The Accidental Tourist

On Friday night, my book group meets to discuss The Accidental Tourist, and I can't wait. Although I am not quite finished, I know this book will make it to my Top 10 Favorites list. This is not a new book, but I have avoided it for two reasons. First, I associate it with Geena Davis who starred in the movie...not my favorite performer. Second, I just don't like the cover. Now don't go all cliche on me here and start with the "You can't judge a book by its cover," business, because sometimes you can, and that will be left for a later discussion.

My predictions for Friday: Loved it...Valerie, Jess, and me (which is unusual, since Valerie and I generally disagree; hated it...Nancy and Mary (which is unusual since Mary and I always agree!); for Angie, this will be a take it or leave it book. Steph will say she disliked it, but her comments about it will show differently. We'll see.

Tyler's style was play-like which was it's first appeal for me. Then there was the Waiting for Godot theme. Macon and his wife divorce after their son's death. Many marriages are vulnerable following such an incident, but these two never had a warm relationship to begin with. And Macon...what a guy. He's OC, as is his entire family. He organizes instead of deciding. His over-intellectualizing dulls his emotions, and worst of all, he has never committed to his life. When a quirky, gypsy type invades his space, Macon finds his life going in unexpected directions, and for the first time in his life, he might have to make a decision that could result in accepting shades of grey as life's norm. Pretty disturbing for a guy who spends his life negotiating for perfect balance.

I wonder, is any decision better than no decision? How careful is too careful? If all our actions are always in perfect balance, is there a place for reactions? Don't be dissuaded from reading this book if all this sounds way too serious. Tyler's storytelling is actually quite light-hearted, with family foibles, and eccentricities becoming the platform for the more esoteric thoughts she constructs.

For some reason, I also thought it was time to tackle Anthony Burgess's dystopian novel, A Clockwork Orange for about the 10Th time. The invented language, a symbolic blend of English and Russian challenges me, and slows the reading down. The title comes from an old British saying, "queer as a clockwork orange," and now that I have finally bulldozed my way through, I understand. Fifteen year old Alex Madsat looks like a normal kid, but inside, he is anything but. He is programmed for violence, and Burgess uses his novel as a sort of warning of what the world could become if we don't attend to the ills of society. Even though Burgess, an an avowed anarchist, wrote "Orange" in 1962, his amplification of societal dysfunctions resonates strongly today. Alex, the anti-hero, is totally unapologetic about the mayhem he stirs up with his three companions. They burgal, steal, beat, rape, and eventually murder. Alex is enrolled in a experimental treatment program to cure him of his taste for violence. He is released into society where his victims seek revenge. Although Alex is now repulsed by violence, his victims lust after it, and the tables turn. How successful was the treatment?

Happier thoughts.....last week while browsing at St. Vinnies, I stumbled across 1915 edition of Under Canvas or The Search for the Carteret Ghost. Think about it. This book is almost 100 years old. Inside was the funniest inscription I have ever read - "Merry Christmas to a little boy with a fat neck. Jane and Phil."

What could that possibly mean? Who was the boy with the fat neck, why did he have a fat neck, and more inportantly, why did Jane and Phil think it was Ok to imortalize that fact?

Thanks for stopping by.

Notes Left Behind

Seldom do I get on the inspirational/self-help/miracle/find the easy answer/get rich quick/synchronicity book bandwagon. Much to the chagrin of many customers, I never read The Secret, the rampant popularity of which still baffles me. That's the book that asserts that if you think it, it will come to you. Want fame? Just think about it. Want good fortune? Kick back and wish it so. Sure, I am oversimplifying, but I am not alone in my skepticism. Sadly, my feelings about this book were in part validated a few weeks ago when three people died in a sweat lodge ceremony. The facts have not all been gathered yet, but the man who organized the sweat lodge, and promoted (for a fee) the practices held there, was quoted throughout The Secret. Does that make the entire book bad? Is guilt by association an all-inclusive way to judge someone or something? No, but the connection is troubling.

Onward. About that bandwagon....last week I saw a family being interviewed on a morning talk show, and knew that those inspired by Randy Pausch's The Last Lecture might seek out the book being discussed. It is sure to be a favorite among the soft-hearted crowd. In fact, I predict it will be one of our biggest sellers in the coming months. What impressed me was that the man and woman being interviewed hardly mentioned the book; as a matter of fact, they had to be prompted to promote it at the end of the segment. Their joy came from sharing the memory of their daughter,Elena. I ordered the book for the store, knowing full well that I would read the first chapter, and only the first chapter, just to get a taste, and then put it on display. Something about Elena's parents stuck with me, and so, one Sunday afternoon, and a box of tissue later, I closed the back cover.

Elena Desserich was diagnosed with a brain tumor at age five. Upon receiving the news that would forever change their lives, her parents, Brooke and Keith, made two decisions. First, they would keep a journal all about Elena. They were heading into a black hole, unsure of what waited at the core. In case Elena didn't survive, they wanted everything about her recorded so that her little sister,Gracie, could know her. Second, they vowed (I love this phrase) to squeeze every drop of sunshine out every single moment.

