A good try, but through most of the middle of the book I was bored to death. We have parallel characters, one who's plot moves forward at a turbo speeA good try, but through most of the middle of the book I was bored to death. We have parallel characters, one who's plot moves forward at a turbo speed, the other's is painfully, excruciatingly slow. They come together in the end in a rather predictable way, and then we just need to skim the last few pages to see if it's a happy or sad ending. It's a happy ending for me, because it is the end. When I am... When he is... When one is... Please, just pick a pov and stop messing around. It is very hard to write an exciting story about a boring small town where everything is boring. When your point is "this is boring," you take a risk that your writing will be boring. Mixing up pov does not equal "exciting," it equals "confusing" and "distracting." ...more
Overshare? Why, yes I will, thank you. For a condensed review: This is a great memoir, not just about Rent, but about grief and love and honesty. ForOvershare? Why, yes I will, thank you. For a condensed review: This is a great memoir, not just about Rent, but about grief and love and honesty. For way more information about most-likely-irrelevant-to-you connections I made to my own experience, read here...(view spoiler)[I was raised on a steady diet of musical theatre. My dad spent most of his career behind the stages of Broadway and off-Broadway productions, and he met my mother in the touring company of Cabaret -- he the stage manager, she a failed actress doomed with a committed heart to the stage, playing a walk-on trombone player in a sexy beaded leotard. By the time I came around Dad had settled in to a stable position with 20th Century Fox, and Mom found her niche in writing and raising me. But most evenings found me and Dad curled up on the chocolate-brown shag carpeting of the den, surrounded by the highest tech audio equipment available in the 1970's, blasting the torch songs of Judy Garland, Barbra Streisand, and Carol Channing at their highest volume. Maybe it goes without saying that Dad was a little eccentric. Always his daughter and eager to please him, I was also a bit of a set-piece for him, dressing me in vintage gowns with ostrich plumes, choreographing sets to "Sam, You Made the Pants to Long" for my gymnastics class, and parading me at cocktail parties filled with theatre/film people I didn't realize were famous at the time. I sometimes think that if the biology had been right, I'd have been a knockout gay boy. It's possible he thought that, too. I did a lot of theatre in high school and college, even pursued a theatre degree for a few years, and nearly died from anxiety every time Dad showed up for a performance. He was extremely critical with every show he saw, and always blatantly straightforward with his opinions of my performance. I think he was proud of me but also very scared that a life in theatre, a life I told him I wanted, was too fraught with rejection for my sensitive soul to survive. But I knew that when he said I did well, I probably did. Theatre was our connection, and as I continued through school and found other fields to pursue, I always felt closest to him in a theatre, or any room with a musical soundtrack playing through the speakers. In 1991 he moved to Eastern Europe. A new stage of his life had begun, bringing his eccentric weirdness to the hapless villagers of Transylvania. I missed him terribly. His connection to the theatre world was pretty much severed, and I tried to keep him up to speed with my new favorites. He gave his seal of approval on a few, which made me enjoy them even more -- especially Wicked, the kind-of forgotten now Freudiana, and, of course, Rent. I like to pepper my netflix queue with a good dose of musical theatre, mostly to relive that connection I had with my father. Rent came in my mailbox last week. I waited for an afternoon when I was alone, afraid that my vulnerability to my dad's memory and the overwhelming heart of the story and music might embarrass me in front of friends and family. True to expectations, I cried as I watched it, then watched the dvd documentary special feature and cried some more. My boyfriend came home and caught me drying my tears. Sweetly, he asked to watch it, too, so I saw it a second time and cried some more, just to be sharing it with someone I love. I knew I had an old used copy of Rapp's memoir on my shelves somewhere, and I dove into it as soon as the credits rolled. No, that's not true. First I had a smoke to compose myself, and my boyfriend did something incredible. He's a really smart and sensitive, thoughful guy, but he almost never talks about movies he's seen or fiction he's read. I think he was raised to feel defensive about his personal feelings and emotional responses, coming from a household with such huge differences of worldview and philosophies. He hates confrontation and the vulnerability of verbalizing emotion, a theme I saw a lot, by the way, in this memoir. Anyway, Aaron came outside and said, "That was beautiful." Of his own free will. He said that, even though his life was nothing like the lives of the characters, he could identify with each one of them. It moved him. His comment moved me. So the memoir starts with some great behind-the-scenes action of the studio production of Rent and the life of a NY actor. Fun stuff. Then we're introduced to Rapp's family, and his mother's illness takes center stage. As we understand their relationship we also learn about Rapp's attempts to come out to his mother and his early experiences with homosexuality. We frequently