9 p.m., Upper West Side

It rained — no, poured — this afternoon, and self got to watch the whole thing from the window of a friend’s place in the Village. Then, just as she headed out to go back home, it stopped (luck, and yet more luck). And the world was born anew. And everything smelled so fresh. And self saw the Angelika Movie Theater across the street begin to fill up, and she got a cab the minute she stuck an arm out, and she went to a restaurant called Fatty Crab to meet her nephew (he walked straight across Central Park and it only took him 20 minutes), and had “fatty duck” and beef rendang and something called “sliders” that turned out to be mini-hamburgers, and while self was walking home, somewhere on 73rd, her phone rang and it was Penny calling from Ohio, from the Kenyon Review Writers Workshop, and she told self that she was having a fabulous time, she was having to write a story a day but loving it.

And wasn’t that the darndest thing about the South Carolina governor, who said he was hiking on the Appalachian Trail and ended up being in Argentina, and wouldn’t you think politicians would know by now, especially after witnessing Eliot Spitzer’s flame-out, but people will never learn, or maybe it’s just that he was really in love and it made him crazy, who knows.

Stay tuned, dear blog readers, stay tuned.

Staring Into the Maw

Once again self is showing up at a splendiferous family gathering — solo. Son declined to drive north for uncle and aunt’s 50th wedding anniversary, tonight, and a few hours ago hubby declared he was really too fatigued to make it, and so that leaves self having to stiff-upper-lip it all the way. This morning Dearest Mum called bright and early to ask self to bring a set of evening bags for her aunts and cousins (as if self has a plethora of those lying around), and self was so overwhelmed with the idea that she might be expected to wear an evening gown that she copped out and is now

Quotes of the Day: “Mongol”

Self and hubby love watching sword-and-sandal epics. Also, war movies (“Saving Private Ryan,” “The Bridge on the River Kwai,” etc etc etc). Also, The History Channel (turning “300” in its new series, “Battles B.C.”).

The other week (in between Chicago Trip 1 and New York trip), we ordered “Mongol” on Pay-Per-View. Quite a rousing movie, that. And self would like to share with dear blog readers that even though the last third was rather lame, the first 2/3 had probably the most exciting scenes she’s seen in a movie, thus far in 2009. And because the first 2/3 were just so cheesy/great, self of course had to write down certain choice quotes from the movie, which she will now proceed to share with dear blog readers:

Do not scorn a weak cub. He may become the brutal tiger.

— Mongol proverb, 1192

Now, self doesn’t know if that truly is a 12th-century Mongol proverb, but she thinks dear blog readers will agree that it does lend the movie’s proceedings a certain air of tension. So, thumbs up.

Next:

When choosing a bride, her face must be flat like a salt lake. Her eyes must be narrow. Evil spirits dive into big eyes . . . and she will go mad.

No date given for that particular proverb, but self thinks it funny that the Mongol of the title, Genghis Khan, chose a woman whose face was decidedly not flat.

Anyhoo, self highly recommends it, dear blog readers.  Three out of four stars!  Very entertaining.

Stay tuned.

Self ‘Fesses Up

Self was going to the library to pick up a book she had placed on hold (Doris Lessing’s The Making of the Representative for Planet 8 — the only copy of the book in the entire Peninsula was in Burlingame, of all places) when she saw people standing at the corner of Jefferson and Middlefield waving signs. The signs said: SHOE PAVILION GOING OUT OF BUSINESS SALE — 80% OFF, EVERYTHING MUST GO!

Holy moly! Before self could even say “quick-as-a-wink,” she was heading in the opposite direction from the Library, quite forgetting that she had only placed enough coins for 30 minutes of parking.

And when she arrived at the Shoe Pavilion (which was only a few yards away from the Library, after all), she thought a bomb had hit, for the shelves were practically empty, and the few items that had been left behind were strewn across the floor in no discernible pattern, while the last hungry vultures — er, self means: women — pawed at the ground and stuck shoes sized 6 on their size 8 feet and — Self doesn’t know how she could have missed the sale notice, for she lives in Redwood City, and Shoe Pavilion is less than a mile from her house.