Elena understood that she was sick, but no one really knew the wisdom her little heart held. Elena's wishes were simple....a carriage ride, spaghetti at her favorite neighborhood restaurant, seeing one of her paintings hang in a "real" museum, a wedding dress, and a visit to the Eiffel Tower. All but the last were possible.

What kept me reading was the lack of sentimentality. Mom and dad took turns writing journal entries, focusing on the little questions, requests, and quirks that made their daughter who she was. The writing isn't refined, but it is honest. There are no great truths to be found here, just a simple story of a little girl who loved pink, and whose final request in life was to dance with her daddy.

During her illness, Elena wrote notes to her family. She hid them. Her parents find them tucked between the pages of her coloring books, hidden in drawers, canisters, and secreted into the tiny pockets of their messenger bags. Elena sealed only two notes in envelopes, one for each of her parents. Brooke and Keith say they will never open them. It comforts them to know there will always be one more note from Elena.

**********Here's the annual Halloween picture of my beast waiting for the trick-or-treaters. I spent a whole dollar on her get-up at The Dollar Store. She wore the horns for about ten seconds, but she had a grand time greeting space aliens, bums, and princesses.

Thanks for stopping by.

Greetings and BOO to you

Fine Print on a Saturday? Yup, I'm launching this two days early since I will be at a trade show on Monday. Better early than late, I guess. This way, I avoid the call from an unnamed reader. When the post is not up by noon on Monday, I receive a call inquiring "When?". The tone of speaker varies. Often it is concern...is something wrong? But, there have been days of annoyance...will I be seeing it yet today?...to downright rudeness...if I don't see it in an hour, I'm not reading it again.

I have no idea who it is. I cannot recognize the voice, and caller ID onlh reads "cell number." So, here's to you, dear, unknown reader. sip your coffee, read on, and please know there will not be a fresh post on Monday. Live with it.

Masquers, Manitowoc's awesome community theatre group opened its season last week with "Greetings." Since the HTR no longer reviews shows (a fact I stand and applaud), I have decided to toss around some theatre thoughts from time to time.

Let's begin! Great job Jamie! Jamie Strutz directed, and, for a new, young theatre leader. she has much to offer. Her theatre studies in college provided a nice bag of tricks, and she complements that with solid instincts, an ability to play on nuances, and good old fashioned intuition.

Jamie put together a powerhouse cast, loaded with experience and, and artistic respect. Great seeing Chris Kornely back on stage in a major roll. Chris is a rock, a director's dream. Once she locks in her part, you know she will be consistent and strong. Corrie Skubal and Justin Knapp make a fine team as the star-crossed lovers at the center of the show's conflict . They were comfortable with each other, lending a level of naturalness to their scenes. (I enjoy that on stage, as opposed to the school of theatre that promotes "acting".) Their scenes demanded control, and emotional range. (Lotta kissing for you in this roll, huh, Corrie?)

Each actor found a character, eased into his/her skin, and stayed there throughout the performance. For me, the shining stars on opening night were Rick Gerroll, and Giovanni Navarro, who deserved the starring curtain call position. We all know Rick. No one does curmudgeon better than Rick. He cracks me up. Where most pauses between lines drive me batty, Rick knows exactly how long he can hold out before delivering. I heard a some lobby talk comparing him to Archie Bunker...too easy. Sure, the similarities were there, but theatregoers can always count on Rick to add personal style, and playfulness.

Who knows where this Giovanni Navarro fellow came from, or why he turned up in Manitowoc, but let's hope he stays. The guy has chops. He knows it; you can tell. Giovanni could easily have taken the show and run with it, but he knows how to be an ensemble player which is admirable. His performance reminded be of Leonardo DiCaprio's character in "What's eating Gilbert Grape " but because it was live, the impact was amplified. At first his portrayal of the mentally challenged Mickey troubled me, but then, is that not one of the charges of the arts? Do they not encourage us to take fresh looks at the world, the people around us, and our relationship and reactions to them?

The concept of challenge becomes one of the themes of Dudzick's play -challenge of ideas, traditons, mindsets, and beliefs. Dudzick is hailed as the "Catholic Niel Simon, " but, from my perspective, he has a long way to go to reach Simon's level of artistry. "Greetings" is a derivative show, combining elements of Simon's "God's Favorite" with characteristics of Medieval mystery plays (a little comedy, some Bible references, and a lesson intended to get us to change our evil ways). Throw in a little "ET" (you know, the stranger lands to show us how to be better people) and "The Wizard of Oz" (an unlikely character unites a diverse group ) and you have the makings of a not too original script. Despite that, I enjoyed every minute of it.

As a director (and as a former actor) would I have done things differently than Jamie and her cast? Sure. Theatre is all about choices, and that is one of the attractions. Theatre folk join together to commit art, and the product of their choices - the show that hits the boards - bears the mark crafted by the individuals who had the courage to take on the task. That is the beauty. That is the magic.

