Reader, I married him

While many movie directors’ desperate attempts to stay true to a book makes them forget they are making an adaptation, Cary Funkunaga Jane Eyre illustrates that he understands that a movie should use the unique elements as a medium to provide additional depth and insight to a novel.

One way in which Funkunaga "adapted" Jane Eyre was the liberty he took in presenting the story en media res – it proved to be an absolutely brilliant stroke. It allowed Funkunaga to condense the earlier portions of the book; as the Rivers’ question Jane about her history the camera would cut to short snippets of Jane’s memory to answer the question. When St. John asks about her school, the camera abruptly cuts to the back of a girl’s bare neck that is struck with a stick. In one shot, Funkunaga encapsulated Jane’s experience at Lowell school.

Okay, so Funkunaga knows how to work a camera, but was it really necessary to present yet another movie of Jane Eyre? Jane Eyre has been translated to the screen more than a dozen times – surely everyone has said it all. Right? Au contraire, contrare mon frère! Because so many movie adaptations simply portray the book as a love story, Funkunaga wished to illustrate that there is much more to the novel. Although this adaptation begins in the middle and cuts out large portions of the book, it is the most successful at emphasizing the bildungsroman genre. Mia Wasikowska – thank you for an actress that is not over 30 playing the role of a teenager – shows how Jane is growing up by highlighting her discovery that she has a libido. The movie highlights Jane's ground zero by Jane's conversation with Mrs. Fairfax. This reminds the audience how naive Jane is – she has not traveled or even interacted with men in years; talk about sheltered. The cure? A sexy Byronic hero played by Michael Fassebender. He is perfect – (perfectly sexy.) I mean if this scene does not awaken your libido, you might as well cloister yourself in a nunnery.

It’s not all sex though - it portrays Rochester as – dare I say it – patient. Eh, perhaps patient is a stretch. But I always hated reading the numerous conversations in which Rochester pretends he is going to marry Blanche Ingram; he is such a manipulative jerk. Yet the movie highlighted more of Rochester’s motive – which downplayed the cruelty – by presenting the context of Rochester as a mentor in Jane’s journey to personal discovery. Rochester knows she needed to discover and boldly declare her love for him, so he used jealousy as a tool to exhume these feelings that were deep inside her. (I still think it was manipulatively Machiavellian, but it was a bit more palatable in this interpretation.)

That being said, the proposal scene left me a bit miffed. I don’t know if they used up all the passion juices in the earlier almost-kiss-scene, but I did not feel the chemistry here. One friend suggested that it was because the score was not utilized enough to draw out our emotions. It could be that. Personally, I think Jane is just a bad kisser. (Granted she is better than the last Jane Eyre adaptation. I think Toby Stephens didn’t know how to handle that huge frog mouth and just decided that aiming anywhere on the lower half of her face would ensure a hit – unfortunately he still missed her mouth every time.)

Another element that Funkunaga resurrected from the novel is the Gothic roots. Yes everyone, Funkunaga has put the Gothic back in Jane Eyre. He utilizes long drawn out silences that are interrupted by rearing horses, birds shooting out of the underbrush, and smoke cascading from chimneys. I literally jumped in my seat several times. However, I do wish that Funkunaga could have played up the mad wife in the attic a bit more though. I mean, a mad wife hidden in the attic? How can you not play that up? That is straight Gothic gold sent from the Gothic Gods.

Like the movie, I'm going to end this long review with an abrupt end. While the movie had its faults, lackluster chemistry and exploitation of the lunatic upstairs, this proved to be an incredible movie. Better yet, it proved to be a brilliant adaptation.

Trying not to Trip & Douches: Adventures at the National Undergraduate Literary Conference

Last time I presented at a national literary conference, I tripped in front of all the prominent Cormac McCarthy scholars on my long walk to the podium. Luckily, I managed to stay on my feet this weekend when I presented at the National Undergraduate Literature Conference.