Anyhoo, the sight of women grabbing at shoes must have caused adrenaline to kick in, for in short order self, who when she left the house that morning had no idea that she needed shoes, bent down and began digging through piles of Steve Maddens and Tommy Hilfiggers. Most of the stuff that was left were a hideous brown or enormous size 12s. But, in one pile self managed to unearth a pair of pink loafers, and in another she unearthed a true find: gold Aerosole ballet flats!

Then, clutching these precious items to her chest, self made for the check-out lines, which were about 15 people deep. And then, standing in line, she decided she must consult someone on her purchases. So she tried calling first Penny, then other aunt who loves to go shopping, then Sandy, but no one picked up. Self finally reached cuz in Virginia, who said: “Where are you? Why is there a baby crying in the background?”

Funny, self hadn’t been aware of a baby in her immediate vicinity, but after cuz mentioned it, self looked up and discovered that she did indeed happen to be standing behind a woman with a baby stroller, and the stroller was festooned with at least eight pairs of shoes.

Self then inquired of cousin if, given the choice, she would go for a pair of pink shoes or a pair of gold shoes. Cuz said, with absolutely no hesitation, “Gold shoes.”

So, self decided she would ask the cashier how much each of the pairs were, and if she said something like $20, self would surrender the pink shoes.

It was a long time before the line moved, however, and self suddenly remembered the parking meter. But she knew that if she handed the shoes to someone to hold while she left the store to add coins to the meter, that person would make off with self’s precious stash. So, self swore under her breath but decided that, come what may, she would remain steadfast and wait in line.

Eventually, woman with the crying baby got through paying for her purchases (eight pairs of shoes for something like $50??? Self wasn’t sure she heard correctly), and self was now facing the cashier. Alas, cashier had no idea how much self’s two pairs of shoes cost. “Didn’t these come in a box?” cashier asked. “No,” self said, “They were on the floor.” “But, didn’t you see any purple boxes lying nearby?” Self shook her head; she hadn’t. And this was the absolute honest-to-God truth. So, the resourceful cashier produced an empty shoe box from under the register, aimed her little laser at the UPC code, and out came the amount: $3.50. “For both?” self inquired, when she was once again able to speak. “Your total is $7,” the cashier said.

And then self ran with her $7 worth of shoes to the parking lot across the street, and she saw that she had not yet gotten a ticket. Oh happy happy joy joy. How self loves the day after Thanksgiving in a recession-driven America.

Everything is Hilarious/ Alka/ The Chattahoochee Review

This morning, dear blog readers, self is in such a strange mood that she finds everything hilarious.

She’s looking at an old issue of The New Yorker, and every time she flips a page she finds a new cartoon that sets her off. Self intuits that dear blog readers will find the captions pretty funny, even without the accompanying illustrations. So here they are, the list of captions self finds self-splittingly hilarious, while perusing The New Yorker of 26 June 2006 (Did self ever mention that she was the mother of all pack rats? If you didn’t know this before, dear blog readers, you know it now):

“If you’re happy and you know it, stick with your dosage.”

“I’ll take care of it impersonally.”

“You’re the one who wanted a boyfriend — you play with him.”

“I’m sorry, have you been grimacing long?”

* * * *

In other news, good friend Alka Raghuram has just returned from the Tribeca Film Festival, where her screenplay “The Conqueror,” about a blood feud between two villages which brings tragedy to a young boy’s family, received the L’Oreal Paris Women of Worth award, which is given annually to a female writer/ director participating in the Emerging Narrative section of the Tribeca All Access Film Festival. Go, Alka, go!

* * *

And, in yet other other news, the spring issue of the The Chattahoochee Review is a special issue devoted to five Emerging Writers. These are the five:

Alethea Black
Anne Stameshkin
Yvonne A. Jackson
Murzban Shroff
Yours truly!!!

Stay tuned, dear blog readers, stay tuned.

My Dead Chinese Professors: A Dream

My dead Chinese professors sit at the foot of my bed, crying.

What’s the matter? I ask.

Professor Liu says, You will never understand Li Po.

That may be, I say, but I have a son who loves Magic Cards and listening to Christian rock and Keith Urban.

