The changing seasons

This is the tree in our front yard. I don't think it's quite ready commit completely to autumn.

Blind hope

When I first saw the trailer for the movie "Blindness" I got goosebumps. I loved this book when I read it way back when, right after it won the Nobel Prize for Fiction. But then I remembered what Hollywood did to other books I loved. "All The Pretty Horses" was the worst. The movie practically ruined the book for me. Luckily, I was able to put the movie out of my mind. (I just pretend it never happened.)

Written by Jose Saramago, it was translated from Portuguese. Even though the hardbound copy is only 293 pages long, the book took me a long time to get through. Saramago can be difficult to read. He doesn't signify dialogue with quotation marks, and punctuation is sort of random, so everything kind of flows together. But even now, just rifling through the pages of my copy, I'm drawn to read passages again.

"What are you thinking of, asked the girl with dark glasses, worried when she heard the snipping of the scissors cutting off her hair, If your parents were to return, they would find hanging from the door handle a lock of hair, who else could it possibly belong to but their daughter, asked the doctor's wife, You make me want to weep, said the girl with the dark glasses, and she had no sooner said it, than she lowered her head over the folded arms on her knees and gave in to her sorrows, her sadness, to the emotions aroused by the suggestion made by the doctor's wife, then she noticed, without knowing by what emotional route she had arrived there, that she was also crying for the old woman on the first floor, the eater of raw meat, the horrible witch, who with her dead hand had restored to her the keys to the flat."

Because of the difficulty of the material, and because it's so good, I really worry what Hollywood is going to do with this story. The book isn't a horror story in that it isn't about ghosts or monsters, but it is terrifying, like any apocalyptic book, in its study of human nature. In the trailer, it looks like the movie makers captured the starkness and desperation of the book. I only hope they can keep that desperation as quiet and meaningful as Saramago did.

The trailer looks good. You can watch it here.

I will see the movie. I will try not to get my hopes up. Oh, too late.

It sucks to be me

What I watched -- Live theater version: "Avenue Q" at the Ellie Caulkins Opera House, Denver

The lights come up on an urban street scene. Row houses line the street. It's all a bit like "Sesame Street." Puppets and live actors mingle. Characters have names like Kate Monster, Brian, Trekkie Monster, Christmas Eve, Gary Coleman and Lucy the Slut. Yeah, this is not your kindergartner's puppet show. While it's like "Sesame Street" with puppets, songs and important lessons, the puppets of "Avenue Q" drop the F-bomb, have carnal relationships and sing songs to teach us "It Sucks to Be Me," "Everyone's a Little Bit Racist" and "The Internet Is For Porn."

At various times, two adorable bears show up to help our characters make decisions. They are the bad idea bears. They offer essential advice like, "Take her home. She's wasted. Yaaay!" and "Why buy a six-pack if you can save money buying bulk? Yaaaaaaaaaaay!"

And while it has puppets, it's definitely not for the kiddies. To my dismay, as usually happens with things that are inappropriate for children, people brought their pre-teens. I imagine they had some interesting conversations later that evening explaining the puppet sex.

"Avenue Q" is irreverent, funny and probably offensive to a lot of people. So, of course, I thoroughly enjoyed it. You can see and hear some clips on the official Web site. But you really have to see the entire show to fully appreciate it. It's playing in Denver now through Sept. 21.

What I heard

Listening recently to a podcast of This American Life, I heard Shalom Auslander say something I wish I'd said myself. I didn't write it down at the time so I can only paraphrase:

I don't like people. That's why I don't understand racism. When there's so much to dislike about a person, why choose the color of his skin to focus on?

As I said, it's not a direct quote (but pretty darn close), but it sums up how I feel about racism. It's hard not to prejudge people based on how they dress or look, it's human nature. If we take a minute to get to know someone, we probably find our initial judgment may have been wrong. Sometimes the person who was dressed nicely wasn't all that nice and the person who looked a bit of a bum turned out to be a sweetheart.

As I've said -- much less eloquently than Auslander -- assholes come in all colors.

Landscaping

There comes a time in our lives when we must admit we're not good at everything and some DIY projects are better left undone. Professional landscapers exist for a reason. They have the manpower, the know-how and -- let's face it -- the gumption to get the job done.

