etc.

WOW. That about sums it up.

In the leadup to the release of this film, I read some early critics who said audiences will have one of three reactions to the film, depending on their familiarity with the book (I’m simplifying): if you’ve never read it, you will LOVE the film; if you’ve read it once, long ago, and can’t really remember the ending, you will LOVE the film; if you’ve read the book a million times, if you’re a Tolkeiner, if you communicate with your friends only in Elvish, you will LOVE the film but be slightly disappointed with the liberties taken with the ending. I, happily, belong in the second camp.

I am so behind the 8-ball on everything. Work is insanely busy, why oh why, it’s the holidays, the students have departed for homes or beaches or ski slopes, this is supposed to be good time, my time, time to wrap up loose ends, complete projects, spend leftover collections budgets, eat colleagues’ home-baking all day, and enjoy 2 hour department lunches. No holiday cards have been dispatched, no gifts have been completed, no baking has been done, and yesterday I noticed that I was three days behind on cleaning out the cats’ litterbox. I have a day off next week and aside from having a general fixit guy over to inspect our crazy-little-house for broken stuff, I shall complete all the rest of it, yes, all of it, all at once, all in one day, so if you’re expecting a gift or card from me in the mail, or perhaps some gingersnaps or shortbread from my oven, this is my very elaborate and roundabout way of telling you that it’s all going to be a little late and that I am very sorry.

Here’s the deal: when I made the decision to read audiobooks during my drive to work, I also made a subconscious decision to be less discerning about what books would make the cut, under the premise that anything remotely interesting would be better than the puerile, inane radio shows I’ve been listening to for the past year and a half. I have to be in the car for two hours a day anyway (more in traffic/weather), so even the lightest entertainment would be a bonus.

Wrong.

A bad audiobook when listened to in heavy commuting traffic on a snow-slippery road puts you in a bad mood. A very bad mood, in fact, and a very bad mood is no mood to be in when you’re sitting in heavy commuting traffic on a snow-slippery road. Three major strikes against this book: lame story, unimaginative writing, and ridiculous performance. It’s a murder-mystery with asinine expectations for the reader to suspend his/her disbelief and maybe its because I hardly ever read murder-mysteries but I found the whole thing schmaltzy at best and ludicrous at worst. And I think I was spoilt with Salman Rushdie reading the first audiobook I’ve ever listened to because I expected a reading, not a performance complete with nasty attempts at regional accents and overacted emotions. Some things are better left to the imagination.

Our tree is up, all sparkly, red, gold, bows, ribbons, 600 fairy-lights strong. It’s tall, not as tall as I thought 7ft was, but tall and wide. You forget that tall also means wide with Christmas trees.

I’ve decided to knit the cats a couple of blankets for Christmas. Since this decision comes a mere 10 days before the day of merriment, they will not be done on time but no matter, the cats shouldn’t mind. I’ve never knitted anything before, I almost finished a simple plain-purl (pearl?) purple scarf once but that’s the extent of it. With my current audiobook preoccupation I’ve decided that it would be nice to be able to do something with my hands while I listen to a book (this is not when I am driving, don’t worry Mum) and I came to the conclusion that cat blankies are a good, low-threat way to jump into the knitting game.

Site-relatedly, I’ve turned off comments. Why not send me a message instead if you have something to say? I still like hearing from you, I’m just trying out a little something different. That’s all. Tell me what you think, and go ahead and be honest.

I have to come out and make a bold statement here: the heist film just might be my favourite type of film. Judging from the fact that Heat and The Usual Suspects are two of my favourite movies ever (we all have them — the kind we can’t turn off every time they’re on cable. I mean Every Time), this is not an unfair statement. The Good Thief is, as you might have gathered, a heist film. Nolte plays a heist-guy-junkie down on his luck in Monte Carlo when the proverbial score-he-can’t-pass-up comes his way (formulaic, I know, but it works). It’s clever and there is, of course, a surprise-ending, and even though the acting tends to be schmaltzy at times, it had me from the opening credits. I’m a sucker for clever plot twists, they get me every time (I mean Every Time).