The NULC is held at Weber State University. Random, right? I thought it was fake - by fake I mean that I thought they were just titling it a "national" conference when in actuality, the only participants were university students studying in Utah. After meeting people that traveled from Florida, Washington, California, Idaho, and Colorado I realized that it is legit. It's always nice to realize that you are presenting at a legit conference.

Another random thing about the conference was the re-occurring topic of douches. It began with my friend Amy, who presented a brilliant paper examining different levels of violence in a play by T.S. Elliot. In her analysis she examined this particular part of the play:

SWEENEY: I knew a man once did a girl in
Any man might do a girl in ...
Once in a lifetime, do a girl in.

Well he kept there in a bath
With a gallon of lysol in a bath

Amy argued that this image of preserving a body in Lysol functions as a violent attack at the audience for their perversion of fertility rituals. She came to this conclusion because during this time Lysol was advertised as a douche and was believed to also function as a birth control. Don't worry, they soon discovered using Lysol this way could be fatal.

I'm not going to lie, I'm jealous that Amy got to use the word douche several times at an academic conference. It has always been a goal of mine to use unsettling words in such an erudite environment.

But the douche references did not end there! A guest poet, Sharon Olds read a poem entitled "Ode to a Douche." What are the odds? The poem began with how my peers use the term Douche bag without knowing that it symbolized the suppression of women. Suffice it to say that I became a fan of her work; she combines humor, poignant thoughts and speaks about female experiences without being cliche (i.e. being a mother). Apparently other people like her too. She was invited by President George W. Bush to the National Book Festival. She published a letter to the first lady declining the invitation, and ended with:

"So many Americans who had felt pride in our country now feel anguish and shame, for the current regime of blood, wounds, and fire. I thought of the clean linens at your table, the shining knives, and the flames of the candles, and I could not stomach it."

Damn.

I wish that some day I will be able can write something this powerful to someone as powerful as the first lady.

This is the reason I love literary conferences: the stimulating conversations, hearing provocative ideas, using the word douche in an academic paper, being inspired, and experiencing the deep sense of camaraderie with people who love to study literature.

Fashion: Boutique Multiculturalism

The other day I looked at my outfit and realized it was not particularly PC: I was wearing my vintage cowboy boots, a Navajo print shirt and a necklace I bought off a Bedouin on Mt. Sinai. As people would comment on my outfit, I would respond by explaining my weariness of being a walking contradiction. By walking contradiction, I was referring to the fact that I was wearing a symbol of American westward expansion - boots - and a pattern from a people exploited by Manifest Destiny - shirt. But then I realized something even worse, people could interpret my "eclectic" outfit as me being a Boutique Multiculturalist.

Oh dear, I can see it now: people on my college campus spotting my outfit and smugly thinking to themselves, "what a boutique multiculturalist."

It is one of my goals in life to avoid being associated with Stanley Fish. Fish's argument boldly asserts that multiculturalism is an impossibility; a statement that just pisses liberals off. Oh Stanley, you just love pushing those liberal's buttons, don't you? In his words, this term refers to the "multiculturalism of ethnic restaurants, weekend festivals, and high profile flirtations with the other" (1). The superficiality of this brand of multiculturalism becomes apparent as "the boutique multiculturalist will accord a superficial respect to cultures other than his own, a respect he will withdraw when he finds the practices of a culture irrational or inhumane" (3).

Does my outfit - fashion - apply to this culturally flirtatious group?

At a certain level it appears to be incompatible, because it seems that the importance of aesthetics in fashion attempts to divorce any deep cultural meaning behind a particular look. For example, for many the Boho-chic refers to a look that has little to do with the pretentious pretending of tolerance for bohemian and hippie lifestyles. So those who wears these styles do not profess to advocate different cultures. Then again, wearing the outfit inherently suggests that you are well traveled, and in tune with other cultures. So maybe fashionistas are the lowest of the low in the boutique mutliculturalist group.

