You Should Read Birds of Paradise

Buy all things Abu-Jaber.

I think my story is not something to wrap up with a bow and hand over.  Not to you and not to anyone.

If you’ve read Diana Abu-Jaber in the past then you’re anticipating Birds of Paradise like the rest of us who are already fans.  If you haven’t read her before then I envy you; you’re about to discover your next favorite author.  

Well, in September anyway (I got an Advanced Readers Copy at BEA, remember?).

Abu-Jaber uses imagery like a poet.  She puts phrases together that are as delicious as the food she describes.  She creates with words as few writers can, making you smell the backyard foliage, feel the clammy air on your skin, nestle inside the setting.  

It gets so hot out there, the sun melting the thick bright air into orange honey, she just wants to curl up and sleep out her life.

For some authors, a gift for lyricism means the story is lacking.  With Birds of Paradise, Abu-Jaber gives us a compelling story in the Muirs, a family living in the “aftermath” of a crisis - daughter Felice ran out when she was thirteen years old.  But Felice refuses to disappear completely, which means that even years later the crisis is ongoing, and the degree of pain her family feels depends on the week.  Birds of Paradise reopens old wounds, examines mid-life struggles, and invites us to watch as the Muirs address wrongs both real and imagined. 

Abu-Jaber presents her character's doubts, dubious choices, and self-defeating behavior without judgement.  It makes them all the more real, and sympathetic, even when their choices drive you crazy.  Abu-Jaber's deft touch with their shortcomings gives the Muir's struggles for grace a humanity and beauty that you don't often find in fiction.   

I loved this book.

Fun with Passport Photos Part One: Two for One

Yikes.

PHOENIX - Police Officers in Wooded Glen are calling it a two for one.

Troopers stopped a car driven erratically by Eric Clueless, 38, of Salt River, at 12:17 a.m. on Sunday, June 11th on Fountain Hills Road in Fountain Hills, police said.  Police arrested Clueless on suspicion of driving drunk, saying his blood alcohol content was 0.09 percent.

Troopers booked Clueless, who called his fiance to post bail.  

At approximately 3:00 a.m., Betty Corona, 27, of Lake Pleasant, arrived to take her fiance to his home.  When Corona leaned over the counter to sign in, Officer Scott Beyor detected a strong odor of marijuana.  

“I tried to conduct a field sobriety test,” Officer Beyor said, “but Mrs. Corona couldn’t stop giggling.”

Corona was immediately taken into custody.  A subsequent search of her car found 2.17 ounces of packaged marijuana.  

While a chemical test revealed marijuana in Corona’s system and her appearance was consistent with an individual intoxicated with marijuana, without knowing Corona’s driving pattern, the amount of marijuana she consumed, and her personal tolerance, it will be difficult to prove that she was under the influence at the time she was driving.  

Both Clueless and Corona are charged with driving with misdemeanor impaired alertness, which could carry up to ten (10) days in jail, a $1,500 fine, and up to five (5) years probation.  

Corona also faces simple possession charges, which could carry six (6) to seventeen (17) months in jail and a fine between $750 and $150,000.

Court records show this is the first time the couple has run afoul of the law.  They will likely receive probation.    

I Do Not Think It Means What You Think It Means

If I had to guess the origin of "ass" as a modifier, it's got to be badass.  Most likely Sweet Sweetback's Baadaaaaaassssssssssss Song.  It started badass, which makes sense.  One's ass had been a stand in for the entirety of oneself for some time, and not-bad-meaning-bad-but-bad-meaning-good goes without saying.  Therefore, if one is the ultimate in cool, or toughness, or knowledge, or attitude, then he or she might be labelled badass.

People dug this, and the trend continued with hardass; mostly in military circles.  Then wiseass and smartass came along, followed closely by dumbass.  These terms all make sense, somewhat, especially given that they take ass into the pejorative.

Then things got weird.  Ass started peppering sentences where it had no place, not modifying a word to make a new one (being dumb is bad enough, but being a dumbass is dumb beyond redemption) but on its own, strengthening sentiment.

"That was one lame ass movie."    

"That's a sweet ass ride."

"Tell your stupid ass friends that stuffing condoms filled with yogurt between the cushions of my couch is not funny."