return to renthead-mania, as he continues with the off- and on-Broadway run, but it really just syncopates to the story of his mother's long and painful demise and Rapp's struggle with his own grief. I didn't know that's what I was getting in to, and, on this most emotional evening, I began to feel the sorrow of my own father's death. And, because I love to overshare, I'm going to tell you about it: Dad died in 2006, when I was 33 years old. I lived in Iowa, he lived in Romania. He died of heart failure due to HIV-related complications. I was told he'd died over the phone. He was such a long, long way away, and the news split me in half. I'd been preparing for his death since I was 13, but it didn't make it any easier. Dad contracted HIV sometime in the late '70's. He told me about it in the mid '80's. And, the anomaly that he always is, he miraculously survived for 20 more years, without ever developing AIDS. Who knows what made his chemistry resistant, though he took the drug cocktails available, and allowed doctors to prod and experiment with new drugs and regimens, but his auto-immune system eventually gave up, attacked by circulation problems, heart conditions, severe arthritis, and just a general, undefinable, manic-depressive craziness that conquered his brain. But those were 20 long years of bracing ourselves through every illness, every depression, every doctor's visit with -- this could be it; this could be the end. It took Rapp's mother a long time to find her peace, and it took Rapp a lifetime, as well. Rapp writes so honestly and nakedly about his love, his fears, his faults, that I felt right there with him. His writing gets a bit flowery, with all kinds of energy and electricity flowing and jolting and careening through his body at every opportunity, but I didn't mind so much. As an actor, he's very plugged in to emotional response, and I enjoyed his visceral descriptions. And I loved, loved his honesty. When he performed well, he told you; when he was a fool, he admitted it. When he kissed a boy, he admitted that, too, and his example of living honestly and bravely will be just the right medicine for a generation of readers, once they realize that this is not just a book about a musical. (hide spoiler)] ...more
This is what happens when prisons don't employ librarians...a bunch of male offenders pick dreck like this. Now I want to read The Notebook, only to fThis is what happens when prisons don't employ librarians...a bunch of male offenders pick dreck like this. Now I want to read The Notebook, only to figure out how to sell a novel in one week for a million dollars. If this guy can do it, anyone can. I'm thinking the secret is: exploit tragedy to its extreme, and continually refer to what a good Christian you are. And be a huge UGLY AMERICAN and then be kind of proud of it.
Yes, Micah, you definitely deserve to be the one guy in centuries they allow to have his photo taken on ancient sacrificial stones, making fun of an entire civilization. You are that cool.
************************************************************************* So it's a few days later, and I've now attended our book group discussion. I was also honored to attend IMCC's First Annual Volunteer Appreciation Event, in which all volunteer programs were invited to a lovely ceremony, with food and drink, and an opportunity to socialize with offenders that valued the volunteer opportunities made available to them. What an awesome experience. IMCC is lucky to have a community of generous and intelligent support, ranging from an insider/outsider chorus and songwriting group, Job Club, Writers' Group, Master Gardeners, Incarcerated Veterans, Parenting Group, AA, and Stories for Dads, not to mention lots of spiritual/religious support. There was so much love in that room, so much pushing and striving for a better life, over 200 volunteers were honored, and 200 offenders were present to give their thanks and show the work they were so proud of. One offender, presenting a certificate to Stories for Dads, spoke of how, because of that program, his three-year-old child had her only opportunity to hear his voice, and how that was enough to push him to be a better father upon his release. It was truly a moving event, and has inspired me to keep working for this community, knowing that whatever benefits we can bring are truly appreciated. The offenders that were present are not just people determined to take charge of their own lives, but work everyday to inspire their peers to do the same, and they are really the people that deserve an appreciation ceremony. So, with all this in mind, is it any surprise that my book group colleagues found a lot of value in this book (remember, this is a review of Three Weeks With My Brother?). A couple of them couldn't finish it because it hit too close to home. What they identified with is Sparks' feeling of loss, losing his parents and sister. Many of my colleagues have no family to return to upon their release -- loved ones have either died during their incarceration, or abandoned them as lost causes. Through this perspective, I can appreciate what they see in the text, and Sparks' optimism and values can be a real balm for someone who is seeking a new take on life. And if this book helps a man feel less lost in the world, than I'm glad it's out there. I don't retract my criticisms, but I'll concede this -- every book its reader, and hallelujah for the power of narrative....more
Maybe more of a 2-star "it was ok", but I can't bear to give Dan Simmons anything less than a 3. It started out gang-busters -- unusual narrative persMaybe more of a 2-star "it was ok", but I can't