For many fashion is blindly following a trend. It is those 13 year old girls who wear a Kufiya and have no idea what region of the world it originates from. However, I feel that within the fashion industry are people who understand the aesthetic beauty of different cultures and incorporate it into their creations. Perhaps it is a bond with a culture at a very basic level, appreciating craftsmanship, innovation and beauty.

I could be being an idealistic liberal - I'm sure Fish would see it that way. Even if i am being idealistic, it is a healthy beginning to be aware that the incorporation of different cultures into fashion is problematic. I like to think that my outfit is a symbolic healing of an old wound. Okay, that is perhaps taking it a little too far. Honestly, this blog post is just a way for me to feel better about a culturally insensitive outfit, because I like that outfit and I want to wear it again guilt free. I also wrote this to justify the fact that for over two years I've wanted

a handbag made out of a Native American blanket.

I'm such a boutique multiculturalist.

Accordion Love

It's one of my life goals to date/marry someone who plays the accordion. It's super nerdy and random. I blame it on:

Enjoying French films

That it's an instrument firmly rooted in folk music

Being in love with Beirut for five years

The fact that it has bellows, and I like saying that word.

The memory of an old, Florentine restaurant owner who came and played his accordion while we ate dinner

And that accordionists are just plain sexy

I also have a thing for guys who play the banjo.

St. Patrick's Day

Last year, I took a class that made me question traditions: can traditions be positive or negative? This questioning began right around the time of St. Patrick's Day, which led me to question my tradition of wearing green and eating lucky charms on St. Patrick's Day. These are fun traditions, but I came to the conclusion that these acts have been stripped of any substantive meaning for most Americans.

It's a hollow tradition.

I didn't want to blindly take part in this tradition any longer, so I went to the library and checked out a book about the celebration of St. Patrick's Day in America. St. Patrick's Day became a holiday in the early 20th century because of the conscious effort of Irish Americans to show their support for the Ireland's movement for independence.

If you don't think I'm nerdy yet, it gets worse. I'm sure my roommates hated me for doing this, but at our St. Patrick's Day feast of dyed green eggs, bacon and pancakes, I brought down a stack of books containing my favorite Irish writers. Then I made them listen to me as I read passages from James Joyce and Yeats.

So here are a few passages to celebrate St. Patrick's Day:

"The Dead"
A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the c o rooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.

Hunger

A few months ago I watched this film on Instant Netflix. It is about the hunger strike led by IRA leader Bobby Sands. I was blown away. It is directed by Steve McQueen, written by Edna Walsh (a brilliant playwright whom I love), and acted by the talented, beautiful Michael Fassbender.

You can watch the trailer here.

"Hunger" Sands & Priest Dialogue: witness some incredible dialogue.

"Lakes Isles of Innisfree"

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,

Dropping from the veils of the mourning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.

A Very Hipster Weekend

If you want to be a hipster, this is how you should pass your Friday nights:

1. Find a friend that is at the same level or higher on the hipster hierarchy to be your comrade in arms for this weekend outing. I chose my good friend Amy, who is fantastically stylish, a brilliant creative writer and a film aficionado. She is also Asian, and as my friend Becky says"It's so hip to be Asian right now."

2. Replenish your hipster wardrobe by shopping at off the beaten path stores to set the latest unique fashionable trend (i.e. a vintage store, salvation army, D.I, or Urban Outfitters for a synthetic hipster look).

Plunder: Structured, faux snake skin purse and a velvet hat bedecked with feather

We went to Decades: one of the best affordable vintage shops. I desperately wanted this simple yet chic cream 1960's dress. Alas, it was too small. Luckily it fit Amy's tiny Asian body perfectly. Ah, to be a hip, tiny Asian.

3. Go to a hole in the wall restaurant that serves organic food and saves the world. For us, One World Everybody Eats fit the bill. When you go to this restaurant avoid showing elements of your character that contradict the easy going and cool nature of the hipster persona. For example, do not ask if there is liquor in the split pea chicken soup because it tastes suspicious. I know it is hard, you may have had past experiences in which servers accidentally give you alcohol, but overcome this paranoia that is not hipsterish and just eat the damn soup.