Personally, I can do without the curtain talk before the show. I just want the play to start - like it does at the Rep, the Guthrie and other pro companies. No commercials. That's what the program is for. I also get a little distressed when group members hoot through the curtain call, and, in their enthusiasm, initiate the standing ovation. Please, wait. Share the pride in a job well done at the cast party. Let the audience have that last moment to show its appreciation. What a gift for the cast to know the thank-you's are spontaneous and sincere, rather than helped along by "mom and dad" who love them no matter what. But, having been at the back of the house watching shows I have directed, I know that jumping out of your skin with happiness for the cast feeling.

That ends the snarky portion of the review. Not too bad, huh? Oh, here's a little more snarkiness....the Capitol Civic Centre should have been filled. We need to support our local groups; we need to respect the tradition that Masquers has established for arts in the Lakeshore. You have three more chances this year to catch their work...."A Christmas Carol," in December, "Some Enchanted Evening," a musical review, in spring. Their middle show is an Agatha Christie mystery. Boy or boy! Mysteries are had to pull off on stage, but if anyone can do it, Masquers can. Get there if you can.

What am I reading: Alice I Have Been, a new book by Melanie Benjamin. There's a glut of spin-off novels out right now and this one tells the back story of Alice Liddle, the girl who inspired Lewis Carroll's Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.

What have I been up to? Last weekend I got a chance to read with Hatrack Storytellers at the Lester Library in Two Rivers. We read Halloween stories to an appreciative audience of about 30. It has been years since I have done any sort of performing. Hatrack was fun, and I got a little reminder of why, long ago, I enjoyed a few trips across a stage. Stacey, Damon, and the lovely little Olivia also read. The mother-daughter team were first time readers, but got the hang of things quickly. I hope we get to read together again.

Damon is an experienced Hatracker. Reading with him is a challenge. He's sneaky, and funny, and gives me the giggles. Once that starts, I can't quit. Damon has a elfish quality that emerges when least expected. Reading with him brings back fond memories of readin with another playful character...Jimmy Mellberg!

On Friday, our book group celebrated our annual Halloween-pizza-movie-and costume extravaganza. Check out Jess as Sophia from the "Golden Girls," Angie as Kate Goslin, and Valerie as Angelina Jolie. Angie even brought a brag book with pictures of her kids. We also had James Patterson, a real housewife of Manitowoc County, and a Little Edie Beale who never quite made it to the gathering. We had lots of chocolate, wine, and other goodies while we discussed "Grey Gardens." I went home still chuckling about the fact that either Nancy's mind is a steel trap for useless information, or she is an adroit lyer skiller at making "facts' up on the fly. Just ask her. She knows everything there is to know about lady bartenders in Colorado. Really! My stomach ached from laughter, and too much pizza.

Thanks for stopping by!

In the Kitchen by guest blogger Steven Head

I spent the weekend visiting my mother, getting her house prepared for the return of winter. A ritual involving furniture rearranging, stowing of hoses, stashing of ceramic pots in the garage, swapping storm window insert for screen in the front door, and a number of trivial but essential chores. Add a couple games of canasta and you just about know everything about the visit.

Most Saturday nights mom goes to a local supper club with a male friend and they dine and dance. This weekend the bandstand was dark so she looked for other possibilities. We agreed on going to see "Julia & Julie" at the old fashion theater from my childhood. I recall summer morning shows for elementary school kids there. For a dime you could win something in a drawing, watch local talent, sing God Bless America led by the theater manager, catch a couple cartoons and the feature. Life was much simpler then.

The striking features of this theater include the series of large repeating art deco panels insets on both walls featuring an M design. The four tier stacked lighting. Each a different color. And stenciled multi-colored design on terraced ceiling panels around the perimeter and right down the middle. It would be a perfect place for a slinky with steps from the projection booth down to the gradually slanted main floor.

My preference for seating in any movie theater is close to the front. I like to be assaulted by the screen, filling my visual field, without obstacles. But I deferred to mom and we sat a little more than halfway back on the main floor. Lots of heads in front of us but an unobstructed view.

I do not have a lot in common with "Julia & Julie" other than the possible exception of enjoying food. It is a rare and welcome occasion when French food, good French food, appears on my plate. I can count the French restaurants I have been to on the fingers of one hand. And there is only one friend who has served French food. Her mother is a French war bride. Say what you will about the French but their food is amazing.

J&J is the parallel story of Julia Childs shared authorship of Mastering the Art of French Cooking with a pair of French women, and Julie, a 20-something woman living in Queens with her husband and working for a government agency handing calls from individuals and families impacted by the twin towers attack. Julia's story reveals her marriage to a diplomat and how they met in the OSS, been stationed in China, and how the McCarthy era touched the life of her husband. Julie's story reveals college friends who have all gone on to 'big things' while she plods along as a government drone, her novel unfinished. All this leads Julie to start a blog with the goal of doing all 524 recipes in Mastering the Art of French Cooking in 365 days.

As you can imagine, both of these stories are filled with challenges, disappointments, and crisis. The stories are both well told, the acting by Meryl Streep as Julia and Stan Tucci as her diplomat husband was superb. I did not recognize, and am too lazy to look up, the young actors playing Julie and husband, who were adequate but lacked the polish of the veterans. And of course the scenery of France was enchanting.

