The Lovely Bones: The Awful Review

In recent days, I’ve been on a bit of a book-reading binge. I’m admittedly a bit of a book snob, but decided to give some more popular books a chance when I was browsing the Kindle store and found some bargains. And so it was this easing of my standards and clamoring for reading material that found me browsing the shelves at Goodwill (not that I’ve ever had anything against Goodwill, but I’m the type of person who usually walks into a bookstore or logs onto Amazon knowing exactly what I want, rather than choosing at random). On this particular jaunt, I found a hardback copy of The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold, sans dust cover, which was covered in what I could only guess were grease spots on the cover. I’d heard of it and had a very vague idea what the plot was about, and I decided to give it a chance. I’d actually thought of buying it on my Kindle, but for $2 (versus the $9.99 price tag for the Kindle version), I felt triumphant in having scored a deal. That I paid only $2 for it helped to diminish the abiding sense of shame I felt after having finished such an awful, awful book.

For those unawares, the book centers around 14 year-old Suzie Salmon (like the fish), who is raped and murdered by one of her neighbors in the 1973. Written from Suzie’s perspective, the book follows what happens to her family, friends, and her killer after she goes missing. You see, Suzie goes to heaven and is able to observe the goings-on, enter the thoughts, and even reveal herself (albeit very briefly) to those she knew. I don’t personally believe in heaven, but I don’t begrudge anyone his or her personal beliefs, so I made the concession that there is a heaven for the sake of the plot. That being said, the author’s particular concept of heaven bordered on juvenile. Sebold’s version of heaven is whatever each individual soul wanted it to be. In Suzie’s heaven, “there were no teachers in the school”, “we never had to go inside except for art class”, and it “had an ice cream shop where, when you asked for peppermint stick ice cream, no one ever said ‘It’s seasonal’”. She also describes packs of dogs roaming around (good dogs of course; maybe all good dogs really do go to heaven). I was surprised that there weren’t unicorns and rainbows and pennies falling from the sky as well.

For the most part though, the protagonist spends her time spying on Earth and trying to somehow lead her family, friends, or the police to her remains, which were sliced up Dexter-style, stuffed into a heavy safe, then dumped into a sinkhole that was commonly used as a burial ground for broken appliances. While she is mostly unsuccessful in her endeavors to help catch her killer, she does succeed in being creepy and spying on a bunch of people having sex, including her mother (who was nailing the detective that was investigating her daughter’s disappearance like the classy dame she is) and her sister. In Suzie’s heaven, she could be a creepy voyeur and never get caught.

Of all the characters in The Lovely Bones, Abigail Salmon is the least sympathetic. Instead of clinging to the family she has left after Suzie is gone, as previously mentioned, she has an affair with Detective Fenerman, then abandons her husband and remaining children and skips town to work in a vineyard, of all places. Apparently losing one child reminded her of the life she lost when she became a mother, so she decided the best course of action was to pretend she never was a mother. Abigail is just such a deep, brooding soul that the crushing realities of motherhood interfere with her ability to read Sartre, and so she had to flee.

As the book dragged on with little plot but Suzie continuing to be creepy and her mother continuing to be a selfish bitch, I kept asking myself why I was still reading it. The only answer I could come up with is that I’m a member of the book equivalent of the “Clean Plate Club”; once I’ve invested the time and energy into reading a book, I have to finish it, no matter how horrible it is (unless it’s The Great Gatsby; one of the few books I physically could not finish, no matter how hard I tried). I soldiered on through more overly sentimental codswallop and thin vestiges of plot until the very end, when Suzie’s dad had a heart attack, which of course made Suzie’s mom realize the mistake she made by abandoning her family eight years ago, and she rushes to be at Mr. Salmon’s bedside, and all is (mostly) forgiven. Meanwhile, Suzie manages to channel herself into the body of Ruth, a girl who happened to be in Suzie’s path as she left Earth, and so was endowed with the ever-useful power of seeing dead people. Some manner of Freaky Friday switcheroo occurred, and instead of using the brief time she had in Ruth’s body to help point her family in the direction of her remains, she chooses to screw Ruth’s friend Ray Singh, whom she’d had a crush on and had kissed before she died. Essentially, a 14 year-old girl used an adult woman’s body to have sex with her junior high crush, who was also an adult at this point. This begs the question: is it statutory rape if a man has sex with an adult body that’s inhabited with the spirit of a minor? The reader is also left with the conundrum of ferreting out who is creepier: Suzie for wanting a roll in the hay instead of giving her family some closure, or Ray for banging Ruth’s body while knowing that Suzie’s spirit was at the helm? It was at this point in the book that I wanted to throw it as hard and as far away as I could away from me, but I was at work in the break room, so I thought I might look like a crazy person if I started throwing books at random. In the end, no one finds out what became of Suzie’s body, the Salmons are a united front once more, and Suzie’s killer ends up meeting his fate after an icicle falls and sends him on his merry way into a ravine.

