Blythe Spirit

Books – March 2006

Gilead by Marilynne Robinson
A graceful story that painlessly led me on a philosophical journey. I wasn’t beaten about the head with a Bible, yet I mused about God, and even Jesus.

House of Leaves by Mark Danielewski
It could be argued that this one took me on a philosophical journey, too. And it’s really creepy. And when you see the page count you’ll understand why I only read three books this month. It’s been called the “Blair Witch” of novels, and I’d agree with that accusation.

The Power of Now by Eckhardt Tolle
Guess what? Another philosophical journey. This one is a little too New-Agey-gaze-at-a-plant-and-sense-its-life-force for me (see: my distaste for all things Celestine Prophecy) but it’s caused me to look at the world in a slightly different light.

G.I. Joe is There

If you’ve ever practiced yoga and/or played with plastic action figures, I’ve got a website for you.

Prahahaha

A few highlights from our trip to the Czech Republic last weekend:
-Switching trains in the dark, from the sleek German speedy train where I was chastised for propping my toe up against the seat across from mine, to the slightly worn and decidedly slow Czech train where our compartment door clanged open and shut whenever the train went up or down a slope, but the conductor just looked at our second-class tickets, noticed we were in the first-class cabin, said “Eh,” and moved on.
-Hearing and seeing more English than we’ve heard or seen in months. Never needing to learn how to say “yes,”"no,” or “thank you” in Czech. This was strange but, since we are basically lazy people, a little bit of a relief.
-Eating ice cream cones twice a day.
-Buying a pretty Czech crystal wine decanter.
-Visiting the largest castle complex in the world (according to our guidebook), and hanging over the castle wall to photograph the view.
-Getting a Thai foot massage in the lower level of our hotel.

Gossip Hound

I love celebrity gossip. Much of it is untrue. Orlando Bloom and Gwyneth Paltrow, though they are both elf-like, are mere mortals who really aren’t any more interesting than anyone else. However, I enjoy speculating about Gwyneth’s baby names and critiquing Oscar fashions. I like to think I would draw the line at accosting any of these famous people if I were to run into them in person (I did once see David Duchovny taking his baby for a stroll in New York and I managed to react only by poking Jeff really hard in the ribs.). But I gleefully absorb information posted at EOnline and Defamer and GoFugYourself. I sometimes wonder where the crazy stories come from and I’m just as sick of Brangelina and their possible wedding as anyone else. Still, I devour it all.

That’s why it’s a surprise to discover that even my own insatiable appetite for celebrity gossip has nearly been spoiled by the Tom Cruise/Katie Holmes baby speculation business. I was right in the chow line, lapping up stories of couch-jumping and brainwashing along with everyone else. I’ve called Tom a lunatic, and wondered aloud if Katie has lost her mind, and even expressed my consternation at the entire bizarre coupling. But, for me, the accusation that they’re faking her pregnancy falls into a different category than the aren’t-Nick-and-Jessica-just-faking-it-for-the-cameras scoffing. I would naively prefer to live in a world where people don’t pretend to be pregnant in order to fool their fans and the media for some convoluted reason that could include but is not limited to impotence and/or homosexuality coverup, religious cult ritual, or controlling relationship. And if someone must pretend to be pregnant for those reasons, that’s not gossip, that’s just terribly sad, not to mention a disturbing commentary on what a movie star is willing to do to maintain his stardom – probably another topic I’d prefer not to know too much about. But I have the feeling that while Tom and Katie might not have a relationship that I would envy, they are in a better place than people who cook up plots to steal Katie Holmes’s medical records (OK,they haven’t been caught yet, but you know they’re out there) in order to support a relatively farfetched theory. Yes, when TheSmokingGun comes up with proof that Michael Jackson’s ex-wife/nurse actually gave birth to TomKat’s child, I will feel duped, but at least I’ll know I haven’t crossed over to being a complete cynic just yet.

You’ve probably noticed those gossip links over there on the right. I would be lying if I promised to cut off my gossip pipeline in light of my disgust. But I now realize that every gossip-hound like me has her limit, the piece of (“mainstream,” non-Batboy) gossip that makes her say, “WHY on earth would anyone believe that to be true?” And that when it comes to babies, I try to view them as happy events, even for people who are living out in left field. And that gossip is more interesting when there is some evidence to support it (grainy photos of Jennifer Aniston smooching Vince Vaughn in a public place, for example), than when it seems more like mean-spirited fabrication. However, let’s face it, it’s way too much fun to make fun of Britney Spears’s creepy husband to stop reading the gossip rags now. But you won’t see me accusing her of manufacturing a fake Sean Preston. No way.