I thoroughly enjoyed this film and recommend it to those who love food and those that don't. My only complaint involves the frequent intrusion of the overhead microphone in multiple scenes. How in the world can so much care and craft go into a project only to be diminished by a distracting microphone? Was the film editor drunk, on drugs, suffering from post-Lasik surgery complications, or the incompetent in-law of a producer? It makes me even more appreciative of all the films where all the little things get done correctly as well as the main business.

...with Apologies to Kate DiCamillo

A continuum of consequences exists in regard to addictions. They creep. They clutch. They control. And worst of all, they cling to one's life with the tenacity of a barnacle. Some have devastating impacts on all aspects of an individual's life. People dealing with addiction recovery agree that the first step in ridding one's life of these pesky disturbances in acknowledgement.

Well...here goes...I am addicted to Eggz. Lest you think I am making light of the larger issue, know that I am not. Know that I am fully aware that on that aforementioned continuum, Eggz addiction barely makes the defining cut-off . Just the same, this little computer game has pecked its way into my day, and will not go away. Despite the warning glued to the top of my computer reading "Bev, no playing computer games," and signed by Ivan the Terrible, I cannot resist a dozen or so games a day.

The game oddly combines the old piano-playing chicken trick, pinball and Skeball, with a mouse controlled version of air-hockey minus the air and the hockey. Once you hit the GO button, the chicken clucks, bobs and plunges the mechanism that shoots an egg to the tip of your arrow. If your mouse, keyboard, computer and arrow are all in perfect alignment, you can hit the left click and start cracking those Eggz. An egg must hit at least two other like colored eggs to clear them from the field, with your goal being to get your egg to crash against the back wall. Additional eggs are laid randomly as you play. Once you hit the wall, you move up a level, and the behind the scene chickens get real busy shooting those eggs out.

I have made it to level 7; there is no answering the phone once I hit this level...after all, level 8 may just be an omelet away. Sometime, I even play when there are customers in the store. I have learned to turn down the sound on those occasions, after being called out one afternoon by an 8 year-old. "I know that sound" she said, "but I just can't get past level 10!" Level 10! There's a level 10? How long can this go on? I am replacing mouse batteries daily due to the incalculable number of mouse taps. Bills are piling up. I haven't seen my friends in weeks, and my dog may be starving for all I know.

I have named the chicken Louise. For weeks, I was calling her Edna, but then I read Kate DiCamillos's book, and realized, I had been mistaken. Louise is just a better chicken name. After a series of adventures with pirates, circus performers, and street vendors in a land far, far away, Louise learns that there is no place like home.

Hmmm...sound familiar? DiCamillo has a charming way of re-inventing favorite themes, and archetypes. Last weekend I watched The Tale of Despereaux which calls upon the the hero-quest storyline, along with number of comfortable fairy tale elements. If you haven't read the book or seen the movie, do it soon.

I wonder if Kate remembers me? Two years ago, I frightened the bejeepers out of her at a trade show. Against my better judgement, I went to St.Paul, armed with some crazy antibiotics to combat a stubborn infection. The infection, the stress of being sick, and the lack of sleep due to worry about traveling, ...well, eventually, and at the most importune time, I hit an ugly wall.

I happened to sit down at a table with Kate DiC, and her publicist. My stupor first took me on a rambling one-woman performance on how much I loved all of her books, giving her an oral history of everything she had ever written, as if she didn't know. I was winding down, when The Journey of Edward Tulane came to mind, and that is where I lost it. The thought of that little bunny, Edward, falling overboard, and floating toward an uncertain future, was too much and I broke down sobbing. Poor Kate. She looked terrified. Surely I blubbered something about being tired and sick. I bent down to grab a tissue from my knapsack stashed beneath the table, and when I reappeared, they were gone.

I am sorry Kate. I am not a nut. But then, you don't know that for sure, do you? You write about talking mice, and rats, and bunnies, and princesses who long for soup. In that realm, you are at home, comfortable, and safe. You were supposed to be at the trade show to accept the 2009 Midwest Booksellers Choice Award for Best Children's Picture Book...Louise, the Adventures of a Chicken. Instead, someone from your publishing house accepted the honor. He never said why you weren't there.

I Love to Go A-Wandering (NOT!) well...sometimes!

If you know me well, you know that for me, there's no place like home. But, I managed to get out and about last week, without being overly traumatized. First, it was off to St. Paul for the annual, regional book trade show. This has become routine for me each fall, and there are sights, places and people I look forward to seeing each year...the awesome, first glimpse of the Mississippi, the park adjacent to the convention hall that pays homage to F. Scott Fitzgerald, and my favorite Peanuts characters, the brew pub across from the park, and the little artsy shops lining the street. Although St. Paul bustles, it is a friendly city, and I could easily live there. No one pushes, or mumbles, or snaps, or beeps horns.