There. I’ve saved you the trouble of reading this unbelievably horrible book.

You’re welcome.

The Beginning and the End and Everything In Between

I posted this on my Facebook already, but I wanted to add it to my blog as well for others to see that don't use Facebook.

The year was 1999. Greg and I were celebrating the oncoming new millennium with a couple friends of ours (one of whom who was and still is one of my best friends). The anticipation was intense. What would this new millennium bring? Was the purported Y2K phenomenon a real threat? The Y2K threat was bogus of course, but no one could predict the things to come. It was history in the making, and we were living it.

At the stroke of midnight and at the drop of the famous ball in Times Square, Greg pulled a small velvet-covered box out of his pocket, got down on one knee, and asked me to marry him. Perhaps it was a little cheesy (although sweet), but of course I said yes. The new millennium had kicked off to a good start, with the promise of a new chapter in our lives: marriage.

The years between then and now have been anything but predictable. Together we faced job losses, new jobs, marriage, hardships, triumphs, births and deaths of loved ones, terrorist attacks, graduations, economic downturns, home ownership, two wars, historic elections, amazing new technologies, and the illnesses of our parents. There was much laughter, many tears, and everything in between.

As the decade came to a close last year, things seemed to take a turn for the worse. Earlier last year, both Greg’s father and my mother were diagnosed with cancer (within just a month or two of each other). Both of their prognoses are good, but the diagnoses served as a grave reminder of how fleeting life can be, and that time does not stand still; rather it keeps marching on and on, no matter how we wish we could hit the pause button for the good parts and fast forward through the bad parts. The closer that 2009 came to ending, the happier I was; 2009 had been such a rough year for both of us and our families that I was glad to be rid of it forever.

The last day of the year and the decade had finally come. Although I had to work that night, I felt a certain lightheartedness at knowing it would soon be over. I may not have been able to properly celebrate since I’d be working, but the heaviness that my heart had held for months on end seemed to ease a little.

The year was 2009, 10 years to the day we got engaged, minus 16 hours. Greg and I had just woken up around 8 in the morning, and I made a beeline for the bathroom as usual. After I was finished, I went about my business for a few minutes. When I returned to the bathroom to look at what I had left on the counter, it was confirmation of what I had suspected for a few days but had so far been unable to prove. I clutched it in my shaking hand and ran to the bedroom with a New Year’s Eve surprise of my own for Greg, ten years after his, thrusting it in front of his barely opened eyes. His bleary eyes then saw what my eyes had seen first: the word “pregnant” on the digital pregnancy test I had just taken. Time really did seem to stand still for a moment, but the spell was broken after I my nerves got the best of me and I ran around the house like crazy, looking for the digital camera to capture that moment forever: the moment we became a real family.

The new decade had kicked off to a good start, with the promise of a new chapter in our lives: parenthood.

ETA: September 10, 2010

The Breast Around or Hey, Look at My Boobs!

Before I begin, I just want to warn the reader that this post is about bra shopping (albeit a humorous one), so if you don't want to read anything pertaining to my boobs (though I'm not going to go into graphic detail), you might want to reconsider reading this blog.

Last week, I decided it was high time to go bra shopping; an under wire snapped in my favorite bra, and another one of my bras had a wire poking out for quite some time. Since Greg and I were already going to be shopping anyway, I dragged him (rather unwillingly) to Macy's just to buy a couple bras, and promised him that I would be quick about it.

The layout of Macy's in Fairview Heights is rather confusing, so by the time we actually found the lingerie department (located near the housewares on the bottom level, nowhere near the rest of the clothing departments), we'd already spent twenty minutes circling the store. Sensing Greg's growing impatience, I was determined to quickly select a few bras and get outta there.

