revolve around police procedures, I chowed down happily on Maria Semple’s Where’d You Go, Bernadette? It’s an epistolary novel (if you count email as epistles), which totally sends up Seattle, the cult of tech and the self-absorption of the zeitgeist there. I don’t think you have to despise the Emerald City to appreciate Bernadette—that’s how brilliant it is.

I’m looking forward to expanding my horizons this year, courtesy of Kindle and the various library systems here in the Valley.

Shaping up

As I mentioned, I joined a gym last month. It’s a nationwide affair, but for me the primary considerations were: there’s one close to me (there are actually three quite close to me), & it’s cheap. They have the cardio machines I like (well, “like” may be too strong a term; let’s say “can willfully use day after day)—the StepMill & the Treadmill, & there are approximately 648 weight machines as well.

(I find it interesting that they only have five upright & five reclining stationary bicycles; but since there’s a dedicated spinning room, perhaps they think that’s how you’ll get in your cycles, so to speak.)

So I overlook the fact that they’re pretty spare with the amenities (there’s not so much as a box of tissues anywhere; & their single-ply toilet paper gives new meaning to the term “insubstantial”), or that the women’s locker room can only be described as groady. I don’t know when/how often it’s cleaned, but from what I’ve seen, the answer to both is seldom. I just do my workout & go home to shower.

On Monday one of their personal trainers called me to “welcome” me to the gym & offer a “free introductory” session. That, of course, was basically a sales pitch for signing up for a package of training. The questions she asked about my goals and current condition didn’t impress me. And while I do understand the value of having a training partner who’ll hold you accountable and push you out of complacency while at the same time not letting you do anything completely crack-brained, I’m not ready to fork over $1500 for the privilege at the moment.

Especially to someone who’s still on the sunny side of 35 and starts her work day at 0930. At my gym in Seattle (which did, BTW, have clean locker rooms, much nicer towels & actual soap, shampoo & conditioner in the showers), I had to push back on that—I told their sales guy that if I were going to have a trainer, she’d better be over 50 and have had enough experience of joint pain so what I was telling her wasn’t theoretical. The first one they signed me up with was named Brittany & had just graduated two months before from ND State (or maybe it was SD State). That didn’t work.

But Penelope, my second match, was perfect. She saw me through a rigorous program that seriously got me into shape. She also worked from 0500 to 1400; I was her first appointment three days a week. So if I were looking for a trainer, it would be in the Penelope class.

& from the photos on this gym’s wall, they don’t have anyone, male or female, on the dark side of 40, so it’s unlikely that I’ll find an appropriate trainer there.

So I’ll just have to keep pushing myself, for myself, & dredge out the charts Penelope worked up for me.

Order in the House

I hate to start out the new year on a downer, but if one is at all concerned about the economy, one can’t help but wish it were possible to take a gigantic fire hose to the House and Senate and wash all the occupants and their staff (and, while I’m at it, all the lobbyists) out of the Capitol and…somewhere. Anywhere—I don’t care,

How about over a cliff?

And why is it that whenever I hear the name Eric Cantor, the one word that immediately leaps to mind is “pissant”?

Welcome, 2013

You know what they say about New Year resolutions, right? They need to be specific, measurable, achievable and all that hoo-ha. And I’m working on them for my own life.

But I have…I guess it’s a wish, more than a resolution, and it involves the cooperation of a lot more folks out there.

What I’d like for 2013 is that I do not have to write one single post in response to some nutjob with automatic weapons who empties clip after clip into a church, school, mall, restaurant, office, university, movie theatre or any other public venue.

Work with me, people. We have to do better at this than we did last year.

2012: Whap!

Holy moly—it’s the end of the year! And here’s me unprepared thinking that the whole Mayan apocalypse thing would obviate having to do a round-up of 2012.

My bad!

Looking back on the year there are a few experiences that stand out in my mind:

That whole nightmare with my health insurance cutting me off (without mentioning it to me) five days before I had knee surgery shadowed the entire year, I’m afraid. I’m deeply grateful that people I didn’t know stepped up to the plate to help me out of a serious pickle. I learned a couple of things from that: make sure your check clears the bank. And there are government functionaries who will do their job and make a megalithic corporation back down. God bless ‘em.

I made a commitment to post to this blog five days per week, which turns out to be a considerable effort. You might not think it takes anything at all to come up with the drivel I share with you, but it does. Some days the nonsense just flows. Others I have to Google randomly for hours to find something that either amuses or outrages me enough to share it with you.

However, the House of Windsor can usually be counted on to supply me with something.

Developing back pain that, on a scale of 1 to 10 (10 being “shoot me now”) was hovering at an 8, and being severely restricted by having the crappiest health insurance it’s possible to pay into, turned out to lead me to a Traditional Chinese Medicine Practitioner. Not only did Dr. Woo take me from the 8 to a 4 on that scale at my first visit, he introduced me to the benefits of acupuncture.

Woo was the first chiropractor I’ve ever seen who didn’t start out by taking a flock of X-rays and then schedule me for three appointments a week until my insurance benefits ran out. He felt my pulse and checked my tongue; told me to lay off sugar, drink more water and get out and walk for 60 minutes at least a couple of times a week; and he’s given me exercises to do to strengthen my core muscles.