Neighborhoods! Where have they gone? How nice would it be to have all your needs within walking distance? In addition to the mundane necessities, my needs would include a performing arts center, a movie theatre, a bookstore, and an authentic Mexican restaurant. From my current neighborhood, I can walk to a bar, a bank, and a temple. I suppose I could make it the nearest convenience store, but the uphill return would take days, and my survival would be questionable.

The trade show kept me busy for a couple days, and of course, the highlight was meeting authors, and getting a peek at new books. Now I will drop names - Neil Gaimen (The Graveyard Book) Robert Goolrick (The Good Wife), Vicki Myron (Dewey), Lauren Stringer (Snow), Ingrid Law (Savvy), David Wrobleswski (The Story of Edgar Sawtell). These are just a few of the rock star writers and award winners I was lucky enough to meet. The beauty of this event is that these writers not only speak at special events throughout the conference, they stick around and help man/person? their publisher's displays, and spend time chatting. You would be surprised at how many writers have heard of Manitowoc - many recognizing the name from hotel ice machines, and even getting close to the correct pronunciation!

Mike Perry! I look forward to catching up with him each year. This year we chatted about his growing Manitowoc fan base, including two loyal readers, Pat and Margarette, who he has come to recognize by face, if not by name. We talked about his choice to home-school, which has some readers puzzled, confused, and angered. Mike explained that the decision is not a condemnation of the public school system, but rather an opportunity to have his children travel with him.

After a fast, filled, and overwhelming show, nothing was nicer than seeing that big, brown "Welcome to Wisconsin" sign as I crossed the state line at 11:30 on Sunday night.

The picture at the top is Big Horn Lake in Townsend, Wisconsin, about two hours northwest of here. The cabin at the right is one of several once owned by my great grand-parents. Inspired by Sara Rath's novel, Star Lake Saloon and Housekeeping Cottages, I decided it was time to return to this place filled with happy, childhood memories. I found it easily, and the rustic, name plaque nailed to a tree told me that the little fishing "village" is still owned by a distant family member. That is good. No one was around, but I did some exploring anyway. The out houses are still there, although I didn't get close enough to determine if they were functional, or simply left as quirky icons of long ago.

Immediately, I was struck with the memory of pleasant quietness. There are no motor boats on Big Horn Lake. Water laps to the shore, and if you're patient, a fish will jump and splash. That's all for sound on a calm day. The sky and water are both a perfect, sapphire blue. Breathtaking. One of my favorite pass times when we were at the cottages was to float in an inner tube to the middle of the lake and watch the fish, and fiddle with the lily-pads. The water was, and is, clear. I assume the lake is still filled with blue gill and northern.

Some changes have been made. A few new, sweet little cottages have been added to the land, just big enough to sleep two of three people. The fish cleaning shanty has been removed. Fish guts! I can't believe I ever scraped and scaled fish, let along watched my grandfather slice and gut them, but spending time with him remains one of my fondest memories.

I wasn't sure what I would find in Townsend, or how I would feel about seeing the cabins and the lake again. I was afraid that the calm, rustic, happy place in my mind could turn out to be a series of run down shacks, crammed together down some scary,out of the way, road, leading to a muddy, sucker-filled, mosquito infested pond. That was not the case. I am lucky, and maybe I will go back again.

*****TV update. I pulled the plug on dish Network. My 120 channel package, when analyzed, turned out to be too many to count infomercial channels, repeated channels, channels in foreign languages, or 24 hour news channels. 120 of them for sure, but only four or five worth watching. So, I am without TV viewing capabilities for a while. I will look at it as an experiment in hermit-like living and see how it goes.

In addition to the TV business, I also declared a moritorium on needless car travel. Wouldn't you know, right off the bat, I discovered that I had left the book I was reading on my desk at LaDeDa. Torn between my vow to finish one book before opening another, and my decision to think twice before setting out on a ten minute journey that would surely wind up taking me on hours of unplanned adventures, I paced. I bit my fingenails. I walked the dog. I dusted, and rearranged the furniture. I looked up the number for Comcast, and I wrote it down. Then I blindly grabbed a book off the shelf and settled in for a wonderful Sunday afternoon with Under the Tuscan Sun.

Thanks for stopping by.

Guest Review

Remember Loreen Niewenhuis? If not, check last week's post. Loreen has generously found time between writing, searching for a publisher, and walking around Lake Michigan, to send us this review. Thanks, Loreen.

I originally ordered this book for the store for our Brendo, who raised two lovely hedgehogs, Cleo and Chloe. What a pleasant surprise for us to find that this choice has been on many bestseller lists for weeks.

Review by Loreen Niewenhuis

This is not a book I would have plucked off the shelf, so I'm glad that a writer friend of mine recommended it to me. The title is intriguing, but the cover image is of a young girl, so I figured it was for a younger age set. Between the pages, though, I found one of the most engaging novels that I've come across in quite some time.

The main characters could not be more different: a 12-year old girl, Paloma (daughter in a very rich family), and the 50+-year -old woman, Renee, (who works as a concierge of the Parisian apartment house where Paloma lives). Nor could they be more alike. As a means of self-preservation, the both strive to hide their true, intelligent selves from the world. The interplay between these characters' thoughts, questions and longings opens up new world even before their friendship grows.