Just as soon as we reached the outer perimeter of the lingerie department, I was ambushed by an overly-friendly, extremely enthusiastic saleswoman. I was just looking for whatever was on sale and whatever fit me (lets just say I wear a size that not all bra makers carry, though that's mostly due to how um, portly I am right now), and she was very helpful in helping me locate just what I was looking for. I found a few bras that I liked and were on sale within five minutes, so I made a beeline for the cash register. The saleswoman asked me if I wanted to try to them on. I was really intent on getting out of there as quickly as possible, but I thought I'd better, just in case. After I told her I'd go ahead and try them on, she asked me if I'd ever been fitted. When I told her I had in fact not ever been fitted for a bra, she insisted that I should really be fitted. I threw a quick furtive glance in Greg's direction (who had resigned himself to his fate of waiting on me at least a little bit longer), and headed for the dressing room, followed by the saleswoman with her tape measure.

I'm not the kind of person who is embarrassed or made uncomfortable by nudity, but I was a little disconcerted when the salesperson followed me into the dressing room and closed the door behind her. Immediately, it became clear that she was going to stay in there while I took off my shirt and the bra I was wearing and tried on the bras I had intended to buy. I kind of paused for a moment, but then convinced myself that she is a professional who probably does this routinely (much how I, as a nurse, have to ask patients embarrassing questions about their bowel movements, and also sometimes have to insert catheters into their urethrae), so I put aside my misgivings and tried the other bra on with her in the dressing room (though I did turn my back to her while I was doing it; I admit that I was a little bit embarrassed). Once I had the new bra on, she took the tape measure and measured me in several different places around my bosom, which wasn't nearly as uncomfortable as feeling like someone was staring at my bare boobs. She said that it didn't look like the bra fit quite right (after taking it upon herself to adjust the girls), so she asked me to try on another bra. I did as I was asked, and again she measured me and made the necessary adjustments.

It was after I'd had my boobs stared at and handled by a complete stranger for ten minutes that the saleswoman informed me that I really should go up a size (even though I don't agree with that; if I wore the next size up, I may as well not even wear a bra, as little support as it would give me). She took off in search of other bras by the same company that she thought would fit me better, and I sat in the dressing room for probably five minutes, waiting for her return and more awkward bra changes.

When she finally returned, she informed me that there was a representative from Vanity Fair at Macy's (the bra company whose bras I had been trying on), and asked me if I would mind if she came in with us to try on some different bras. Having exposed the twins to one perfect stranger already, I hesitantly agreed. The Vanity Fair representative burst into the dressing room with her tape measure and a very loud, pushy (but friendly) demeanor. Again, I was subjected to having my boobs stared at and measured, and it was at this point that I had to stifle the laughter that was threatening to erupt from my mouth because: 1) I now had two women I didn't know fussing over my boobs and 2), poor Greg was still waiting for me outside the dressing rooms, bored out of his skull (I had at this point been in the dressing room for probably fifteen minutes). I tried on yet more bras, now with two pairs of eyes watching my every move, and I finally found one bra that fit well, so I decided to just buy three of the same one in different colors.

Finally, the awkward ordeal was over, and I walked out of there with some much needed new bras. Next time I need some new bras, I'm just going to order them online; at least then I know I won't have someone unexpectedly staring at my boobs.

The Importance of Selecting Just the Right Toilet Paper

Note: The following entry is my submission to the First Annual Boring Blog Post Contest, started by my friend Shawn. His riveting tale of buying socks can be found here.

To me, selecting just the right toilet paper to put in my bathroom is of tantamount importance. When one goes to the store to acquire such toiletries, one is faced with a plethora of choices. Therefore, it is highly important to judge each kind of toilet paper with a strict set of criteria that are already set in place before going to the store.

The first quality that I look for in toilet paper is softness. For example, I prefer toilet paper that is soft enough not to chafe my sensitive posterior whilst wiping, but I don't want toilet paper that is so soft that crumbles when I use it, or toilet paper that has the greasy feel of facial tissues that are infused with lotion so that they are kinder to one's nose. Quilted Northern and Scott brand toilet papers are a bit too abrasive for my standards, but I find that Charmin is a bit too soft (not to mention flimsy). Unfortunately, the softer a toilet paper is, the more expensive it usually is.

I also find that texture is an important aspect of an acceptable toilet paper. Along with softness, texture can make or break a toilet paper brand. Some toilet papers have very minimal texture, such as Scott brand toilet paper; there is no pattern or texture to be found on those very plain white sheets. Quilted Northern has a nice texture, but lacks the softness that I require. Charmin lacks both the texture and level of softness that I prize in toilet paper, so again, it does not make the grade.