I'll readily admit that yard work is not my thing. While I love spending time outdoors, I want that time to be spent sipping a cold drink and watching the clouds roll by. Sticking my hands in the dirt, pulling weeds, digging, raking are just not my cup of tea. I always seem to end up with a rash on my arms and a sunburn on my shoulders. So, when the work needed to be done, we called in the professionals.

They ripped up dead sod and shrubs. They weeded and put down new mulch and rock. And they finished the work in a fraction of the time it would have taken me and the significant other to do it. We spent one whole day just doing a tiny little area -- that the professionals ended up redoing because the weeds had come back with a vengeance. They did almost the entire backyard in less than a day. We didn't have them add any new plants because we haven't decided what to put in yet. But with the weeds pulled and the dead grass gone, the yard looks 100 percent better than it did just two days ago.

I've learned a few things from this experience. Always use landscape cloth, professionals will do a better (and faster) job than I could ever hope to do, and my dog suddenly becomes shy about doing her business if there are strangers in her backyard.

What I read: "Independence Day" by Richard Ford

Richard Ford's "Independence Day" won the 1996 Pulitzer Prize for Fiction. It reminded me a lot of John Updike's "Rabbit Is Rich," without the loathsome characters. (Updike won the Pulitzer in 1982 for that book and again in 1991 for "Rabbit At Rest.") The book tells the story of Frank Bascombe's Independence Day weekend. Bascombe, once a short story and sports writer, is now a real estate agent. Divorced and living in what he calls his "existence period," Bascombe goes through the motions of showing houses to a difficult couple, deciding whether or not to end a lukewarm relationship and trying to get to the heart of the matter with his troubled teenage son.

Both books tell a story of the Everyman and a slice of his life. Angstrom is a car salesman. Bascombe is a real estate agent. Both have troubled sons. Angstrom has a seemingly troubled marriage, while Bascombe marriage is over. While Bascombe bears a resemblance to "Rabbit" Angstrom, he's more self-aware and likable. That might also come from "Independence Day" being written in the first person.

The books share a certain tone of despair and hope. The characters seem to despair when things look most hopeful and are most hopeful when all seems lost. But, while I struggled to get through "Rabbit is Rich" or even care about one character in the book, I relished "Independence Day" and found myself hoping for the best for everyone.

It's not an exciting book. You won't find car chases or shoot outs. Although, there is a tense scene involving a batting cage. It's a fairly quiet book, with vivid descriptions of New Jersey towns and the countryside. I finished reading the book last week, and although it has stuck with me, I found I didn't have much to say about it. I suppose that can be said about my own life at times.

Accomplishment

Two years ago, we decided to redo our deck. We thought we could just replace the flooring. But when we pulled up the wood, we found extensive dry rot. Which means the home's builder (who I won't name, but is known for its *classic* home style) didn't bother to use pressure-treated wood to build an outdoor structure. The project came to a screeching halt. Later, some friends helped us take out the old wood and replace the frame and floorboards. We used composite on the flooring.

Time passed while we tried to decide what to do for rails and balusters -- and passed and passed. Two years later, we decided to use wood rails and aluminum balusters, along with copper post caps and solar post cap lights. It took two grueling, sun-baked, god-awful-hot weekends, but we finally completed our deck. And added a couple of brightly colored wood Adirondack chairs and side table for kicking back and enjoying an iced tea or beer.

I've never been much of a do-it-yourselfer. I'm not exactly handy with tools -- especially power tools. But it feels pretty good to walk out and see something I helped build. It's quite an accomplishment.

What I did this summer

I've been able to read for as long as I can remember. I could read when I started kindergarten. In 4th grade, I was reading at a college level, according to the standardized tests. That's not to brag, just to say that reading has always been easy for me -- and a pleasure -- and the thought of not having that is almost beyond my comprehension.

So, with some extra time on my hands this summer, I decided to volunteer as a tutor for the Children's Literacy Center. I worked one-on-one with two different children at Adams Elementary School: a six-year-old boy and a nine-year-old girl. I tutored each kid for an hour a day, twice a week, using the Children's Literacy Center's Peak Reader program. It made my job easy. I just had to follow the curriculum and lessons in the book. The most fun was doing flash cards with the kids. Some days, the boy I worked with was a little wound up so we would go out in the hallway with the flash cards. When he read a word correctly, I would have him hop forward or spin around or do some other activity. By the time he'd read all the cards, he'd be ready to sit down and do a lesson.

