The Giant's House

Did you ever get so deeply involved in the story you were reading that nothing else mattered and you couldn't put it down, even to attend to basic needs like going to the bathroom or eating lunch?  You just HAD to know what was going to happen next?

Well, this is not one of those books.  It isn't crap exactly.  But the premise IS pretty silly: lonely 30-ish librarian falls in love with a teenager who happens to have a medical condition that makes him a giant and local celebrity, and destined for an early grave.  The writing isn't bad.  The story is just so tightly wrought, which is also what makes it so terribly BORING.  You can almost feel McCracken hovering over every word, standing behind your shoulder, explaining why she chose each and every verb and adjective.  It is so exacting, so precise.  She spends such care and dignity getting things "just right" she neglected to entertain us at all.

So why, exactly, does it not get my "crap" rating?   I don't understand the "National Book Award Finalist" bit, but I've long stopped figuring out how or why certain authors get nominated for these things, unless of course they are chosen by a committee of information professionals.  Because she absolutely and totally NAILS the mindset of most librarians.  Being a librarian for a few decades herself, McCracken is a bit of an authority in this matter, and it shows. 

So, in other words, if you have no interest in the lives of librarians don't even bother picking up this book.  Unless, of course, you have a thing for teenage giants who like to read and perform magic tricks.

I've picked out the best bits for you.  If you are a librarian, know a librarian, love a librarian...well...read on, for some eerily accurate peeks into the bibliophile brain and heart:

“I am a librarian, and you cannot stop me from annotating, revising, updating.  I like to think that –because I am a librarian-I offer accurate and spurious advice with no judgement, good and bad next to each other on the shelf.  But my memories are not books.  Blessing if they were.”

“Some women become librarians because they love order; I’m one.  Ordinal, cardinal, alphabetical, alphanumerical, geographical, by subject, by colour, by shape, by size.  Something logical that people –one hopes- cannot botch, although they will.” 

“Librarian (like Stewardess, Certified Public Accountant, Used Car Salesman) is one of those occupations that people assume attract a certain deformed personality.  Librarians are supposed to be bitter spinsters: grudging, lonely.  And above all stingy: we love our fine money, our silence. 

            I did not love fine money: I forgave much more than I collected.  I did not shush people unless they yelled.  And though I was technically a spinster, I was bitter only insofar as people made me.  It isn’t that bitter people become librarians; it’s that being a librarian may turn the most giving person bitter.  We are paid all day to be generous, and no one recognises our generosity.” 

“Despite popular theories, I believe people fall in love based not on good looks or fate but on knowledge.  Either they are amazed by something a beloved knows that they themselves do not know; or they discover common rare knowledge; or they can supply knowledge to someone who’s lacking.  Hasn’t anyone found a strange ignorance in someone beguiling?...Nowadays, trendy librarians, wanting to be important, say, Knowledge is power.  I know better.  Knowledge is love.”

“People think librarians are unromantic, unimaginative.  This is not true.  We are people whose dreams run in particular ways…The idea of a library full of books, the books full of knowledge, fills me with fear and love and courage and endless wonder.”

“Books are a bad family – there are those you love, and those you are indifferent to; idiots and mad cousins who you would banish except others enjoy their company; wrongheaded but fascinating eccentrics and dreamy geniuses; orphaned grandchildren and endless brothers-in-law simply taking up space who you wish you could send straight to hell.  Except you can’t, for the most part.  You must house them and make them comfortable and worry about them when they go on trips and there is never enough room.”

Anger and the Rocking Chair

I have an ongoing interest in psychology, specifically evolutionary and developmental psychology, with a particular focus on children’s issues.  I work with children that have behavioral, emotional and developmental problems, both as a yoga therapist and as an intervention worker.  I’m also a single parent.  I don’t do this work because I am a particularly patient or empathetic person, in fact my loved ones probably would out me as short on temper, long on moralizing.  But rather, being in the presence of children, especially those deemed as “impossible” or “lost causes,” puts me acutely in touch with the NOW, with BEING.  Children’s emotions and needs are usually on the surface of their existence, forcing us to be present while they are vulnerable.   I respect that vulnerability.  I see it in myself.

Janet Lederman was an elementary school teacher who practiced Gestalt awareness in her inner-city “special needs” classroom.  Although written in 1969, and a bit controversial (she’s okay with spanking), the principles of Frederic Perls’ theory applied in a classroom setting are still very applicable today (if teachers would be given the trust and opportunity to use them).  Rewards are given for showing strength, courage, honesty, respect.  Negative attention seeking is channeled into more appropriate means.  For example, in one scene two “delinquent” boys are trying to get a rise out of Lederman by singing:

 “I have a girl from Culver City,

She’s got meat balls on her titties.

She’s got ham and eggs

Between her legs…”

Rather than sending them to the office to be punished by the administration or getting upset, she says, “I like the way you boys sing.  Come over to the tape recorder.”

They proceed to sing their little ditty (more sheepishly now) into the recorder.  They are afraid she will show it to the principal.  She reiterates that she likes the way they sing and that they can erase it when they are done.  They begin to sing and start critiquing their voices.  They laugh.  They try singing a different song.  She did not fulfill their expectations of shock, anger, or punishment.  But they still received the attention they so desperately required and it become an experience about SINGING, not punishment and rejection.

In another scene Lederman discusses the reality of the “messiness” of childhood, an ongoing issue in my house, and probably yours as well.  To the children of her class she says, “I am not here to take care of the tools you use, or the games you enjoy.  If I ‘pick up’ after you, you will not experience the frustration of missing parts and broken toys.  If I take care of your things you will have no way of discovering how to care for your equipment.  I will do nothing for you that you are capable of doing for yourself.”