Last but certainly not least, the sturdiness of a toilet paper is a crucial quality when choosing which package of toilet paper to take home to one's bathroom. I prefer a toilet paper that has a medium sturdiness. If a toilet paper is too flimsy (such as Quilted Northern), the force of wiping can often tear holes in the toilet paper, which leads to the unpleasant direct contact of hands on the derriere and possibly fecal matter. If a toilet paper is too sturdy, it often feels like one is wiping one's backside with paper towels, which is never pleasant (and it also poses a problem when attempting to flush one's foul business down the toilet). Most importantly, a toilet paper needs to be hardy enough to survive a bout of diarrhea, or, as I like to call it, the chunder down under. There is nothing worse than curling into the fetal position on the toilet after eating some ill-advised Mexican or Chinese food, filling the toilet with one's own special brew, and then, once the horrific episode is done, finding that the toilet paper one has selected does not rise to the task as expected. During these types of interludes, I find that it is sometimes best to use a wet wipe (really, any diaper wipe will do for this task) after using the regular toilet paper to get that just-showered clean that one really needs after a bout of the dreaded broiling Hershey squirts.

Considering all these stringent requirements, the only toilet paper that meets my impeccable standards would be Cottonelle brand toilet paper. Cottonelle toilet paper is soft, but not so soft that you feel like you're buttering your anus every time you wipe; it's also has a wonderful ribbed texture that gives one the feeling of complete cleanliness after using. Most importantly, the toilet paper is of just the right strength to withstand even the nastiest of bowel movements.

I hope this blog has been of some help or education for my faithful readers, for I would hate for anyone I know to make the mistake of selecting the wrong toilet paper; having the right toilet paper at the ready may be one of the most important decisions one will make in one's life.

Around the Neighborhood or Things Learned On a Neighborhood Walk 2: Electric Boogaloo

After resting on my laurels for a few days (i.e., letting my muscles recover from my last walk), I decided to go on another frolic through the neighborhood; this time, however, I wisely decided to avoid going up Grandview and Crown, and went up just Grandview (and Woodland instead of Crown).

The ascent of Grandview wasn't quite as difficult as the last time, but still, it was challenging. I did have to stop a few times to pant and sip water, but I stopped fewer times than the last time. It's my ultimate goal to make it all the way up Grandview without having to stop, hyperventilate, and wince at how much higher I'll have to climb when I start again.

I brought my camera this time and snapped a few photographs along the route I took this time (which wasn't much different, only I went up Woodland and down Crown, instead of down Woodland and up Crown) to share with my faithful blog readers (of which there are surely few, but those of you who do actually read this, just humor me). Without further ado, scenes from my neighborhood:

The Lonely Mountain. This is where Grandview intersects my street.

This is just about the halfway point up Grandview.

Looking back...

Down Crown (the never-ending hill).

The overpass that goes over St. Louis Road (one side of "The Triangle").

St. John's Cemetery.

The Tree Tunnel.

The park.

Back down Grandview on my way home.

You can kind of see the Arch in this picture. It was really hazy and my camera is inadequate for these kind of pictures. I need a new camera.

Things Learned On A Neighborhood Walk

After lazing around all afternoon and most of the evening, I decided that I wanted nothing more than a relaxing walk through the neighborhood before the sun set for the night. After arming myself with seldom-used designated walking shoes, my iPod, and a bottle of water, I set forth on my journey. Walking on Hillside (my street) towards Grandview was easy, but then I met my foe: The Hill of Doom (cue villain music). I cannot find a good picture of the road anywhere on the internet (and Google Maps Street View fails me as well; the best I found was a view from the intersection of Grandview and 157, which hardly does this hill justice). Suffice it to say that the hill is steep enough that one can see clearly and quite far into St. Louis from the very top. Having climbed the hill once before, I knew what I was in for, but I was determined I would defeat it once more.

I managed to get almost a third of the way up the hill before my legs weakened to a jelly-like consistency. Following several stops and starts (several being extremely liberal), and several intervals of desperate panting and subsequent gulps of water, I made it up the dastardly hill, victorious. I rested for a moment at the summit of Grandview, relishing my victory (and trying to quiet my trembling limbs) before moving on to the rest of the neighborhood.