I find it interesting to think about learning to read. Think of the English language and all the crazy "rules" it has. Then look at a word like "said." How does that fit in anywhere? How does "ai" make an "eh" sound? Or think about "two" which sounds like "to" and "too." Why is there a "w" in that word? In our sessions, we called these kind of words "naughty" because they don't follow any rules. You just have to remember it. It gets crazy when you think about it for too long.

By the end of our eight weeks together, the kids had learned the words on their flash cards and were doing well reading on their own. I hope they learned a lot and are ready for school to start. I know I am a better person because of the experience. I'm sure I got as much out of as they did.

At the end of it all, we had a party with cookies and games and lots of smiles. I have a picture of myself with the two kids, all of us smiling and really enjoying ourselves. The boy I tutored wrote me a note that said, "I love you Pam." It almost made me cry.

I'll be tutoring again in the fall. I don't know if it'll be with the same kids or different ones. But I'm sure it will be rewarding. It feels good to think I've made a small difference in these kids' lives, even if it was just for the fact that someone took time out of her day to spend it with them.

What I read: "A Thousand Splendid Suns" by Khaled Hosseini

I have yet to read "The Kite Runner" by Khaled Hosseini. It's on my reading list. I've almost bought it at Starbucks a few times. I look for it at the library, but it seems to be too popular to stay on the shelf, and there's always something else on my list.

"A Thousand Splendid Suns" wasn't on my list, but when I went to look -- once again -- for "The Kite Runner," several copies of this book sat on the shelf. I picked it up, thinking I'd give Hosseini a chance with his second book.

I'm really glad I did. "A Thousand Splendid Suns" is one of the most heart-wrenching books I've read in a long time. It was almost painful to read at times, yet I found myself unable to put it down. The two main characters -- Mariam and Laila -- are so compelling, so tragic, but still so courageous and filled with hope even in the face of hopelessness, I couldn't wait to see what happened to them. And then I didn't want it to end.

Set against the backdrop of Afghanistan through the rise and fall of the Soviet Union to the horrors of civil wars and the Taliban, "A Thousand Splendid Suns" manages to be filled with both hope and despair, beauty and horror. Anyone who has ever believed they wouldn't tolerate the kind of treatment Afghan women endure will come to see that they would tolerate it. Both Mariam and Laila have little choice as to whether they will put up with being beaten, being told when and where they can go out, wearing a burqa or being given away in marriage to a man more than twice their age or marrying a man who already has a wife. In Laila's case, her husband is old enough to be her grandfather. But circumstances don't really allow these women another option.

Despite the raids, the bombings, the beatings, the women experience moments of pure splendor:

"Outside mockingbirds were singing blithely, and once in a while, when the songsters took flight, Mariam could see their wings catching the phosphorescent blue of moonlight beaming through the clouds. And though her throat was parched with thirst and her feet burned with pins and needles, it was a long time before Mariam gently freed her finger from the baby's grip and got up."

Khaled Hosseini was born in Kabul, Afghanistan, but moved to the United States in 1980. Still, he manages to capture what I can only imagine it must be like to be a woman in Afghanistan. Despite the struggles, the losses, the absolute terror of living in a worn-torn land, life -- somehow -- goes on. They still love and find beauty in their country and each other.

What I watched: Dr. Horrible's Sing-along Blog, Act I

Neil Patrick Harris is Dr. Horrible. Nathan Fillion is Captain Hammer. They are arch enemies. It's a musical. Feel the love: http://www.drhorrible.com/act_I.html

No. Really. Just watch. It's 13 minutes and 49 seconds you won't regret.

Act II starts July 17. Act III is July 19. I can't wait.

What I read: "A Prayer for Owen Meany" by John Irving

Owen Meany is strange. And my experience reading about him was strange. At one point the narrator talks about a class reading stories by Alice Munro. During my last trip to the library I checked out "A Prayer for Owen Meany" and a book of short stories called "Runaway" by Alice Munro. I thought that was a small strange coincidence. "A Prayer For Owen Meany" culminates in a flashback to July 8, 1968. I just happened to finish reading the book on July 8, 2008.