As parents and teachers it is so very difficult to live the experience of that last line, but it is essential to raising healthy, independent, responsible, self-motivated children.  We must choose to let go of our need for total control, our insistence that it be done “our way,” in “our time,” because we are “the boss.”  Instead, we must teach children how to be their own bosses, and they can only learn that, safely and painfully, through experience.  This causes us great discomfort while we helplessly watch our children flounder and complain, and it is terribly tempting to feel resentful and the next thing you know, “Argh! I’ll just do it myself…” is tumbling like acid out of your mouth.  And what does the child hear?  “You are not fast enough.  Smart enough.  Old enough.  Good enough.”  And the truly dangerous road of learned-helplessness begins.

The Book Surgeon

How's this for up-cycling?

http://24flinching.com/word/featured/the-book-surgeon/

Unlovable

I have an enduring, delicious predilection for badly-drawn-on-purpose comics that are both hilarious and awkward.  See also:  www.toothpastefordinner.com

The strip Tammy Pierce is Unlovable has been a regular back-page companion to Bust Magazine for years, and always the first thing I turn to.  So I was more than a little pleased when Fantagraphics came out with a 2 volume collection of Esther Pearl Watson's T.P chronicle, complete with glitter clouds that say "Turd Alert!" and "Do you like breasts?"

See, the best part is: the entire thing is based on the REAL 1988-1989 school year diary of a Texas teenager that Watson found in a gas station bathroom in 1995.  The reason it is so funny is that Watson perfectly captures the humiliation and desperation of adolescence using Tammy's own words.  For example:

Anyone who had the pain and pleasure of growing up in the 1980s will cackle with delight (or groan with embarrassment) at Watson's scratchy renderings of shoulder pads, MacGyver, break dancing, and New Wave posturing.  Obviously not to everyone's tastes, Unlovable is for the discerning comic collector, the purveyor of sweaty awkwardness, the betrayer of tact.  In other words: mine.

Binky to the Rescue

Binky is a regular house cat.  He has delusions of grandeur.  He thinks he is a space kitty.  His house is a space station.  Insects are aliens.  You get the picture. 

What could be a boring premise actually turns out to be a pretty fun read thanks to Spires adorable drawings and "sound" effects.  Benji had a good giggle at the cat-farts and insults: "Fuzzbutt!"   But he's four. 

This is part of Spires' ongoing Binky series, and this time our flatulent hero has been called to rescue his beloved pet mouse from deep space (the yard) and the evil destroyers (some wasps).  While not exactly riveting, it was a good time, and definitely was requested a second evening before bed.  A nice edition to a YA graphic novel collection at your school/public library but I wouldn't shell out any coin for the hardback at home, unless you've got a series Binky fan on your hands.

Everyone Loves You When You're Dead

I don't doubt Neil Strauss has a life many people envy.  He shares intimate and uncomfortable moments with some of the world's biggest stars.  He has a drive to understand the psychology behind fame.  Sure, he has to deal with media moguls editing the good stuff out and tight-lipped stage-gods and their press agents' watchful glares.  But all in all, not a bad day job, right?  Who doesn't want to crawl into a sleeping bag with Jewel?  Or smell Marilyn Manson's farts?  Or decipher Brian Wilson's incoherent babble?

Ummm.  Me.  I picked up this book because after months of cramming Dialog prompts and academic drivel into my cerebral cortex, I needed to catch up on my celebrity gossip.  But five minutes into this book I remembered: nothing's changed.  As far as I can tell, there are three rough categories stars fit into: 

1. Legit hardworking schmoes who got big because they are really really good at what they do; they show up everyday (like a real job), they are relentless perfectionists and workaholics.  Fame is the result of their sweatstorm.  See: Barbra Streisand, Jay Leno, Kenny G.  They are not cool.  They are talented and driven.
2. People who are so desperate for affection and attention they will do anything, and I mean ANYTHING (hello?  Courtney Love, this is you doll) to get it.  They have been rejected, and they are either so pissed or so sad or both and they never got over it and they are here to seek their revenge.  They will shock, cajole, torture us into loving them; or at least, not ignoring them.  See also: Lady Gaga, Russell Brand, Paris Hilton.
3. The master manipulators.  They are the chameleons.  The kings and queens of rock n' roll.  There is nothing more important than being cool.  Especially if you can trick everyone into thinking you don't give a damn about being cool but are really on a journey of self-discovery or are a soulful, tortured artist.  The real answer: you don't actually know who you are, because who you are changes constantly, depending on who you are with and what they deem is hip.  Watch out for: Sean "Puffy" Combs, Madonna, Justin Timberlake.  Or worse, you are obsessively attached to your unflappable, carefully crafted persona, and you cannot allow anyone to mess with it, lest they expose the real, flawed you behind it.  See: Hugh Hefner, Tom Cruise, Dolly Parton.

So, truth be told, I never finished it.  That's what so great about library books, there is no guilt associated with purchasing a crap book you have to force yourself to read on the toilet.  I read a dozen of the interviews that caught my eye, but they all started sounding so terribly similar I just gave up.  Not to mention each interview is broken up into "scenes" which jump all over the chapter and are terribly annoying to follow.  My advice?  Don't waste your time or energy.  This is no insult to Strauss, who is a celebrity in his own right for his relentless pursuit of the "big answers."  But the truth is most stars have nothing very interesting or original to say.  I'd rather nap.