Having only been on one short walk in the neighborhood before (which ended prematurely due the damage inflicted by the climb up Grandview), I decided to explore a bit. I walked around the perimeter of the neighborhood (which I like to call "The Triangle", due to its resemblance to a triangle on the map), carefully considering which way to go next. I wound back up on Grandview (where I encountered an old man with a skullet who resembled a Scooby Doo villain that was mowing his yard with a motorless push mower) but wasn't quite ready to make the deep descent down the hill back to my house just yet, so I decided to snake around behind Grandview to see what was happening back that way. I passed a few houses, then wound up on a very narrow road in a heavily wooded area that somewhat resembles Beer Can Alley in Salem (anyone from the Salem area reading this will know what I'm talking about) in that the trees on either side of the road grow together so that they effectively form a "tunnel", which makes it unnaturally dark. I was a little spooked, but was then pleasantly surprised to find a clearing in which a small park of sorts with a narrow but deep meadow resided. Noting the basketball goal for later use (I wouldn't mind shooting a few hoops one of these days, but I will have to buy a basketball), I continued down the unfamiliar path.

As I continued, I came upon a cemetary that was familiar (St. John's Cemetary, to be exact), but that I had seen from the other road that goes by it (St. Louis Road). It was not lost on me that the cemetary was up on a hill, and I was walking on a road that very gradually sloped downhill. As hilly as my neighborhood is, I knew that what goes down must come up (namely, me).

I finally reached the end of the road, and thus had to climb back uphill to get back home. By this time, my legs had nearly forgotten the detriment that The Hill of Doom had wrought; that is, until I started walking up Crown, which is almost as steep as Grandview. A mere few steps into it I realized that I had more than met my match, and my legs felt completely impotent as I willed them to bring me back home. Every few feet I had to stop and pant, and I exhausted my water supply about halfway up. The cell phone in my pocket was beckoning me to call my dear husband to drive down Crown to come get me, but I was determined that I would finish the remainder of the journey unassisted. Finally, I was at the top of Crown and Grandview once more, victoriously atop not one but two conquered hills. I stopped to enjoy the breath-taking view (and to catch my breath); one can see both neat fields of green and the St. Louis skyline from the top, and the sun was setting, casting glorious shades of red and orange as far as the eye could see.

I made my way back down The Hill of Doom, turned the corner, and at last I was home; soaked in sweat, thirsty and tired, but glad I had gone on my walking adventure. Once I have recovered from this trek, I think I'll make this my regular walking route, and I'll bring my camera next time so I can post some pictures of the landmarks. For now, though, I need my rest.

In conclusion, things I learned on my neighborhood walk:

1) Bring more water next time.
2) There is a basketball goal in a mini-park within walking distance, along with a replica of Beer Can Alley.
3) There are not one but two challenging hills to climb on this particular route.
4) There is also a graveyard within walking distance (I've always been fascinated with graveyards; no, I'm not goth or emo).
5) There's a weird guy on the corner with a skullet who looks like a Scooby Doo villain and likes to mow his yard with a motorless push mower while mumbling to himself.
6) Someone in the neighborhood has a sign in their driveway directing travellers to "Jim Morrison Blvd".
7) Take a camera next time.
8) I love my neighborhood.

Album Review Extravaganza! A Music Snob's Take on Eight Recently Purchased Albums, Part One

A few weeks ago, I decided I was incredibly bored with my music collection, so I went on a new-music shopping spree. I bought a couple albums at Best Buy, downloaded an album from iTunes, and ordered a few albums from Amazon.com, for a total of eight new albums. The albums I bought are from various genres, so I’ve decided to write mini-reviews for each one in the hopes that I may hit on the musical tastes of at least one of my blog readers (of which there are certainly very few, but I can hope, can’t I?), and introduce at least one of them to something good (or perhaps prevent them from buying crap). I will start with the first four, and I’ll post the other four if the interest is there.

Omar Rodriguez-Lopez- Se Dice Bisonte, No Bùfalo



Let me preface this by saying that I’m a bit of an Omar Rodriguez and Cedric Bixler fangirl; I’ve followed their collective musical output since their days with At the Drive In, and consider them one of the most dynamic duos in rock today. I own most of the ATDI catalogue, except for the first two albums (even I have to admit that their earlier work was mediocre, at best); I own a Defacto album (the band in between ATDI and the Mars Volta, which reminds me; I need to track down the other Defacto albums); I also (of course) own all the Mars Volta catalog, and I’ve seen TMV twice in concert (and they never disappoint live). That said, I"ve never ventured into Omar’s solo work until recently; I’ve been a little intimidated by his solo output, merely because there’s just so much of it. Aside from Mike Patton, Omar Rodriguez-Lopez is the hardest-working man in music these days. Besides TMV and his own solo work, he’s got his finger in several other pies; most recently, the Cryptomensia project with Zach Hill of Hella (yet another album with Omar’s and Cedric’s input that I’ve yet to investigate). As a result of Omar’s insane work ethic, much of Se Dice Bisonte comes across as scraping the bottom of the barrel; quantity is not quality, especially in this case. While all of TMV’s work past Deloused in the Comatorium suffers from Omar’s propensity to record every note that comes out of his guitar, his solo work suffers even more.