Until about October, I was exploring the various trails around here several mornings a week. It was pretty painless exercise, actually, and it got me out and about.

Since seeing him and running out of early morning daylight, I finally broke down and joined a gym. Okay, I didn’t join it until December, but since doing so I’ve gone there on average five mornings a week (except while I was in Sedona), cranking out 60 minutes of cardio exercise per visit. I’ve lost about four pounds, which may seem insignificant and indeed is a drop in the bucket compared to what I need to lose, but is still something positive

But I think the biggest thing for me this year was deciding to produce at least the first draft of a novel. As of this weekend I rounded the corner on 95K words. What’s really amazing to me about this is how much better I feel about pretty much everything since I started working on this. I find it a lot easier to deal with moronic recruiters (of whom there is a massive surfeit in this world), ADHD executive directors and the other vicissitudes of the Silicon Valley.

As with the blog, some days the prose flows and some days I have to Google randomly for a long time to spark something. But I’m really glad I took it on.

As for rounding up 2012 in general—I’ll leave that to Dave Barry; he’s been at it a lot longer than I have.

I particularly liked learning about the Predator drones and Waziristan.

Seasonal excess

While we’re still within the confines of the Twelve Days of Christmas, I’m going to pass on a couple of bits of seasonal weirdness.

First up is a toting up of really, seriously tacky Nativity representations. It’s truly hard to choose the worst among them, at least for me. I’m thinking the meat, butter and Spam ones are certainly way up there on the crap-o-meter.

Although the one made up of junk food is also in contention.

A spin-off from this list is the depiction of the life of Christ in…Christmas lights. Up to and including the scourging on the way to Calvary.

Never underestimate the capacity and willingness of people to go to extremes of dreck during the holidays.

He was not a bullfrog

But he was totally a straight-shootin’ son-of-a-gun.

News tonight of the death at age 78 of General Norman Schwarzkopf. I’ll just leave you with one of his comments:

"Leadership is the potent combination of strategy and character. But if you must be without one, be without the strategy."

Running on empty

I spent a good chunk of yesterday getting home to the Silicon Valley from Sedona—from about 1030 to 1700, door to door. And of course I have a couple of observations on this process.

USAir has to be one of the saddest carriers still limping along, flying the most dilapidated aircraft that actually make it into the air. Their flight attendants do not inspire confidence when they can’t even read that flight safety announcement. (The one from Flagstaff to Phoenix seriously had the card in front of her face, and she still couldn’t get it right.)

The thing about spending the entire day on airplanes where they give you nothing to eat but a packet of pretzels is that, with only a couple of toaster waffles in you, you arrive home absolutely empty, but too tired to cook anything.

Thank God for TJ’s holiday-only “handmade” tamales that you can nuke for a couple of minutes.

Supper club in Sedona

I had an unusual Christmas Eve this year. My sister, whom I’m visiting in Sedona for the first time, arranged for us to go out to a “supper club” holiday dinner.

It’s sort of a mix between dinner theatre, a night club and the early-bird special. There was a four-course dinner and then a small, uh, entertainment group (singers, instrumentals and really, really bad patter). Evidently it was the first time this particular establishment has done this, and they hadn’t quite worked out the pre-show organizational bugs, but the food was actually quite good and the musicians were accomplished.

What they didn’t explain was that, in order to get more people into the venue, which isn’t that big, if you were a party of two, they sat you with another party of two. When we arrived at our table, we found that a (retired) couple from Seattle were already ensconced there and had eaten all the choice bits from the cheese platter.

This pot luck seating is one of the reasons I’ve never fancied taking a cruise. (The other one is that I am not what they call a good sailor and I’ve never seen the point in paying money to spend all my time hanging over the rail, if you catch my drift.) To be seated for five hours (less the 90 minutes of the two musical sets) with a prime example of the self-absorbed, self-satisfied inhabitants of the Emerald City was just plain mean.

In all the time I was there, the husband (John) asked me exactly one question about myself—where in the Bay Area I come from. That was just a foil for him to go off at great length about how he and the wife always go to San Francisco, “which is really comparable to Seattle, although it’s not as big”.

Oh, in his bleeding dreams.

The entertainers are obviously well-known to the audience—I expect that in a town the size of Sedona, people get to know the local performers. (The Seattleites assured me that there’s a massive music scene here.) Plus—the fans were clearly well-oiled.

It was actually an enjoyable experience once I got over the whole bad-PNW-fairy thing. Definitely an experience I would ordinarily not have touched with a barge pole. So, hurrah for the Christmas spirit.

Today I’m on my way back to the Bay Area, glad for the break, for seeing my sister and for trying something different.

Holiday flash, Part 6

For Christmas, I’m giving you one more “Hallelujah” flash mob. It’s the first one I ever heard of, put on by the Philadelphia Opera Company on behalf of Random Acts of Culture at the old Philadelphia Wanamaker’s (now Macy’s) store.

If I thought I could be engulfed by one of these flash mobs, I might be enticed into a Macy’s.

At any rate—I hope your Christmas is as surprisingly wonderful as any of the holiday flash mobs I’ve shared with you over the past week or so.