4. Go to an event that is obscurely highbrow (a good test of this is to ask yourself: would Matthew Arnold approve of this?) and has quirky elements that give it a slightly kitschy flavor - this is your cool factor. We decided to go to a silent Buster Keaton film with live organ music. *Notice the Buster Keaton film is the obscure highbrow and the organ music is the quirk*

5. Intelligently discuss the event. If you feel like the event was ridiculous, do not say so. Admitting this will destroy all your credibility as a hipster. If you cannot come up with an intelligent observation, do not panic; hipsters are by definition posers. In fact I'm sure your friends are struggling with the same conundrum. To keep up appearances, simply feign appreciation and speak about how the masses fail to be cultured hipsters like yourselves.

For example, "I thought the part with the umbrella was clever. The slow motion, which I did not realized was used as a film technique during the silent film era, exaggerated the physics going on to a Mary Poppins level. It also highlighted Buster Keaton's genius as a comedic contortionist. People really miss out on the peak of slapstick humor by refusing to see silent films."

If you do the following, congratulations you are on your way to being a hipster. Now don't tell all your friends of your success - admiting you are a hipster or calling yourself a hipster destroys the most important element of being a hippster: pretending to not be self conscious about being cool. Now you may wonder about my credibility to instruct you how to be a hipster when I've proclaimed myself a hipster and thus broken the cardinal rule of hipsterdim.

My reply? Exactly, Becky Hayes.

Save Antiques Roadshow

I've recently read several intellectual arguments for or against the Republicans budget proposal that would cut funding for PBS and NPR. To be frank I don't understand half of what they are arguing about and nor do I care. They can argue about politics, freedom of speech, and educational programming until kingdom come, but if Antiques Roadshow is taken off PBS I will be legitimately pissed.

For those who have not experienced the brilliance of Antiques Roadshow, it is a program that travels around the country and gives local people the opportunity to have their antiques appraised by professionals. It may sound a bit droll, but nothing can describe the suspense that builds as the expert slowly reveals the unique history of an antique and you wonder: will it only be worth a few hundred dollars or a few thousands? (In my experience it is always the Native American artifacts that consistently hit the jackpot.)

Not only is it suspenseful and an interesting, but the “human” aspect of the show is brilliant. Those who bring in their antiques are consistently eccentric, and the antiquarian’s extreme passion for obscure topics (e.g. 19^th century toy soldiers) is boundlessly entertaining. I remember one episode where an appraiser was so moved by the beauty of a Ming Dynasty Magdog statue that he began to weep. At this moment I knew that this show had all the potential elements for a Christopher Guest mockumentary (here is an example of Christopher Guest's genius work). Where else can you find such raw human emotion anywhere else on national television? Nowhere.

You may argue that allotting millions of dollars to keep one show running is not pragmatic, but I would like to remind you of the other irreplaceable shows that PBS gives and has given us. PBS is the creator of Wishbone, the television series about a jack Russell terrier who relates the events of his master to classic works of literature. Because of Wishbone my brother passed high school English, and I felt that I possessed more knowledge about literature than my classmates. Subsequently I felt English was strength of mine. So it could be argued that my exposure to Wishbone at a young age inspired me and predisposed me towards my current path in pursuing a PhD in English literature.

How can we cut a program that grooms our future intellectuals through the assistance of a clever jack Russell terrier? Also, how else am I supposed to watch Masterpiece Theatre when PBS is the only provider? No more Downton Abbey? Can we support such injustice? These are serious questions.So please sign the following petition so we may continue enjoying the epic episodes of Antiques Roadshow.

Conspiracy Theory

While a fair number of people consider Simon and Garfunkel lyrical geniuses, few hail them as the inspiration for Christopher Nolan's film "Inception." It seems that Simon and Garfunkel have been cheated out of fame for the movie's plot, despite the fact that the evidence is blatantly obvious. I stumbled upon it when listening to "Sounds of Silence." Within this song is the basic idea that drives the movie.