I'd been living in Miami a couple of years before a Chilean woman named Janet took me under her wing and started teaching me a few phrases in Spanish.  I was fascinated how Latin folks use the word cojone.

"Que quieres?" means "What do you want?"  But say you get a call at three in the morning, or your cell phone shows you the name of someone who you really could do without at the moment.  A more appropriate response might be, "Que cojone quieres?"

You might think that this translates into "What ball do you want?"  You're right, that's what it translates to.  What is means, though, is "What the fuck do you want?"  I threw cojone in, and now you know I'm pissed.  I thought that 1) that was cool as shit, and 2) there was no equivalent in the English language.



The other day I was walking down the street wearing a t-shirt with this image:

Order it at Gorey Details

Some dude at the bus stop called out, "Hey, that's an awesome ass shirt, man."

Yes, it is.  I thanked him, and kept walking.  A few moments later, I was like, "Wait, what?"  The "not-bad-meaning-bad-but-bad-meaning-good" in badass got mixed up with ass, and now ass is a good thing?  Or maybe the fact that it sounded like some new bit of fashion I was unfamiliar with threw me off.

Ass shirt?

After the way this guy used the word ass threw me, I started hearing it everywhere (I'm also hearing counterintuitive all over the place now, which makes me think it will be the next literally, but that's another post).  Nice ass shoes, sweet ass website, funny ass movie, cool ass girl . . . nearly every conversation I heard used ass to strengthen a compliment.


When I remembered cojone for a minute I thought, "Hey, we do it, too!"  But it's not the same.  Latin folks know what they're doing. "¡Qué cojones!" can be used to express extreme excitement, or as the Latin equivalent of the Yiddish "oy vey," but no one's using cojone as a compliment.

Gringos need to take a lesson from our Latin brethren and stop using ass willy nilly.  Ass is not appropriate for everything.

Or is it?

Um, no.  It's not.

Incense is Racist

Thanks to Sweet Reader Cass from Syracuse (also known as my sister), who laid this on me on my recent trip up north.  An Indian on a package of incense that smells like Earth, Ocean, Wind, and Fields - ka-ching!    

This hits all the trite notes - the squinting, faraway gaze, the protruding cheekbones and deep clefts around the mouth, the bear claw necklace and ceremonial headdress, the connection with nature, the pseudo-spirituality.  

Ocean seems fine, but what’s the different between Wind, Earth, and Fields?  It’s a miasma; wind blows over the fields, which grow from the earth.  Going by the pictures, you wonder if they didn’t call Fields "Flowers" because they were afraid of losing the male buying dollar.  You also have to ask yourself what clouds smell like.

This ended up at the dollar store because E. Davis International of Watertown, NY lacks strength of conviction.  Once they had the Indian drawn up they should’ve blasted the theme with both barrels - Earth, Tobacco, Buffalo Chips, and Casino.  

Too tough to chemically manufacture “Casino," you say?  Bullshit.  Your olfactory technicians can re-create the subtle shades between the ground, plants growing from the ground, and wind blowing through the plants growing from the ground, and you can’t give me a combination of alcohol breath, industrial cleanser, and soured dreams?  Have faith, E. Davis.

Some words on these posts.  

I keep using the word Indian.  And I will keep using it.  My mother is Mohawk so it’s more accurate to call me Mohawk than Indian, Native, Native American, or American Indian (like calling someone Swedish vs European).  But really, I use Indian because it’s the word my family has always used when our heritage comes up (when we’re not talking about corn, beans, and squash, counting our casino money, or communing with nature, we talk about how Indian we are).  I’m also very comfortable using the word “tribe”.  I know it’s used to classify animals, and a lot of younger Indians who prefer calling themselves Native like to use “Nation.”  I respect that, and I like the fact that tribe is being phase out by a new generation of teachers.  I also don’t plan on feeling guilty for saying or writing Mohawk Tribe.  

Further, when I say that a certain place or object is racist, the reason should be obvious.   If it’s not, we can play the old game of “How would you like it if I put a wooden statue of a Negro with exaggerated features dressed in full African tribal gear outside of my store?” or “How would you like a caricature of a Jew on a sport uniform with a really fun derogatory term for the team?” or “How would you like a Chinaman in a conical hat on an incense package featuring the scents of Green Tea, Sesame Oil, Kung Fu, and High Math Scores?”  