The voice of Paloma and Renee are well developed and Barbery masterfully peels back layer after layer to expose them to their very core. The apartment house is filled with interesting characters (and pets) to round out the story. This novel is rare thing, a book that is driven primarily by ideas. And, as Paloma searches for perfect, beautiful moments in order to realize that life is truly worth living, and Renee questions the merits of various philosopher's approaches to life, these ideas mesh together and expand the thoughts of the reader.

It is a true testament of a novel's power if the reader finds themself wondering about the characters long after the book has been finished. I find myself thinking about the many floors of that apartment house. what is everyone doing right now?

*****What am I reading? After closing the cover on The Club Dumas, I moved on to Dan Brown's new blockbuster, The Lost Symbol. Some of you may be disappointment that I boarded the popular bandwagon, but Dan Brown's subjects fascinate me. The Masons, in particular, have long piqued my curiosity. But, alas (another word we all should campaign to resurrect) after the mental fatigue brought about by the Perez-Reverte book, "Symbol" was just too heavy. Literally and figuratively. I will wait a year for the paperback, I guess, or for whirlwind in my brain caused by the intensity of the Dumas gaming to subside.

Instead, this week's title will be A High Wind in Jamaica by Richard Hughes. Any novel with an intro by Francine Prose has to be fine. To top that, The Modern Library named this book "one of the best novels of the twentieth century." Here's a snip from the back cover...."...Richard Hughes tells the story of a group of children accidentally thrown upon the mercy of a crew of down-at-the-heel pirates. A tale of seduction and betrayal, of accommodation and manipulation, of weird humor and unforeseen violence, this classic of twentieth-century literature is an unequaled exploration of the nature, and limits, of innocence."

Oh boy... have I made the right choice, here? I'll give it a shot, but may wind up reverting to some palatte cleansing young adult suff instead...perhaps the second installment of The Mysterious Benedict Society would be a better choice.

This is trade show weekend...days of getting lost on the endless one-way street in Minneapolis, lugging pounds of ARCS, catalogues and comp books to my car, and trying to hold back tears when I get overwhelmed at meeting some of my favorite writers. Full report in two weeks. In the meantime, my blog-saver, Steve, struck again with a impeccably timed post for next Monday.

Reunion Tour by guest blogger Steven Head

Please note: This is not the photo Steve sent with his post. Unfortunately, my lack of computer skills made it impossible for me to upload Steve's accompanying photo, which tells the story better than this one. But, you can get a feel for it just the same with this one. (Sorry Steve!)

Also, historians differ on the spelling of " Sacajawea. " Therefore, if you spelled it differently in a high school report, college essay, Masters thesis, doctoral disertaions, or just in personal writing, know that you are mostl likely correct, as is Steve.


And now...here's Stevie!

Earlier this month I went on a week long driving trip self-labeled the Reunion Tour. It was a one-person tour and did not re-unite with any specific individuals but a place. 50 year ago, as an elementary school kid, my family relocated from a uranium boom town near the Wind River Reservation in Wyoming. I have memories of that place and time. And there are also photos and slides. But I wanted to connect some of the dots of memory with reality.

For those of you unfamiliar with the Wind River Reservation this is a large patch of land south and east of the Tetons and Jackson Hole, and is named after the Wind River which flows out of the Wind River mountain range. Backpackers and hikers may be familiar with the Wind Rivers since the craggy spine of this range forms the continental divide for a long section.

If you are in Wyoming and want to do something it almost always involves driving someplace. And not the distance between Manitowoc and Two Rivers, more like to Green Bay or Milwaukee. My memories include a number of driving trips but my childhood sense of space and time made them all seem like epic journeys. One goal of the Reunion Tour was to sort out the geography. Most days involved a planned drive to the south, east, west, or north. A drive into hilly gold mining country, to hilly reclaimed uranium mines, to ancient Indian petroglyphs and rock formation, to diversion dams, to picturesque mountain tourist towns, and the reservation.

The reservation was the high point of the trip. At some point in the late 1800's the Shoshone tribe entered into an agreement with the government for a large patch of land. Over time the size and shape shrank and the Arapaho tribe was temporarily assigned to the location. The temporary turned to permanent, and although there were battles involving the two tribes, they get along with little difficulty.

If the Shoshone tribe is ringing any distant memory bells it is probably because Sacajawea, the Indian woman instrumental in the Lewis & Clark expedition, was a Shoshone. And this brings me to the high point of the tour. Outside Fort Waskakie, named after Shoshone Chief Waskakie, is the Sacajawea cemetery. There is a statue, flag, and signage, as well as the grave site of Sacajawea and her sons. Good historic stuff. But it is the cemetery that was the delight.