Czech 1, 2, 3

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We returned last night from a weekend trip to Prague. The city is filled with beautiful architecture, warm and friendly Czech people, and hordes of English-speaking tourists. We were glad for the opportunity to add to the throng. I’ve posted some photos here. I’m sure the urge to engage in Czech/check wordplay will wear off in a couple of days.

Makin’ It

My new favorite time-waster: MAKE:the blog, where you can learn how to do everything from sewing a stuffed Easter bunny to resurfacing CDs.

I think I’ll spend the weekend making a plastic clone of myself.

Proud to be an American

Thank you, America. My faith in your musical taste was restored when I learned that Kevin Covais was voted off the American Idol island last night. Sure, Paula, he’s squishable, but it was time for him to go. This gives me hope that the Fedorov effect of last year will not repeat itself, and that twelve-year-old girls on pink cell phones have not yet conquered the airwaves. Yeah, VotefortheWorst is funny, but I’d prefer to support survival of the fittest when it comes to entertainment. Kevin, you’re cute and have a good attitude. I’m sick of Seacrest; maybe you could be the new Dunkleman?

Blind Boys of Bavaria

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We’ve curbed our exhibitionist tendencies now that our new window blinds have been installed. Yesterday, when I called to tell Jeff the installers were here, I kept referring to them as the “blind guys.” We’ve been living without window coverings for the past four months, which is only a big deal because one entire wall of our bedroom is glass and looks out onto several other apartment buildings. I won’t miss hauling my outfit for the day into the bathroom with me each morning. I’m sure the neighbors won’t miss the sight of my bed-head and purple flannel PJs. Jeff is excited about sleeping late on weekends without wearing a Lufthansa eye mask. If you look carefully as you’re admiring the photo of our new blinds, you’ll notice SNOWFLAKES falling outside the window.

Me Me Me

Since I seem to be swimming around in my own little world (or Wald, if you’re German) most of the time these days, I just can’t escape the self-reflection. Thus, the self-indulgent blog you’re currently reading. And as long as you’re bearing with the self-indulgence, I’m going to try out this little gem, the Johari Window. Please take thirty seconds and choose six words you most associate with me, would you? And, set one up for yourself and send me the link! This is like those quizzes we used to send around folded up in strange pointy Origami in junior high. Except nicer, and without checkmarks.

Gardening

Jeff and I settled into the couch on Sunday night for a festival viewing of Garden State. Actually it was a TV viewing; we figure since we’re paying for the movie channels thanks to my Oscar obsession, we may as well watch some movies. I saw Garden State for the first time in November 2004, on a business trip to Chicago, and it prompted me to return to my hotel and write a long journal entry and think about that time in my life when, though I wasn’t actually medicated, nor did I have a comparably sad relationship with my family, I felt that aimless numbness (look! alliteration!) that Zach Braff portrays so well. I like to tell everyone who will listen that the first year out of college was the most confusing of my life. I’m a very good rule-follower, goal-achiever, teacher’s pet. When I graduated from college and didn’t get into grad school (an MFA program in poetry writing, thank your lucky stars they saw fit to reject me or you would be reading bad free verse right now), it was the first time in my life that my future wasn’t mapped out before me, and that there was no summer camp or internship or training program to tell me what to do next. Not to mention the resume-writing and rejection that inevitably followed. Fortunately, Jeff was around to listen to me whine, and fortunately he didn’t get sick of the navel-gazing, because he’s still here.

I love it when movies capture a moment like that. I also loved the music (I downloaded the songs by Zero 7 and Frou Frou this afternoon), Natalie Portman’s dead hamster, the Medieval Times reference, and my new movie star boyfriend Peter Sarsgaard (who was not really my type here but I can get over that when I remember Shattered Glass – move over Maggie Gyllenhall). I’ve added Zach Braff’s blog to my bloglinks; he only seems to post about once a month but he’s so cool I don’t care. Fortunately, SkyTV airs Scrubs reruns twice a day, so I get my fix elsewhere.