Okay, the last two were a stretch.  How about Small Penis?  Small Penis is a smell, right?  Chinese stereotypes suck.

I’m joking because it’s more fun than walking around pissed off all day, but these images are obnoxious and running into them all the time is tiresome.  When people learn I’m Indian, I always, always, ALWAYS get that look, the weighing one, the one Meatloaf gives Ed Norton in Fight Club when Norton tells Meatloaf he’s a member.

Their thoughts are all over that expression; “You don’t look Indian.”  It’s not hard to discern the meaning because many people over the years have had no compunction about actually expressing the thought out loud.  Next time it happens, I’ll just answer, “Funny, you don’t look like an asshole.”       

I’m not fed up with images like these because the ubiquity of headdresses makes them easier to defile (that’s what it’s called when religious artifacts are disrespected, right?); I know some tribes give out eagle feathers for especially heroic acts and that a full headdress of feathers means your life is filled with some serious shit for which you deserve respect, but I couldn’t tell you if they’re culturally significant for Mohawks.  These images and statues bother me because they make us invisible.  Indians aren't something that happened, we are here, now.  We live.  We go unrecognized because we don’t look the way we’re supposed to, but we’re here.

Our invisibility as a people in the present also makes our current problems - suicide, alcoholism, infant mortality rates, unemployment, sovereignty, etc, etc. - invisible.  When I pose with a pissed-off face next to a Cigar Store Indian, it’s partially a joke.  It’s partially venting some anger. 

It’s also a message - we’re still here.    

Close to Hilda's Bakery in that Both Names Contain an "L"

I wasn't totally off.  My last post also made it clear that the business was a bakery.  So, yeah, this place:

Making Delicious Happen.

Becky and I purchased one chocolate cupcake and one red velvet cupcake, ate them on site, and then left.  Realizing we might never encounter another cupcake so delicious, we turned around after half a block.  This delighted the staff, who sold us two more red velvet cupcakes while we tried to sell them on the idea of a Donna Bell's Miami.

We got about ten feet before we returned, this time for a single red velvet.  We want a Donna Bell's in Miami because there is no cupcake in this entire city which can hold a candle to them.

"Wait, what about Misha's Cupcakes?" I hear you Miamians saying.  Blah, blah, blah.  Yes, they're great.  But you know what?  Homemade cake is great, like the one about sex and pizza.

Male propaganda.

I'm not saying Misha's are bad, at all, but one bite from Donna Bell's and I knew I wouldn't be able to eat another Misha's for at least a year.  It's like reading James Salter's Light Years or John Irving's Cider House Rules; you know other fiction will pale for a time.

"Some Chick from CSI" is actually actress, singer, and philanthropist (and if IMDB and Wikipedia are to be believed, director / photographer / producer / poet / spoken-word artist / writer) Pauley Perrette:

Acting as Abby Sciuto in NCIS.

Singing as Pauly P. with Lo-Ball

Philanthropisting as herself with Project Angel Food. 

I IMDB'd her.  I've seen her in Frasier, Almost Famous, and The Ring, and I've heard of NCIS, but I didn't know who she was.  NCIS is a number one TV show.  This year's Harris Poll ranked it America's Favorite Television Show of All Time.  Perrette's Q Score (yes, that's a thing) ties Tom Hanks and Morgan Freeman as the number one Performer.  She's also 5'10", black-haired, and badass.  You'd think I'd have celeb-crushed on her like I do on Eva Mendes or Angelina Jolie, or at least that I'd recognize her.

You see what not having TV does to me?  This is why thousands of people descend on Books & Books to meet Tim Tebow while I need Wikipedia to tell me who he is and why I should care.

But really, does it matter how big of a star she is?  I'm sure NCIS is a fine program, but I'd have to guess Perrette's voluminous fundraising efforts, monetary donations, and charitable contributions - be they time or using her celebrity status to raise awareness - are of much more importance to the world.  

Well, all that and sharing her mother's baking recipes.

This is a clarification post but if you want a love-letter to Donna Bell's a good example can be found here, with pictures of the offerings AND the girl who rang Becky and I up.  If you're in New York City around the Theatre District and Hell's Kitchen, do your day right and stop by Donna Bell's Bake Shop.

Here's hoping it will be there every time I'm in town.