I know those are just coincidences, but what makes it strange is that the book itself is about coincidences and miracles. Irving creates his typical quirky characters and makes us care about them. "A Prayer for Owen Meany" tells a tale of love, friendship and courage. Owen, who never grows to more than 5 feet tall and retains a child's voice throughout his life, teaches others how to overcome adversity despite his own problems.

The book is funny and touching and at times profound. Some may find the characters over the top (it's what Irving does -- see "The World According to Garp"). But that's what I like about it. The characters are eccentric or flamboyant or boisterous or evil in their way. You love them or hate them, but you care about them and what happens to them next.

There's even a bit of a history lesson in the novel, as we learn how many American troops were in Vietnam on a given New Year's Eve and how many had died. The book also gives us some history of the Iran-Contra scandal. It's interesting to compare those times to what's happening in our world today.

In his introduction to the 2002 edition of the novel, Irving says, "I may one day write a better first sentence to a novel than that of 'A Prayer for Owen Meany,' but I doubt it."

It's a long sentence and it opens the book with a bang:
"I am doomed to remember a boy with a wrecked voice -- not because of his voice, or because he was the smallest person I ever knew, or even because he was the instrument of my mother's death, but because he is the reason I believe in God; I am a Christian because of Owen Meany."

The book hasn't converted me or made me believe in miracles -- I'm too much of a skeptic -- but it was a strange experience. And I, too, am "doomed to remember a boy with a wrecked voice."

What I watched: Happy Accidents

First, I have to confess an irrational attraction to Vincent D'Onofrio. It isn't that I find him especially good looking -- at least not in any kind of conventional way. But when I see him on television, I can't take my eyes off him. Even on recent episodes of Law & Order: Criminal Intent, where D'Onofrio is looking a little bloated and worn, I still can't help watching. When he's not on that program -- when they have a Chris Noth storyline instead -- I don't watch. I don't care. Of course, there's something especially intriguing about D'Onofrio's Detective Robert Goran. The character is fun to watch. He's a little nuts, and I love that.

Which leads to my recent viewing of Happy Accidents. This movie is an eight-year-old independent film starring D'Onofrio and Marisa Tomei (who I also find intriguing and beautiful). Sam (D'Onofrio) and Ruby (Tomei) meet at the park and begin a whirlwind romance. Everything seems perfect until Sam starts displaying some strange quirks. He's especially afraid of small dogs. Why? They don't have them where he comes from. Which is where? Dubuque. Iowa. Except it turns out Sam doesn't mean "our" Dubuque. Sam believes he is from Dubuque in the year 2470. Ruby thinks Sam is just another in a long line of losers she's dated and tried to fix. But there's something about Sam that keeps her hanging in there.

This is a sweet little movie with some twists to it, including a pre-Dead Zone cameo from Anthony Michael Hall -- they refer to him as "that geeky kid" from Sixteen Candles. It's a perfect movie for a rainy afternoon. It's worth watching, if for nothing other than getting to look at D'Onofrio and Tomei for an hour and 50 minutes.

On my mind

Today would have been my mom's 71st birthday. This video, with images of her through the years, is for her and everyone who loved her.

What I watched -- Dexter, The First Season on DVD

"Dexter" is dark but it's also darkly funny and a lot of fun. The series airs on Showtime, so I knew little about it besides what I'd read or heard from others. But it's summer, and most of the programs we normally watch are on hiatus, so "Dexter" got bumped to the top of the queue. And I'm really glad it did.

Dexter (played with lovable creepiness by Michael C. Hall) is a forensic investigator, working for the Miami police and specializing in blood spatters. He's really good at it, but then he has a bit of an inside track. Dexter also happens to be a serial killer. The difference is Dexter only kills those he feels deserve to die: other serial killers. (Don't question it. Just go with it.) Dexter was adopted when he was 3 and raised by a cop -- Harry Morgan, played by James Remar -- who understands Dexter's tendencies and creates a code to help Dexter control his urges. He also teaches him how not to get caught.

The first season zips along with plot elements involving a serial killer that knows Dexter and leaves clues just for him; Dexter's love life, such as it is for someone who feels nothing (or so he says); his family life, which includes his foul-mouthed adopted sister; and the investigations he helps with. "Dexter" is a cop show with a big difference: Dexter himself. Supporting characters help round out the show, with well-acted characters you love and those you love to hate. I found myself caring about all of them.