Hello darkness, my old friend

I've come to talk with you again

Because a vision softly creeping

Left its seeds while I was sleeping

And the vision that was planted in my brain

Still remains

Within the sound of silence

To give this theory a healthy dose of irony, I believe that someone played this song while Nolan slept as a child. Who planted this idea in his brain while he was sleeping? That is a discussion for another conspiracy theory blog post. Now I must go and scour the musical duos' lyrics from "Little Boy from New York" to discover the connections to Nolan's Batman trilogy.

Arcade Fire's Album of the Year

"What is an Arcade Fire and why are people excited for it?"

"Album of the year goes to: Arcadia Fire, WTF are they???"

I'm tempted to attribute the above misspelling of Arcade Fire to reading too much Tom Stoppard, but I think the closely trailing WTF safely rules that out. These two comments represent the topic that is feverishly being tweeted and facebooked about: who is Arcade Fire and why do they deserve to win album of the year. For those miffed tweeters, facebookers and bloggers, let's attempt to answer the question.

From what I can gather, the root of the problem is the differing opinions about the criteria of album of the year. A girl's facebook comment succinctly illustrates one of the main reasons for outcry when she states that "anyone who wins album of the year should be known by EVERYONE". While I would like to avoid the dangerous tangent of debating the merit of award shows and review critics, I do see some problems with these complaints. I expect award shows, like the grammys, to choose artists based on musical merit and not popularity. If the award was given on popularity, Justin Beiber would have swept the awards. Now ideally popularity and merit should walk hand in hand, but often this is not the case in pop culture. If anything, I often use reviewers and award shows as a resource to find new artists; they save me some time sifting through thousands of the up and coming.

Another common compliant is that neither Eminem or Lady Gaga won. Both Eminem and Lady Gaga are great artists - I listen to them both. I think Eminem is an incredible rapper, and undoubtedly he was Arcade Fire's most menacing competition. However, Arcade Fire won this year because they have mastered an important criterion that people commonly overlook when deciding who to back for album of the year. A majority believe that album of the year equates to the largest number of best selling hits per album. Yes, this is part of it. But it also about the album as a whole: how the songs cohesively work together to create a larger work of art (i.e. the album). Arcade Fire has been experimenting with this in their previous albums, and The Suburbs represents a masterpiece where they seem to have nearly perfected it. In this album, Arcade Fire coagulates sixteen diverse songs into one fantastic symphony. That my friends, is why the unknown band, Arcade Fire, won best album of the year.

Nickled and Dimed: Coming up short

*This is an embarrassing story. I should not put myself up as such an easy target for ridicule on the blogosphere, but it is too funny to pass up.*

I love the symphony/orchestra. I also love my friend Kylie. So when she told me that she was playing in University Orchestra, I knew I had to attend.

The day of the performance came and I went to buy a ticket for myself; the ticket was the loose change amount of three dollars. As I’m paying for my ticket the box office attendant tells me “your card has been declined. Do you have any other way of paying for the ticket?” I reluctantly tell her that I only have the card. I walk away empty handed and officially embarrassed.

Like any normal, self-respecting person I only use cards and the occasional check at Costco, so I had to scour my room for any kind of cash. Finally I exhumed two one-dollar bills and a dollar worth of change in nickels and dimes. As I walk towards campus with my money I turned red just thinking about how ridiculously pathetic I will look paying for a three dollar ticket in change.

I reach the Ticket Office and I place the ratty dollar bills and sprinkle the change on the counter to order my ticket. “I don’t know if we accept change” the Box Office attendant says and he quickly turns to the two or three chatting employees and asks “hey, do we accept change?” Fantastic, apparently paying in change is more pathetic than I even anticipated. Not only that, let’s alert everyone in the BYU Ticket Office that I’m paying for a three dollar ticket in change. A fellow employee answers, “we normally don’t, but if she does not mind that we cannot give any change back.” I sigh with relief - crisis averted.

But then he begins to count the money.