bear to give Dan Simmons anything less than a 3. It started out gang-busters -- unusual narrative perspective, spooky, portentous backstory. Then we meet Clare Two Hearts, and I'm pissed as hell to be spending time on her. And Duane's voice keeps shouldering in on the narrative -- clever in the beginning, disruptive by the middle. I get that device, in the end it makes a kind of sense, but Clare can go hang. If she's a red herring, too many words are wasted on her, and if there's more to her, I don't have the energy to parse it out. Though I wasn't blown away by this one, I still recommend it to any Simmons fan. Regardless of the genre he chooses, he's a master at atmosphere and interior complexity. He pulls it off so much better in his more recent work -- Drood, Terror, but you can faintly see how he's honing his craft in this earlier work. His characterizations of Dale and all the Elm Haven citizens (except maybe Duane) are spot on and mesmerizing. Just Clare, what the f?...more
A while back, while reading Mr. Peanut, I was distracted by a small side-story of two lovers who meet in a Hitchcock seminar. Regardless of these charA while back, while reading Mr. Peanut, I was distracted by a small side-story of two lovers who meet in a Hitchcock seminar. Regardless of these characters and their roles in that story, I became increasingly jealous of their enrollment in such a course. I never got to study Hitchcock in school! But I want to! I do! Spoto's Hitchcock bio (this one, I mean. He's also written two more) was the perfect overview of Hitchcock's films and his at times creepy, pathetic, inspired and always melodramatic persona as genius director. I was fascinated with Hitchcock's slow evolution from introspective new kid to generally respected director to legendary and untouchable commander of his realm. It was a good lesson in how, as we grow older, we become concentrated caricatures of ourselves; Hitchcock only became more lugubrious, more opinionated, and more fat as he aged. And, if Spoto is to be believed, more viciously obsessed with his leading ladies the more sexually abstinent he remained. Also, here's the kind of stuff I just eat up like candy, and most of you probably already know already, and I probably knew, too, but promptly forgot, and can enjoy just as much the second time around: --Tippi Hedrin is Melanie Griffith's mom; Melanie was four years old at the filming of the The Birds, and Hitchcock gave her a doll dressed as her mom (green dress), nailed into a little doll-sized box. --Anne Baxter is Frank Lloyd Wright's granddaughter. --Carole Lombard might have been Hitchcock's own first superstar, if she hadn't died in a plane crash at the age of 33. Of course I've been watching a few more Hitchcock films than usual lately. I really recommend 39 Steps, and watch for all the sexual double-entendres you wouldn't usually expect in a suspense drama of its era. I watched The Trouble with Harry last night, and was really thrown by just how weird it was. Shirley McLaine makes her film debut here (Hitchcock discovered her on the stage), and she is just...high. I'm pretty sure she's high the whole time. Her later embrace of New Age really doesn't surprise me in the least. This bio was long on a chronological study of Hitchcock's character, but short on film analysis. Of course, that was Spoto's intention, so I can't fault that. But I'll certainly be reading more about the films themselves. Talking about long, have you seen Spoto's backlist? Enormous. And he's still doing it -- his Joan Crawford just came out last week. ...more
Back in a classroom after 17 years, I felt awkward and inept concerning my ignorance of PowerPoint. I may have seen PP presentations back then, but IBack in a classroom after 17 years, I felt awkward and inept concerning my ignorance of PowerPoint. I may have seen PP presentations back then, but I didn't put much thought into the software, just tried to focus on the content and let the presenter take authority for the presentation. I was never called upon to present one myself. This year my 7th grade son created a PP presentation on Burkina Faso, his first initiation into PP. Having pretty much no information on Burkina Faso going in, I found that after his presentation I still was coming up short. I understand they cook with potatoes. Well, it's 7th grade, what do I expect? The answer is, I should expect my son to come up with some valuable information and transfer it to his audience (for me, I'm a pretty blank slate here). Having some familiarity with my son, and now having some familiarity with the inherent limitations of PP, I realize that it was not entirely my son's fault that his presentation taught me something vaguely about potatoes. The format dumbs down information, fashioned more like a commercial than a teaching tool. The irony is that I was assigned this reading in class. The concurrent class I'm in is requiring small groups to present once a week, and so far all of them have used PP to some degree. My number's up in early December, and previously I've been nervous about having to create my first PP presentation. Now, I feel somewhat relieved that my suspicions concerning its usefulness have been justified, but all the more fearful that my own conscience won't allow me to learn and use it even as its pretty much the assumed method of delivery. Can I get away with an informative handout? Should I let my group partners bear the weight of the PP part? Do I just acknowledge that it kind of sucks but do it anyway? But I hate clip art...Even more ironic, my presentation topic is "Literacy and Pedagogy". Tufte would have a field day....more