A sea of white crosses fill the space and native grass covers a number of the graves on this treeless gently sloping hillside. In front of the crosses are mounds of dirt, just like in the old western movies. A patchwork of graves have a shrine like quality. Rock or brick surrounding the red dirt mound, covered with colorful artificial flowers, toys and trinkets and coins and objects. There are a few traditional granite carved markers, and some custom decorated crosses. Scattered about are white painted head and foot post of brass beds. This is not your grandmothers cemetery of tended green grass expanse dotted with granite grave stones and controlled floral displays under a canopy of mature trees.

The other goal of the trip was to reconnect with the people and language of the area. When I arrived in Manitowoc some 20 years ago I quickly noted the distinctive dialect and common expressions, so different from the language sounds of the plains. Clearly the wild west, which was where I was at, had to have an equally distinctive sound. But as I listened to restaurant and bookstore and gas station conversations I could have been anywhere in the plains. No nasal twangs, elongated vowels, idiosyncratic pronunciations.

My recollection of the area involved real life cowboys and Indians, with cowboy boots, cowboy hats, and western cut shirts. Either the cowboys have all died or the costumer has replaced the boots with exercise shoes, the hats with ball caps, and mother-of-pearl snaps and slant pockets with arrow stitched shirts with off the rack mass produced goods. I only saw one woman with cowboy boots and a full skirt and her hair was a color of orange that god did not create. The Indians were a little more fashion conscious with western cut shirts and blouses, silver and turquoise belt buckles and jewelry, but the pierced eyebrows and ipods clashed.

After eight days and over 2,200 miles I was left with an empty feeling. I had seen the land and experienced the vast emptiness of Wyoming, sagebrush and desert parsley and pronghorn antelope punctuated by red earth and rock thrust up here and there. But the people I had come to observe were boringly common. Part of me wants to think if I could have stayed longer the flavor and texture and unique viewpoint of life in the mountain west would be revealed. Perhaps television and Wal-Mart and Indian casinos have homogenized these people. And the memories of an adolescent boy of the cowboys and Indians and colorful characters is all that is left.

*****My trade show weekend in St. Paul was busy and fun! Of course, Mike Perry was on hand and sends you all his regards. A special "hello" goes out to Pat and Margarette! Thanks to Mike, I spent some time with Neil Gaiman, also. I'll drop names in upcoming posts, along with a few fun stories. Occasionally, I am asked why I don't post pictures of myself on Fine Print. Well, here you go...a picture of me talking with Mike. No, I am not wearing a disguise. The bearded guy kept trying to butt in to our conversation. See how annoyed Michael looks. Mike and I got to catch up later, without the interloper!

What am I reading? High Wind in Jamaica made its way to the top of the pile...but A Guide to the Birds of East Africa weaseled its way in. More later.,

Wake Up and Smell Lake Michigan

Wake up calls come in funny ways, don't they? Almost always arriving unannounced, they frequently represent an omen of sorts, prodding us to get off the couch and do something before it's too late. Recently, I discovered that these messengers to one's psyche sometimes call out with laughter and awe as well.


Two weeks ago, author Loren Niewenhuis and her brother, Phil, dropped by the store in the afternoon. We spent some time talking about books, wondering where the next Hemingway and Steinbeck are hiding. Loreen had emailed the previous week to say she would be in town, and since an out of town friend and I were planning to catch up over dinner, I had invited Loreen and Phil along. We met for dinner later that night, Jacque, Terri, Loreen, Phil and I, and boy, am I happy the group thing panned out. Never ever ever - not even when I was intensely studious and my brain synapses were firing at rapid speed - would I have been able to hold up my end of the conversation with these two.


My goodness! Loreen, who was just finishing a journey around Lake Michigan laketrek.blogpsot.com is amazingly, modestly bright, and I believe she can do anything she puts her mind to. Her degree is in some complex science area, and she spent time doing bone marrow research. The strong draw she had to writing prompted her to earn her MFA in Creative Writing. Loreen's short stories have been published in several literary anthologies, and she is currently shopping for a publisher for her novel.


Then there's Phil, who, for most of the night, let Loreen take center stage. Again, modesty won out, since we had to pry this information out him. It seems that Phil is a composer. He doesn't write cheery little jingles, or angst ridden folk songs, he writes symphonies. And they have been performed by major orchestras. How about that!


Now, both Phil and Loreen were gracious, never letting on that they recognized that the breadth and depth of my knowledge on any single subject is weak. Honestly, compared to them, the level of my questions fell somewhere between "What's your favorite color," and "Wanna hear a story about my dog?" Thanks to Terri and Jacque, both fascinating individuals with lots of life experiences, we all had a fine time.


So, what alarm went off in my head that night? The one that says, "Hey, you are one lucky duck.!" I live in my own little Mount Joy here at the store, and interact with such remarkable people. The members of my book group, theatre buds, customers who have become friends, and the writers who drift in and out, bring wealth to my days. Because of them, my worries are few and my days are filled with the anticipation of what will come next.