While Chinese offered me nothing but books on 18th century market systems and tortuous lessons in calligraphy.

I never could tell if Professor Lyell thought I was good or not. He’d shrug at all my translations, the awkward marks of my pen on the yellow lined paper. Chicken scratch, he was probably thinking. But he never waved his arms and shouted, like some of the other professors did.

You are desecrating the temple of the holy, these others seemed to be saying.

You do not belong here. Begone, rank impostor!

So, why are you at the foot of my bed, I ask? Why don’t you leave? Stand up and walk out of the room?

Then I wake up. I realize I’ve spoken the words in my dream out loud. I feel the echo of my voice, reverberating in that stillness. The stillness of a white and empty room. I get up and descend the stairs. I’m still half-dressed. I go to the kitchen and make myself some coffee.

* * * *

Wherefrom the provenance of such a strange dream, dear blog reader? Self hasn’t a clue. As it turned out, both of self’s professors were rather diminutive in stature (though in person they looked nothing alike, for Prof. Lyell was Irish and had light hair and blue or grey eyes, and Prof. Liu was Chinese and had black hair and black or very dark brown eyes)

Both men did share a rather impish twinkle in their eyes when self visited them in their offices to discuss her papers.

And now self picks up a March issue of The New Yorker and learns that an enterprising Toronto novelist has created a website called

“IdreamofHillaryIdreamofBarack.com”

This is a site where anyone in the world can deposit their subliminal/ subconscious fantasies of the Democratic candidates. And, according to The New Yorker, the Hillary that emerges from the dreams (the collective unconscious, as it were) of people around the world is this:

Hillary “wears bad perfume but good lipstick, has great skin, is often hungry (she likes spare ribs) but has bad table manners, and, when doing the chores (say, cleaning the attic) is fun to be around. She is a dog-lover and an accomplished ice skater.”

Barack, on the other hand, emerges as “a teacher, eight feet tall, with a foul mouth, smoker.” He is “less active — a conduit.”

An example: “I started to write out the letter on the hamburger bun while Obama gave his speech, but with every few strokes the pen would break through the outer surface of the bread into the soft middle.”

A “Saudi woman imagined he was reading a bedtime story to her (classic father-figure role), and a lawyer from Zimbabwe dreamed of being chased by him (the pursuit of justice).”

And a Canadian film critic recalled the image of “Barack eating the votes that had been cast for Hillary like slices of smoked tofu.”

Fascinating, just fascinating.

Dave Sedaris’ Older Sister

God love Dave Sedaris. For this evening he’s saving self from most abject depression. You see, dear blog readers, self had an awful class at xxxx community college. And afterwards she had to hot-foot it to her other job at NDNU. And somewhere in between Los Altos and Belmont, she had this thought:

What is it all for?

Indeed.

Then, after dinner this evening (leftover hamburger patties, thank goodness hubby kept mum), self found herself struck by a particular passage in one of his books, this one having to do with the husband of Dave’s older sister (whose name is Henry). And it is such a very interesting description. Here it is, dear blog reader.

* * * *

From Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim, p. 146 (“Repeat After Me”)

Of all the elements of my sister’s adult life — the house, the husband, the sudden interest in plants — the most unsettling is Henry. Technically, he’s a blue-fronted Amazon, but to the average layman, he’s just a big parrot — the type you might see on the shoulder of a pirate.

* * * *

And the thought occurred to self — the thought just hit her, in fact — that the way Dave Sedaris views brother-in-law Henry (Note: Dave equates him with a “big parrot”) is possibly the same way Dear Bros view self’s husband aka “Hubby.”

For instance, when self was in Tel Aviv (a scant week or so ago), self had this most enlightening conversation with Dear Bro in the apartment on Ruppin Street (This was when self and Dear Bro were still talking):

Dear Bro: Why does xxxx keep changing jobs? If I were his boss, I wouldn’t hire him.

Self: Well, in America there is no such thing as “job loyalty.”

(Ha ha ha ha ha ha!)

Self: Besides, I have a friend whose husband hasn’t worked in four years.