I was pulled in by the very first scene, watching two or three episodes a night until the satisfying season finale. Season 2 is available on DVD Aug. 19 (season 3 starts September on Showtime), and I'm already chomping at the bit hoping it's even half as good as Season 1.

If you like dark comedy with real tension and suspense, check out "Dexter." There's plenty of bloody scenes but nothing is really gory. And the language is definitely R-rated for the dropping of multiple F-bombs.

I give it multiple thumbs-up (watch the show, you'll see why).

Surreal

I really enjoyed the movie "Stranger Than Fiction." I liked the concept of a fictional character becoming self aware. I don't think I'd like to find out that I am actually a fictional character in someone else's (extremely boring) story. But this morning I had one of those moments that make me stop and question reality. It was almost too weird to call coincidence.

I was stopped at a red light at a busy intersection. It's one of those lights that give you time to look around because you sit there for several minutes. The song on the radio was "Superman" by Five For Fighting. Just as they sang following verse, I noticed a red balloon flying up into the sky about a block away.

I’m only a man
In a funny red sheet
I’m only a man
Looking for a dream

I thought it a rather appropriate image for the lyrics. Then I thought but it would be more appropriate if they were playing "99 Red Balloons" (or "99 Luft Balloons" for you purists). "Superman" wrapped up and I heard:

You and I in a little toy shop
Buy a bag of balloons
With the money we've got
Set them free at the break of dawn
'Til one by one, they were gone
Back at base, bugs in the software
Flash the message
"Something's out there"
Floating in the summer sky
99 red balloons go by

I looked for a logical explanation. Maybe I heard the DJ say they were going to play that song. But he hadn't. In fact, I turned to the radio station just as the previous song started. I decided not to question it.

The balloon flew out of sight, the light turned green, and I drove on, tapping the steering wheel in time to the song. It was my moment of Zen.

A day late and a dollar short

I called my dad yesterday for Father's Day and I sent a card. So I didn't completely forget Father's Day, but I didn't write anything about it.

I've been so focused on losing my mom that it took yesterday to make me focus on my dad for a bit and to remind me my significant other lost his dad last year. This is our first Father's Day without him.

We honored our dads the best way we could -- by sitting in front of the TV for hours watching the US Open. I'm sure that's what my dad was doing, anyway. If I'd made the 16-hour drive to spend the day with him, we would have grilled steaks in the backyard and sat in his air-conditioned living room watching Tiger Woods struggle to end the day at one under par, along with Rocco Mediate. I'm not much for watching golf, but it seemed like the right thing to do yesterday (and it was actually kind of exciting).

The picture above shows my mom and dad as new parents back in 1961. That's my oldest brother, Jim, in Mom's arms. The picture was taken at my grandparents house just after Jim's baptism. My parents look happy and just a little scared. They went on to have three more kids, so it must not have been the worst thing they ever experienced. But then Jim was never the problem child.

Nope, I'm not going to say who was. (But it wasn't me.)

An Irish Blessing

My mom loved flowers and birds. Birds flocked to her backyard feeders, and her roses were the envy of the neighbors. I didn't really inherit her green thumb, but I am working on putting together a small area in my backyard in her memory. It will have plants -- drought-resistant, of course -- a birdbath and this stepping stone I made. I wanted something that would remind me of my mom without being an obvious memorial. I didn't want it to look like a grave marker.

This passage comes from a poem my mom's Irish father wrote when he was a young man.

Flowery be thy pathway
And blue the sky above thee
Happiness in each coming year
To thee and those that love thee

Shortly before Grandpa died, he gave this poem to my mom. I think it was his way of saying goodbye, and it's held a special place in my heart for the past 20 years. I like to think this little Irish blessing applies in this world and the next -- whatever that might be. It helps to imagine my loved ones who have died happily walking down a flowery pathway with the blue sky overhead.

What I watched: "Lars and the Real Girl" on DVD

I'm not normally one to post a movie review, but "Lars and the Real Girl" is such a sweet movie, I have to talk about it. It's not cloying or obvious. It's sweet in the way that most big budget Hollywood love stories starring big name Hollywood Beautiful People can never be (not that the people in this movie aren't beautiful; they just aren't Beautiful).