“You are short a nickel. Do you have one on you?” Crap. I must have miscounted. How could I miscount? I worked as a bloody cashier! I’m blushing like mad at this point, and I begin to look furiously in my bag.

Nothing.

“Hey does anyone have a nickel?” he asks the employees. Brilliant. Now I’m the Box Office charity case. And of course no one has a nickel.

I’m standing there not knowing what to do. Should I grab the money and run? He looks at me and says, “don’t worry about, we will figure something out.” I walk away almost laughing out loud with embarrassment. It was a kind gesture, but it was also the only gesture that the box office attendant could make - I was so pathetic that I basically cornered him into giving me a nickel.

The love child of John Smith and Pocahontas

The other day I noticed that my brown flats, of three and a half years, were falling apart. So, I recently bought a pair of shoes as a replacement.

While breaking my shoes in, a friend commented on how they were an interesting mix of Native American and European culture.

They are the love child of John Smith and Pocahontas.

We all laughed heartily at the joke, patting ourselves on the back for being so witty and clever.

But then I realized just how much the joke revealed. Historically speaking, John Smith and Pocahontas never had a love child. There was not romance. She married John Rolfe, became a Christian, adopted the name of Rebecca Rolfe, and assimilated into English society.

So why did we all make John Smith and Pocahontas a couple?

Disney.

I love Disneyland and Disney. However, I do not appreciate their romanticized and false portrayal of early American history. I remained a disillusioned, naive, indoctrinated child for a long time because of institutions like Disney. It was not until high school and college that things were told in there more gritty reality. This incident is similar to the quixotic history of taught at schools about Christopher Columbus discovering America, and the relationship between Native Americans and the English.

I realize that history in of itself is a narrative and cannot be relied on as fact. However, there are some renderings of history that are more accurate than others. Also, I realize that Disney made a Pocahontas II in which they tried to rectify their historical mistake. But it is too late. It is like an unwritten rule that sequels never create as much revenue, are as well written, or as widely viewed by the public as the original (excluding the anomalies of Lord of the Rings, Star Wars, and Batman). In other words, Disney cannot undo the damage that has been done.

On that note, I would like to wish everyone a Happy Thanksgiving. I don't know about you, but I'm thankful for adorable brown flats, Disneyland, Disney, and the wonderful songs from Pocahontas.

O.R.C.A Poetry

Warning: The following may contain graphic or violent images that may be upsetting for animal lovers or followers of P.E.T.A. These views do not reflect the views of the author of this blog. These ideas are the rant against writing a academic grant proposal entitled O.R.C.A. Whales were not intended to be hurt in the process of the making of this poem, but unfortunately the name too closely resembled the grant's name - whales became collateral damage in a bitter diatribe against the grueling task of writing a proposal.

O.R.C.A. Blood

Kill the freakin whales

Harpoon them

Use their blubber to fuel industry

Destroy every copy of Free Willy

Put Shamu in a 9x10 tank

And buy hundreds of tickets to see him

fueling the industry that traps these wild animals into captivity

"There she blows!"

See capitalism reap and Marx weep

Tears that may be similar to his twin Fredrick Douglas

See me weep

I swim and jump through hoops

to the whistle of my trainer

to be rewarded with a fish

"My mother was a fish"

Well I'll Northrop FRYE that Stanley FISH

bite the hand that feeds

my academic needs

Cormac McCarthy Diary: Waiting for Chigurh

"The boat is going to Texas. Only now is the child finally divested of all that he has been. His origins are become remote as in his destiny and not again to all the world's turning will there be terrains so wild and barbarian so try whether the stuff of creation may be shaped to man's will or whether his own heart is not another kind of clay" (Blood Meridian 4).

While reading this passage I too was going to Texas. While I was not going to join Judge Holden's gang, I was going to discuss it. Last week I flew into Austin, Texas to attend and present at the Cormac McCarthy Society Conference in San Marcos with two BYU professors and three fellow undergraduates.