(Actually, self’s friend’s husband hasn’t worked in more like six years: the awfulness of this fact is such that self is momentarily rendered speechless, so wrapped up is she in contemplating her friend’s — probably eerie — domestic life)

Self (after short pause): And Cxxx’s husband, Bxxx (our first cousin) has sometimes been jobless for as long as two years. At least, hubby has never been out of work. He may have had short periods of joblessness, but he always manages to work.

Which fact has enabled self to write three books and edit one, thereby enabling self to contribute to the edification of the world (if not of self’s immediate family). But of course, Dear Bro has not read even one of self’s books, so what would he know of such?

Stay tuned, dear blog readers, stay tuned.

NYTBR April 15, 2007 (Fiction in Translation Issue)

It was a gorgeous day, dear blog readers! Self would call it the “13th Most Gorgeous Day So Far . . . ” but self is superstitious, does not want to use the number 13, so self will just reserve that title for some other post, later on, as self is sure there will be many many gorgeous days, from now on.

After brief lunch in City (self nearly fell asleep on the drive there, too much cough syrup has soporific effect, thankfully woke up each time felt car bumping over lane dividers — !!), self stayed inside the rest of the day, grading student papers and watching The Montel Williams Show. Today’s topic: “Ticking Time Bombs.”

Had asked students to explain following line from Richard Rodriguez‘s “Late Victorians”: Serendipity has an eschatological tang.

Received all kinds of colorful responses from students. Here’s a sample:

The fate of life lies with “faith.” The girl jumps off the Golden Gate Bridge into the sky, into the heavens and meets up serendipitously with the gods. There is a tang along with it, however — a pleasant shock — She meets the cement like a sweet and sour piece of candy greets the tongue. A certain facial expression. Always caught by surprise, a pinched face with an open mouth, a reaction that helps to withstand the bitter tang of the candy until its flavor wears out and sweet candy resides.

Eeeek! Self has no idea how to grade such.

Turn to venerable NY Times Book Review for relief. Without further ado, here are the books self is interested in reading (after perusing the April 15, 2007 issue of The New York Times Book Review — the Fiction in Translation Issue)

(1) After reading James Wood’s review of Chilean Roberto Bolaño‘s novel, The Savage Detectives, translated by Natasha Wimmer:

Roberto Bolaño’s short novels By Night in Chile; Distant Star; and Amulet
Roberto Bolaño’s short story collection, Last Evenings on Earth

(2) After reading Terence Rafferty’s review of Colombian writer Laura Restrepo’s novel, Delirium, translated by Natasha Wimmer:

Laura Restrepo’s Delirium

(3) After reading Joel Agee’s review of Nobel Prize winner Elfriede Jelinek’s most recent novel, Greed, translated by Martin Chalmers:

Elfriede Jelinek’s Greed

(4) After reading Elizabeth Schmidt’s review of Maryse Condé’s latest novel, The Story of the Cannibal Woman, translated by Richard Philcox:

Maryse Condé’s The Story of the Cannibal Woman

Rome.7/ Next-To-Last Episode (The Withdrawal Begins)

That was quite an intense episode of Rome, just ended.

Atia repudiated by Marc Antony because of evil Cleopatra/ Julia-Louis Dreyfus look-alike.

Little Caesarion, son of Cleopatra and Julius Caesar, shown to be pet of Lucius Vorenus. Am sure there will be hell to pay when boy gets off-ed on orders of Octavian.

Gaia, on her deathbed (stabbed by prisoner Memmio), says she cannot confront Nemesis without clearing her conscience. Confesses to poisoning Eirene. Whereupon Titus Pullo, as only to be expected, wraps two strong hands around her throat and hastens her demise, then dumps her body in the river. Yaaay!!

Octavian in bed scene with wife, unaccountably does not beat her as promised, though shows off nice physique (wife has little belly, needs to work out more — oh, I’m forgetting, this is ancient Rome, no one worked out).

Tongue-less Memmio shown hirsute in a cage, dementedly swatting at flies. Killed in a struggle with whore Gaia, but not before he in turn inflicts fatal stab wound of his own, which leads to her deathbed confession and — well, you know the rest, dear blog reader.

In preview of next week’s final (sob!) episode, Octavian goes to Egypt, Marc Antony crows that he has “called the dog out.”