Ryan Gosling stars as Lars, a shy, wounded 27-year-old who seems to be afraid of getting too involved with others. As the filmmakers say during a making of feature on the DVD, Lars is wobbling. He can either go over the edge or he can join life. Because he doesn't relate to people he orders a Real Doll from the internet. When his family finds out he bought the doll -- there's never any hint that he bought the doll for its intended use as a sex toy -- they worry about his mental state. Lars believes (or seems to believe) "Bianca" is a real girl. Then something amazing happens, instead of laughing at Lars as his brother predicts, the community embraces him and treat Bianca like the real girl Lars believes her to be. What if something like that could really happen? What if everyone could be compassionate toward everyone else rather than laughing, staring or running away? We might learn something about ourselves. We might learn something about the people we love. We might join life.

I highly recommend this movie. I loved it and I'm extremely cynical.

What I'm reading: "Bird by Bird" by Anne Lamott

I'm only on the second chapter of Anne Lamott's "Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life," but already I'm starting to feel inspired by it. Despite her saying that I'll probably never get published and even if I do, it won't be all I've dreamed it will be, she inspires me. Maybe it's paragraphs like this one:

Because for some of us, books are as important as almost anything else on earth. What a miracle it is that out of these small, flat rigid squares of paper unfolds world after world after world, worlds that sing to you, comfort and quiet or excite you. books help us understand who we are and how we are to behave. They show us what community and friendship mean; they show us how to live and die. They are full of all the things that you don't get in real life -- wonderful, lyrical language, for instance, right off the bat. And quality of attention: we may notice amazing details during the course of a day but we rarely let ourselves stop and really pay attention. An author makes you notice, makes you pay attention, and this is a great gift. My gratitude for good writing is unbounded; I'm grateful for it the way I'm grateful for the ocean. Aren't you? I ask.

And because I had to answer yes, I closed the book and sat at my keyboard. I'm still searching for my muse -- inspiration for that great American novel -- but I feel it's time to write without my muse. To allot a certain amount of time each day to just sit down and write whatever comes to me: the neighbor's yapping dog that sounds like he's being beat to death, the wind in the aspens outside my window, the giant bumblebee that found its way into my kitchen. Just 15 pages into the book and Lamott is making me pay attention. It's possible I'll hate her in another 15 pages or I'll get snarky because hey she published a book, why shouldn't I. But she has already made me laugh and that's usually signals the beginning of something good for me.

My son, Sam, at three and a half, had these keys to a set of plastic handcuffs, and one morning he intentionally locked himself out of the house. I was sitting on the couch reading the newspaper when I heard him stick his plastic keys into the doorknob and try to open the door. Then I heard him say, "Oh shit." My whole face widened, like the guy in Edvard Munch's Scream. After a moment I got up and opened the front door. "Honey," I said, "what'd you just say?" "I said, 'Oh shit,'" he said. "But, honey, that's a naughty word. Both of us have absolutely got to stop using it. Okay?" He hung his head for a moment, nodded, and said, "Okay, Mom." Then he leaned forward and said confidentially, "But I'll tell you why I said 'shit.'" I said Okay, and he said, "Because of the fucking keys!"

Toddlers swearing -- precious and precocious. I plan to post a full review when I've finished reading the entire book. If I'm not too busy writing my novel, that is.

A killer among us

She doesn't look like a vicious dog, but today she proved she's a killer. Grabbing a bird in the corner of the yard, she tried to bring it in the house. Despite my protests and angry voice, she wouldn't let it go. When I finally got it away from her, it was too late. It wasn't dead, but the poor thing didn't last long. I know it's nature and all but I really don't want my dog killing birds. I makes me realize that this can't possibly be the first one she's gotten. I shudder to think she may have eaten baby birds. I suppose I can rest easy knowing rodents won't have a chance if they ever make it into my house. And I can hope she'll be as effective against zombies and aliens.

Update: To be clear, I don't condone this behavior and I certainly don't think it's funny. But it was in my own backyard. I especially hate to see domestic animals injuring wildlife. We have neighborhood cats whom roam free. I often chase them out of my (fenced) backyard. I will try to keep my dog from hurting any more animals.