Check out Loreen's blog, and watch for her published account of her walk. She is in love with the lake, and that is why she walked. As she spoke, I couldn't help but recall Thoreau's words, "I went to the woods to live deliberately." There is passion in her eyes and voice - in her whole being - as she speaks about the beauty of the lake and the environmental issues affecting it. She spoke of the people she sought out along her journey, some home townies like us, and others who understand and share her emotional connection to Lake Michigan. Loreen's walk ends with a huge celebration on Saturday, September 26th on Chicago's Navy Pier. She is walking the last 100 miles of the planned 1000 from September 21-26. Surely, there will be a big tub of warm Lake Michigan water for her to soak her tootsies in when she arrives.




What am I reading? Still working on The Club Dumas, the book upon which my Johnny Depp's "The Ninth Gate" was based. The movie left me with tons of questions, all of which are being answered in this book. If you enjoyed The Shadow of the Wind, you'll like this book. It's one of those moody pieces about people, societies and desires most of us don't know exist unless we read about them. Who would ever think that people are willing to risk their entire fortunes, and perhaps their lives, for a single, hand written chapter of a book? Can you imagine a job where you are hired to travel the world to unravel a literary mystery, without totally knowing who you are working for, or why? I have to finish this soon. Loreen sent me copies of her short stories, and, I am honored to say, she also send me a copy of the manuscript of her novel. After reading the first chapter, I knew I wanted to read her medical mystery straight through, so it will have to wait a while...a short while.

My rant of the week...About two years ago, I got dish Network and was all pumped about the selection and quality of channels. Not so anymore. The programming has changed dramatically, many channels are repeated, and more and more infomercial, and home shopping channels spring up every day. OK, so last weekend, I decided to inventory exactly what I am getting, and you'll never guess what I found. I now have an entire channel devoted to Klondike bars, and another that is all about Country Crock margarine. Crock is right!

Can you indulge me for one more mini-rant? Please? I get my gas from a station that plays music and ads at the pump. Today, I was assaulted by an ad reminding me that winter is on the way, and I should be sure to remember they can supply me with all the warm drinks I need to combat those below zero days heading our way. Really. We live in Wisconsin. Must we be reminded of what's coming?

Until then, I will enjoy the beautiful weather and watch the leaves turn shades of orange. I will look forward to snow days, held captive indoors with bad TV, a good book, and coffee I am capable of making for myself. And, I will find a new mini-mart...one without a doomsday prophet.

The City & The City by guest blogger Steven Head

Some of you may recall I received two copies of The Gargoyle in a 24 hour period a while back. The source for one of those copies put The City and The City by China Mieville in my hands about 10 days ago. It came at just the right time.

After ten pages I checked the front of the book to make sure it was not translated from another language into English. No such indication. I kept reading, confused about where the action was taking place geographically, some sort of German - Arabic blend. And whether certain words were made up or English slang I did not know. But is was a mystery, there was a dead body, and there was a detective narrator. I kept reading.

In bits and pieces I was able to determine the narrator was in Beszel (with an accent over the z, which I will refer to as B) which may be a country but might just be a town. But, and here is the strange part, there is also Ul Qoma (UQ) which may be a country or just a town, but parts of B and UQ overlap. The same streets have two names, one B and one UQ. Parks have two names, one B and one UQ. And even though they overlap, the only approved way to move from B to UQ, or vice versa, was through Copula Hall.

Let me share one more little curiosity about B and UQ. Those in B or UQ could not interact or acknowledge those in UQ or B, requiring unseeing and unhearing. The places where B and UQ overlap are referred to as crosshatching. You can only imagine the kinds of mental gymnastics required to drive and unsee cars and pedestrians from the other world without slamming into them.

The entity that keeps the citizens of B and UQ in their respective universes is Breach, an omnipresent, all-powerful law enforcement agency. Of course B has it's policzai and UQ has it's militsya, but Breach has authority over all IF there has been a violation of the 'stay in your own world' protocol.

Our narrator detective discovers the body of a graduation student from UQ in his B territory. While he finds it curious, he hopes to turn it over to Breach. But somehow a breach has not occurred and ends up in a co-operative operation with a UQ counterpart, in UQ. The investigation takes them to the Bol Ye'an digs, an archeological site where students are extracting antiquities from UQ ground.

By now you may be either interested, confused, or both. No matter, there is still more. The dead girl was a vocal advocate for Orciny, the hidden city in the crosshatching of B and UQ where a separate, powerful, and near invisible controlling group operates. However, Orciny is universally acknowledged as a fairy tale. To this add the Unifs (unificationists) and the Nats (nationalists), the USA who recognizes B but not UQ, and the Canadians who favor UQ but recognize B.

Lump all this together and you have a political thriller as well as a detective story. Of course our B and UQ lead detectives arrive at a place where they trust no one except each other, suspect they are in deeper than they want to be, and are questioning beliefs and assumptions like never before.

One one level this is just a story with a beginning, middle, and end. I also think this book is allegoric in nature and Mieville is commenting on contemporary existence. Are there parts of your town that you do not see even when they are right before your eyes? Or certain people, or types of people, who are invisible to you? Or thoughts and viewpoints you simply un-exist?

I have no idea if this book will achieve the status of Huxley's Brave New World or Orwell's 1984, or if this is even what Mieville was attempting. China has labeled himself as part of the New Wierd, whatever that is. Check it out, or don't.