The album kicks off on a hopeful note with the fuzzy, funky, off-kilter riff of “The Lukewarm” that is trademark Omar, but fizzles out after less than a minute to segue into “Luxury of Infancy”, which sounds like nothing more than a bastard cousin to a riff in “Cygnus…Vismund Cygnus” from Frances the Mute. The album finally kicks into gear with “Rapid Fire Tollbooth”: an infantile, almost drunken version of “Goliath” from TMV’s The Bedlam in Goliath. Slowed down substantially and with lyrics radically different from “Goliath”, it lacks the punch that made the final product such a great song, but the more prevalent saxophone breathes a different life into the song. The rest of the album is much like the beginning; lacking any direction or theme, the listener eventually becomes bored. The title track goes on for seven minutes, and is very reminiscent of the worst of Amputechture-era Volta; trademark incomprehensible lyrics by Cedric, double-tracked bass and saxophone, and of course, undisciplined guitar work. The high point of the album is, without a doubt, “Please Heat This Eventually”; it starts out sounding like yet another Frances the Mute outtake, but eventually mutates into a surprisingly cohesive and enjoyable song. “Lurking About in Cold Sweat (Held Together by Venom)” follows, and the keyboard intro is such an obvious rip-off of Odd Nosdam that he could probably sue for copyright infringement. The rest of the album is forgettable, as it quickly devolves into a studio grab bag of wacky sound effects and yet more guitar wankery by Omar. Disappointing would be a good word to summarize the album; embarrassing would be an even better word. Unless you are even more obsessed with Omar and Cedric than I am, you’d be well advised to pass on this solo album, and hope that the upcoming TMV album Octahedron isn’t nearly as tepid as some of their recent releases.

Bonobo- Dial “M” For Monkey



If there’s one thing I’m always on the look out for and in the mood for, it’s good down-tempo electronica. Perhaps I was spoiled in finding Air, Thievery Corporation and Zero 7 first, but I’ve had a hard time finding anything that meets my expectations. Enter Pandora radio, which has been an absolute godsend for me in that it has introduced me to several new artists, but I am especially grateful for its role in acquainting me with Bonobo. I’d heard of Bonobo before, but had never been interested enough in him (“him” being Simon Green, the man behind the music) to track down any of his albums. A couple songs from Dial “M” for Monkey came up on Pandora when I was listening to the Boards of Canada station, and I was instantly intrigued. I had to hear more, so I set out to find the album on Amazon. Unfortunately, none of his albums were available for purchase from Amazon for a decent price (they were being sold by individual sellers for upwards of $30 an album), so I found the album I wanted at iTunes.

The album kicks off with “Noctuary”, which begins with an eerie sample of a harp and a stand up bass, which is then accompanied by a smooth, hypnotic beat. I’m nothing if not a sucker for a great harp piece (if you are too, you should also check out “International Flight” by David Snell; I promise you will not be disappointed), so I was immediately impressed, but even more so by the following track. “Flutter” is by far my favorite track on the album, which is saying a lot, because every track is pure perfection. “Flutter” begins with a hypnotically fast, dreamy xylophone intro, which is then supplemented with a monstrously catchy beat, sitar, and saxophone. The song defies time and space; it literally seems to go on forever, but yet is not nearly long enough. The next track, “D Song” begins with an almost aboriginal-sounding bell clanging; then the bass line, the jazzy keyboards and irresistible beat follow. The track “Pick Up” features some of the funkiest flute ever committed to record, and combined with an infectious hip-hop beat, it’s enough to make even me want to get up and dance. The album closer, “Light Pattern” begins with a tense bass riff, and when the beat comes in, it kicks off with a riff that would sound right at home in a James Bond movie.

Overall, the album has just the right balance of smoothness and groove that would be perfect for relaxing late at night with a glass of wine by oneself or with a group of friends. Dial “M” for Monkey is one of the worthiest musical purchases I’ve made in some time, and I look forward to finding and listening to more of Bonobo’s excellent work.

