I was reading this essay on the Millions, about books started but never finished. And this piece about the books you feel like you should have read already, or want to read before you die.
Here's my list of books I’ve started and want to go back and finish:
Don Quixote (Cervantes)
Tristram Shandy (Sterne)
Gravity’s Rainbow (Pynchon)
Mason and Dixon (Pynchon)
War and Peace (Tolstoy)
On Human Nature (Hume)
Madame Bovary (Flaubert)
The Metamorphosis (Kafka--no excuse for this, I've never read any Kafka)
The Golden Notebook (Lessing)
The Magic Mountain (Mann)
Grapes of Wrath (Steinbeck)
Invisible Man (Ellison)
Galapagos (Vonnegut)
Democracy in America (Tocqueville)
The Order of Things (Foucault)
Books I’ve started and probably won’t finish.
The Evolution of God (Wright)
Sources of the Self (Taylor)
Midnight's Children (Rushdie)
Count of Monte Cristo (Dumas)
Suite Francais (Nemiravsky)
Emile (Rousseau)
Rabbit, Run (Updike)
I'm sure there's more...
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Men's Room
I need to do a little public service announcement for women. This may not come as a shock to some of you, but I don't think you all are aware of this. Some men don't wash their hands after using the restroom. And it's not just the guys who look like they don't wash their hands. If you're looking at a guy and you think, "He looks like the kind of guy that doesn't wash his hands," he doesn't. But, as I witnessed today, it's not just those dudes. It's also some of the other dudes. This guy had on a suit and tie and was well put together, nice haircut, close shave. Dangled and left (no, those aren't the same thing). And what's worse, he had a briefcase in one hand the entire time. That's kind of impressive, actually, because of the dexterity involved. But he could not have been very precise in his execution. And he walked right out without even running his hands under some water.
The more you know.
(I just realized this is the second post I've done in two weeks about the public restroom. Maybe I should rename this blog "Sub-sub-custodian".)
The more you know.
(I just realized this is the second post I've done in two weeks about the public restroom. Maybe I should rename this blog "Sub-sub-custodian".)
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Fruit Flies
They came without our permission.
There was no introduction, no
consideration for the untidiness of our apartment,
the sink full of dishes, half a lime balancing
on the countertop next to the rotting banana peel.
In fact, they didn't seem to mind
the opened bottle of wine, the cheese grater
caked with cheddar. They weren't put out
by the refried beans in our trash
or the chopped onions and olives
on the cutting-board.
What else could we do? We tidied up,
said goodnight, and turned out the lights,
tip-toeing into the bathroom.
But they were there too, hovering
over the faucet, doubled by the mirror,
red eyed and exhausted.
They were above our heads
as we brushed our teeth, our eyes
fixed upward as if we were in a
renaissance painting, gazing
at an angel or the crucifixion.
The next morning you were already sick
of them. You stood in the kitchen
in your nightgown with a bowl of cereal,
wondering aloud how there could be
so many, how they could multiply
overnight while we slept.
You looked up ways to kindly ask them to leave.
We are not cruel. An empty spaghetti jar
would do, full of apple-cider vinegar
and a few swirls of dish-soap.
Our decency kept us in the bedroom,
reading on a bright Saturday morning,
while they drowned one by one.
But still there were a few left, crawling
on the blue tiled wall above the stove,
slowly navigating between the trash can
and the refrigerator.
Maybe we've just killed the vinegar loving strain,
I said, mumbling something about genetics.
Wine works too, you said as you poured
the deep red Cabernet into an empty olive jar
then reached for the dish-soap.
There was no introduction, no
consideration for the untidiness of our apartment,
the sink full of dishes, half a lime balancing
on the countertop next to the rotting banana peel.
In fact, they didn't seem to mind
the opened bottle of wine, the cheese grater
caked with cheddar. They weren't put out
by the refried beans in our trash
or the chopped onions and olives
on the cutting-board.
What else could we do? We tidied up,
said goodnight, and turned out the lights,
tip-toeing into the bathroom.
But they were there too, hovering
over the faucet, doubled by the mirror,
red eyed and exhausted.
They were above our heads
as we brushed our teeth, our eyes
fixed upward as if we were in a
renaissance painting, gazing
at an angel or the crucifixion.
The next morning you were already sick
of them. You stood in the kitchen
in your nightgown with a bowl of cereal,
wondering aloud how there could be
so many, how they could multiply
overnight while we slept.