Shortly after our arrival into Austin we went to the cheaper option motel rooms that we reserved. However, the frugal decision actually enhanced the trip, because upon arrival to our motel we all looked at each other with the same thought: this is just like No Country For Old Men.

"Chigurh drove slowly along the row of the motel rooms with his window down and the receiver in his lap....He left the office with the key in his shirtpocket and got into the Ramcharger and drove around to the side of the building and parked and got out and walked down to the room carrying the bag with the receiver and the guns in it" (No Country for Old Men 102-3).

As I relayed the scene in my mind, it's no suprise that this is the first thing Ruth and I did when we entered the motel room:

Good night. Let's hope Chigurh does not pay us a visit.

Eat Your Heart Out Persephone

This weekend, my roommate Becky brought home dozens of pomegranates from her family tree in Las Vegas. We've been devouring them ever since. I must admit that up until this week I have only eaten a few pomegranates and those were eaten within the past year or so. I think the reason for my belated tasting is that my mother shrewdly saw the lethal combination of unforgiving pomegranate juice and messy children.

Pineapples you have to cut, bananas you peel, kiwis you scoop out, cherries you spit out the seed, and Pomegranates you pick at. Eating a pomegranate is like exploring a M.C. Eshcer lithograph.

Whatever way you eat your pomegranate, it is my new goal in life to recreate this painting:

Perhaps a little less masculine though.

Welcome Back Autumn

Hay is a symbol of Autumn: hay rides and hay bales lining pumpkin patches.

While at home this summer, I watched the annual ritual of transforming chest high fields of grass into heavy compact bales of hay, cinnamon rolls and marshmallows.

The cinnamon roll

I find something aesthetically beautiful about these coarse, hay cinnamon rolls.

I had to have pictures of these cinnamon rolls so I drove around in my car snapping pictures with my phone. I didn't dare get out of the car - I was afraid that the farmers might call the cops on a girl tromping through their fields with a camera.

The marshmallow

I remember when my dad woke me and my little brother in the middle of the night to drive to a neighboring field so we could examine these strange looking marshmallows. Our dad told us that these were the props for an upcoming X-Files that they were filming in our home town.

I'm the most gullible person in the world - so of course I believed him. But in my defense I was groggy, young and they were strange enough looking in the moonlight to be featured in an episode of X-Files.

Welcome back Autumn.

Musical Coupling

A few months ago I found out that one of my favorite music artists is dating another favorite comedian/singer/actor:

Joanna Newsom and Andy Samberg

Can you imagine of a more interesting musical duo?

Just think about it: the man that performed the comical Iran So Far, is dating the compositional genius that wrote 81'.

I wonder if two eccentric and talented people may have a functional and normal relationship.

Either way, the thought of this musical coupling makes me bemusedly happy - something is right in the world.

Garden Party

shower, n. An abundance of gifts of a similar kind presented by guests at a party to celebrate esp. a wedding or purpose. 1904 Grand Rapids Even. Press 22 June 4 the 'shower parties' that through mistaken hospitality the wedded couple are forced to attend.

These hydrangeas and sprigs of mint are from our garden.

There are several elements of Bridal showers that I dislike.

When I decided to throw a shower for my dear friend Katie, I vowed to avoid those unpleasant elements of traditional bridal showers. To begin with, on the invitations I referred to this party as a "garden party" instead of a "shower" because I find the term "shower" to be somewhat cheesy.

My other objection to "showers" are the mandatory games. This includes the ever so fun activity of creating a wedding dress out of toilet paper.

At Katie's garden party, we ate delicious food instead of draping toilet paper over people.

Martha Stewart cake recipe: angel food cake sandwich with several layers of sorbets, jam and ice cream. I'm sure Martha would describe it a lot more elegantly than I just did, but who can keep up with Martha?

Then there is that one person who decides to make everything awkward by gifting some lewd, tawdry piece of lingerie.

At Katie's shower she received practical and beautiful gifts to put in her kitchen.

Overall, it was a successful garden party - just look at all the genuinely happy people below.