Spoon- Gimme Fiction



Spoon is another band that was recommended by Pandora, but this time while I was listening to the LCD Soundsystem station. I heard a few songs off of Gimme Fiction and Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga, and decided to give Gimme Fiction a try. I’ve recently become aware of how painfully absent rock music has been from what I regularly listen to, so I decided I needed to get back to my rock roots and see what Spoon had to offer. I’d heard of Spoon before, and had heard nothing but good things about them (especially in the No Music Discussion forum on the Something Awful forums; I guess that’s what I get for listening to a bunch of goons). I heard “I Turn My Camera On” on Pandora, and was taken by just how sexy the song sounds (I’m a sucker for well-done male falsetto vocals, what can I say). Unfortunately, none of the rest of the album lived up the expectations that were set by “I Turn My Camera On”, and lacked the groove that roped me into buying the album in the first place. Much of the album just sounds like Spoon is trying to ape Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers and Ben Folds Five in equal measures, and that’s just not my bag. That’s not to say that this particular album is horrible; it does still have “I Turn My Camera On” on it, which is what possessed me to buy it in the first place. It’s just too bad the rest of the album isn’t like the song that reeled me in. Gimme Fiction is merely the latest in a long line of disappointing music purchases (that’s what I get for buying an album based on one song). I’m so disappointed by this album that I’m going to give it away to a more appreciative listener after only listening to it a handful of times. Kelly, it’s all yours.

MGMT- Oracular Spectacular



MGMT is a band that I’d heard of for a while, but had been a bit leery of listening to. The album cover to Oracular Spectacular just screams pretentious ironic hipster, which is the last thing I want to associate myself with at my age (I’ll be turning 29 next week and I’m definitely feeling it; I’m all for being open minded when it comes to new music, but I do have my limits). I almost bought it over a month ago when I was at Borders (and they were having a 40% sale on pretty much the entire CD department), but stopped short after hearing the garbled 10 second samples that Borders had available at their listening stations. A few weeks later, a couple MGMT songs came up on the LCD Soundsystem station I created, and I was surprised to find that I was immediately enchanted by their insanely catchy melodies and tight arrangements. Thusly, I got myself to the nearest Best Buy and bought Oracular Spectacular, post haste.

The album kicks off with “Time to Pretend”; an ode to resigning oneself to the rock and roll lifestyle (“This is our decision, to live fast and die young/ We've got the vision, now let's have some fun”). MGMT then drastically switches gears with “Weekend Wars”, which has the youthful sneer of Ziggy Stardust-era David Bowie without appearing to completely rip off Bowie. “The Youth” is positively anthemic in nature, beginning with “This is a call to arms to live and love and sleep together”, and ending with higher octave repetitions of the insanely catchy chorus. The listener is then blindsided by the sexy make-out swagger of “Electric Feel”, in which the singer channels both the Bee Gees and Mick Jagger (and somehow makes it sound so, so good). “Kids” is a new-wave throwback, but catchy nonetheless. “4th Dimensional Transition” is as chock full of psychedelia as the title suggests; the song could fit almost seamlessly on Piper at the Gates of Dawn. The album switches gears completely once again with the next song, “Pieces of What”, which nears quasi-country in its approach. “Of Moons Birds and Monsters” takes the album in yet another direction; this time, MGMT plays straight rock, and excels. “The Handshake” almost recalls Flaming Lips, until it reaches the bridge, which is all their own: swirling keyboards, watery vocals, and unstoppable melodies. The album closes with “Future Reflections”, which starts as a Native American chant, but morphs into New Wave bliss as only MGMT can muster.

All in all, MGMT manages to do what Ween does, which is to master many different musical styles, but they do it in such a manner that is not as obviously tongue in cheek as the brothers Ween are wont to do. Are MGMT pretentious ironic hipsters? I don’t know, and honestly, I don’t care. They can be as pretentious and ironic as they want to be, as long as they keep making music that is this good.

All In Knots

My on-again, off-again love affair with the art of transforming yarn into something tangible began when I was in fourth or fifth grade. I’m not entirely sure who taught me the fundamentals of crochet, but from the very beginning, I was hooked. I remember begging my mom for some yarn and a crochet hook, and she relented.