You looked up ways to kindly ask them to leave.
We are not cruel. An empty spaghetti jar
would do, full of apple-cider vinegar
and a few swirls of dish-soap.
Our decency kept us in the bedroom,
reading on a bright Saturday morning,
while they drowned one by one.
But still there were a few left, crawling
on the blue tiled wall above the stove,
slowly navigating between the trash can
and the refrigerator.
Maybe we've just killed the vinegar loving strain,
I said, mumbling something about genetics.
Wine works too, you said as you poured
the deep red Cabernet into an empty olive jar
then reached for the dish-soap.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Dream of an Expectant Father
My wife and I are expecting our first baby, a girl, in July. Last night I dreamed she was born. I walked into a room and the nurses showed me my newborn--a young girl who looked about 10 years old. I picked her up and looked down at her feet, which were dangling about 2 inches off the floor.
Oh, there was some mistake. This wasn't my baby. They led me to another room and showed me an infant. "This is your baby." I bent down and looked at her face. Her eyes appeared to be Asian or, I worried, she had Down Syndrome. But the nurses came in and measured the distance between her eyes. "Oh, she's just fine," they said. "Her eyes aren't too close together." Phwew! I felt so relieved.
Oh, there was some mistake. This wasn't my baby. They led me to another room and showed me an infant. "This is your baby." I bent down and looked at her face. Her eyes appeared to be Asian or, I worried, she had Down Syndrome. But the nurses came in and measured the distance between her eyes. "Oh, she's just fine," they said. "Her eyes aren't too close together." Phwew! I felt so relieved.
Friday, May 28, 2010
Urban Wildlife
This spring, I've seen deer, a fox, ducklings, and a bald eagle. All in Indianapolis.
View The Wild in Indianapolis, Spring 2010 in a larger map
View The Wild in Indianapolis, Spring 2010 in a larger map
Pepper
Yesterday, at work, in one of the stalls in the public bathroom, I found pepper. Those little pepper packets from the condiment bar. In the stall. Some not opened, some opened with pepper spilling out, some completely empty. Pepper. By the toilet. In a public restroom.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Chicken Curry
I made chicken curry for the first time last night. This is the recipe I used. As usual, it took me much longer than the estimated time. Well, it says 30 minutes cooking time, and I probably cooked it for 40 minutes. But it took me an hour and a half from start to first bite. I usually multiply the estimated time by 2 or 3. That's usually how long it takes for me, especially if I'm making it for the first time.
I've never made an Indian dish, but I've been craving it lately. It wasn't that difficult. I added some chili powder, cayenne pepper, and garlic powder, which wasn't in the recipe. The spice level was probably a 5 or 6 out of 10. And the cinnamon seemed a bit much for me. Probably cut that back next time, or leave it out entirely.
When I was chopping the onions and carrots, I kept thinking about a story in Interpreter of Maladies. I don't have it in front of me, but it takes place in the US. Some kid regularly visits the home of an Indian family. The husband is a professor or something, and the wife stays at home. I think they're childless, so maybe she's babysitting the kid. Anyway, the wife cooks their meals every day, and it's this long involved process. She spends hours (I think--at any rate, it takes a long time) sitting in the middle of their living room floor chopping tons of vegetables with this huge knife. I really liked those stories, and often, when I cut vegetables, I think about that Indian woman with the long knife sitting on the floor, chopping away.
I've never made an Indian dish, but I've been craving it lately. It wasn't that difficult. I added some chili powder, cayenne pepper, and garlic powder, which wasn't in the recipe. The spice level was probably a 5 or 6 out of 10. And the cinnamon seemed a bit much for me. Probably cut that back next time, or leave it out entirely.
When I was chopping the onions and carrots, I kept thinking about a story in Interpreter of Maladies. I don't have it in front of me, but it takes place in the US. Some kid regularly visits the home of an Indian family. The husband is a professor or something, and the wife stays at home. I think they're childless, so maybe she's babysitting the kid. Anyway, the wife cooks their meals every day, and it's this long involved process. She spends hours (I think--at any rate, it takes a long time) sitting in the middle of their living room floor chopping tons of vegetables with this huge knife. I really liked those stories, and often, when I cut vegetables, I think about that Indian woman with the long knife sitting on the floor, chopping away.
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