Atia shown calling for Marc Antony’s destruction (Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned …)

As self had previously indicated, love the character Jocasta: impish woman turns out to be first to welcome Atia and old chum Octavia to Egypt, gabs about latest fashion in Roman hairstyles.

BBC better think of something quick, as self will be quite bereft until next sword-and-sandals epic . . .

Rome.4

Feel faint. Latest Rome episode just ended on extremely dramatic note. Lucius Vorenus reunited with his children (alas, not before eldest daughter had been forced by unscrupulous slaver to service untold number of men), and bears them away from slave camp, faithful Titus Pullo at his side.

As I suspected, plot to poison Atia foiled — first of all, she took forever to put spoon she had already dipped into poisoned stew into her mouth.

Scene unfolds thus: Althea solemnly bears stew to table. Atia dips spoon into the pot. Just as she appears poised to take a swallow, however, she peevishly demands of Althea a song. Althea, in the time it has taken to walk stew to table, has developed quite an ugly bruise beneath right eye (Interesting: had NO idea poison could have this type of effect) but Atia continues to wait expectantly, as if she has noticed nothing at all.

At this point, it is not necessary for me to tell you, dear blog reader, what has transpired, because you can figure it out for yourself even if producers hadn’t thoughtfully decided to show you that Althea, that big, strapping girl, HAD dipped finger into stew and tasted it (Perhaps all Roman servants required to take first taste of master’s food as safeguard against poisoning? Since plots so prevalent, after all–! Foolish of Duro not to have known this! Or perhaps Althea was simply hungry — ??).

Ring, riing, riiiiing! That’s my cell phone! Who could that be? Oh, son, asking if I can advance money for Valentine’s, it seems he is a bit short. Hold on, son! Mom is in the midst of VERY important business. Back to you later, OK? Okey-dokey! Got to run! Bye, son! Luv ya!

Althea tottering but (absolutely heroic!) manages to sing with blood slowly trickling down one side of her mouth. Collapses. Dies. Crone dressed all in black bends over her and declares: Poisoned! At this crucial moment, foolish Duro spied peeking out from kitchen. Caught handily, Duro subjected to most unspeakable torture before being stabbed with great fervor by Atia flunkie— that is, with much grunting and panting– and then dumped head first down a grate (Faint splash indicates corpse may have entered Roman sewer system)

Meanwhile, Octavian metamorphosed from Little Lord Blakeney actor of Master and Commander fame — to tall, handsome hunk with STRAIGHT hair. “Why do you suppose–?” I ask, turning to hubby. “He wasn’t good-looking enough,” hubby pronounces with knowing air. Must admit Blakeney actor’s curly hair and resemblance to Doogie Howser made it difficult to picture him as conquering general, someone capable of whupping dissolute Marc Antony’s ass–!! (But it was so entertaining to see him and Marc Antony rolling around on floor and slugging each other, made M.A. look an absolute dolt). Agree with hubby that this incarnation of hallowed emperor-to-be much easier on the eyes (though, alarmingly, seems already to have acquired a very fey side-kick, lounging in tent and composing verse, hmmm …)

Will not dwell too much on Servilia’s torture scene, as involved many unspeakable acts. Servilia last shown curled up on bed and totally freaking out at servant woman’s touch, may have gone permanently cuckoo.

Marcus Agrippa appears in Atia’s household bearing message for Octavia from Octavian, blurts out his love, Octavia deflects declaration by asking about her brother’s eating habits. In this scene, Marcus Agrippa looks very baby-faced and young. When he meets Cicero in later scene, glint of steel can be detected in his face, applaud amazing ability of British actors to show quite remarkable range …

In preview of next week’s episode, Lucius Vorenus’ eldest daughter, the one who was forced to work in bordello, shown expressing intense hatred for her father. Octavian shown hugging Atia, though expression on her face seems to indicate indigestion (Almost got the idea he was stabbing her, though doubt very much noble Octavian would do this to his own MOTHER.) A bearded and haggard Marc Antony shown standing face to face with New Octavian. Hold on! Would like to see what happens between Marcus Agrippa and Octavia! But, this being Rome, not likely that sister will go for anyone other than brother, eh?

(More next week …)