My very first skein of yarn was a massive bundle of Red Heart acrylic bubblegum pink, and I set to work just as soon as it was in my clutches. Determined as I was to make something useful out of it (mostly Barbie clothes), my first efforts at crochet were disappointing, to say the least. I wanted so badly for Barbie to have her very own bubblegum pink mini-skirt, but lacking any crocheting skills beyond making a chain (I made up my own rules for crochet, with disastrous results), I ended up with very lopsided, uneven, and trapezoid-like creations. Since I was (and still am) such an impatient person, one would have thought that I would have given up right then and there. Perhaps it was my other trademark personality trait, stubbornness, that pressed me to continue to torture myself with yarn and hooks, but I kept trying.

My mother has never been a connoisseur of the domestic arts. She has never known how to sew, crochet, knit, embroider, or quilt. My maternal grandmother’s abilities (before arthritis in her hands effectively brought them to a halt) were limited to embroidering small things, like pillowcases. Literally no one else in my family (that I know of) has ever been the crafty sort, which has made my progress with needlecraft extremely frustrating and full of dead ends (and also unfinished projects and lopsided blocks of yarn). For reasons unknown, my mom had a Reader’s Digest book that is completely devoted to handicrafts like crochet and knitting, and I pored over it, determined that I would someday make an afghan, a vest (hey, this was the 1980’s and I think the book was made in the 1970’s), or at least a potholder that was the proper shape. Unfortunately, the directions for crocheting were vague, at best. The book seemed to assume that the reader at least knew something about crocheting, and wasn’t a complete newbie like I was. Frustrated as ever, I made a few more attempts at making something before giving up for a number of years. Still, after the frustrations of the previous attempts were long forgotten, I would always return to the needle and thread.

Once again, I made a concerted effort to learn crochet when I was trying to quit smoking about five years ago. Despite still not being able to make any sort of discernable shape, I found the repetition and the concentration required to be quite relaxing (and a very welcome distraction from thinking about how badly I wanted to smoke). The end result was a sage and forest green rectangle-esque block of acrylic yarn that resembled a doormat (and I used it as such for a time), but it still looked better than most of the projects I had attempted previously. I put away my yarn and needles when I started nursing school, as I didn’t really have the time to devote to such frivolities as crocheting.

More years passed, and I hadn’t even thought of crocheting until I was at a party of a friend who knits, and was in the company of several guests who also knit. I’ve always yearned to knit as well, so I went out and bought some yarn, knitting needles, and Stitch ‘N Bitch: The Knitter’s Handbook and Stitch ‘N Bitch Crochet: The Happy Hooker (both by Debbie Stoller). This was also just a few days after I had quit smoking again (for good this time, I swear!), so I was in dire need of something to keep my hands and mind busy (especially since I was quitting completely cold turkey, unlike the last time I quit). I was eager to learn knitting, but it never really clicked with me for some reason. Perhaps I was making it harder than it really should have been, but I grew frustrated very early on, and moved right onto the crochet book. I’m sure that knowing the bare-minimum basics of crochet probably helped my cause at least a little bit, but The Happy Hooker really cleared things up for me. Previously, I had no idea what exactly it was that I was doing wrong to make my projects turn out so pitifully. After reading the very simple instructions (that didn’t assume you were at least a novice at crochet), for the first time, I really got it. A light bulb turned on over my head, and then I really got to work.

My first completed project was the One Skein Scarf (the pattern can be found in The Happy Hooker) made of burnt-orange wool. Although the stitches are quite a bit looser than they’re supposed to be (thereby making the scarf approximately twice the length it’s supposed to be, but it also made it long enough to wrap around my ears and my neck several times), I wore it with pride over the winter months, and even got a few compliments on it at work (one thing I’ve noticed since I started crocheting again is that people are really impressed by others who can make or do things by hand). I made another One Skein Scarf for my mother-in-law for her birthday (which turned out much better than the one I made for myself), and I’m making another one for another gift (along with several other projects; much like everything else, I have to have at least 2 or 3 other projects going at one time). I’ve made a bag for myself (I just need to sew it together); I’m working on another handbag for myself (I know it sounds incredibly selfish to make so much stuff for myself, but I’m just testing things out that I plan to make for other people so I don’t gift someone a lopsided ugly mess of yarn), and I’ve already got plans to buy an Amigurumi book (patterns of cute little crocheted critters). I went from making lopsided, non-descript pieces of crap to making decent-looking finished projects, and I’m getting better and better with each one. I’m not a crocheting super-star just yet, but I’m well on my way, and that makes me even more excited to try to do new things with the needle and thread. Now, if I could just figure out knitting…