Just finished “reading” my first audiobook. Thanks to all the many of you who offered suggestions for audiobook rentals and to my buddy at TPL who set me straight on the actual lending guidelines for audiobooks. Turns out I can borrow audiobooks just fine, I just can’t borrow talking books and I’m ashamed to admit that I don’t know the difference other than the format note in the catalogue. The good thing is, my local branch (in a big old house 2 mins away from us) has a small range-ful of audio titles that I have already started plumbing for my daily commute and I’m somewhat confounded when I think of the 1.65 years of commuting I’ve done without them.

The hunt for online sources has taught me a little something about the audiobook market, such as the availability of audiobooks on MP3, something I should have assumed but hadn’t. If you are a new-fiction savant, you’ll have to pony up $16-19 for a download, but if you want to get your paws on a classic or two, royalty-free means $1-4 downloads. As attractive as that sounds, and as sleek and attractive as these things are, I think I’ll continue feeding my nascent audiolit addiction with what I can cull from my local library’s collection.

A couple of firsts for me: my first Rushdie and my first audiobook. Good experiences, both.

This is a book about fury: the fury of Malik Solanka, the 55-year old millionaire dollmaker protagonist, the fury of New York city, the fury of living in a hyper-capitalist, hyper-sensitive, hyper-modern 21st Century world. The book begins with Solanka having recently fled his North London house after having come close to submitting to the fury of a drunken moment and killing his wife with a carving knife. He sets up in a decent sublet in New York city and the rest of the book is about how he wrestles with his personal and familial demons, comes to terms with living in a city that is too postmodern for its own good, and relearns the meaning of social contracts. Rushdie’s prose is wonderfully descriptive and he’s obviously a fan of the backstory because this book is littered with tangential offshoots that often (but not always) fill in key details. If I were holding this book in my hand I might have been tempted to read ahead, but Rushdie’s masterful narration (he can really An-Nun-Ci-Ate) held me in rapt wonderment for all nine hours and 15 minutes.

A couple of visual delights today: first, the 2003 etc. bauble you will already have noticed. Yes, friends, this is how unapologetic I am about my enthusiasm for the holidays. It’s like this most years, although this year is seeing a particularly early onset. I’m quite certain it has something to do with us being around for the holidays. Last year we went to London for 9 days right after Christmas and as delightful as that was, it didn’t really feel like Christmas because I didn’t bake any chocolate chip meringues for my sister and no ginger snaps for my dad and no gobs of relax time spent with my family. I’ll be making up for that this year, in all sorts of spades.

Also, just when you thought I don’t make good on any of my promises, here are a few pictures from South Korea, in all its mystical, Autumnal splendour. The pictures have been up for weeks but I’ve been waiting on the mister to fill in the captions and even though he still hasn’t done it, I’m unveiling them uncaptioned to shame him into action. For now, suffice it to say that it’s a palace, there’s a library and a women’s residence on the grounds and it was foggy that day. The rest is up to your imagination, go ahead and use it with reckless abandon.

This weekend we were supposed to pick up our Christmas decorations, all carefully tissued and boxed, resting on their warm, dry shelf in the mister’s parents’ basement. We also have a three-year old, unused, 7ft tree; unused because we bought it on a whim three years ago before we lived in an unusually low-ceilinged basement apartment which necessitated a three foot, sparsely-baubled tree (the cats love baubles and are not, interestingly enough, intimidated by a 3 ft tree). We didn’t pick up these Christmas accoutrements this weekend and I am, as a result, a bit discountenanced.

You see, I love Christmas. Prosaic, isn’t it? It’s become de rigeur to poo-poo the holidays, hasn’t it? All that commercialism, consumerism, wastefulness. Well, guess what, I try to live low on the food chain, consume as little as possible, and not fuel the corporate machine, and I still love Christmas. It isn’t about buying bigger and better things, and mowing down mums in toys stores for the last this-year’s-Elmo. It’s giving thoughtfully, wrapping lovingly, and spending time with the people who are important to you. It’s making mulled wine and apple cider, and forcing the cats to wear reindeer antlers. It’s fresh snow, pine cones, bright baubles and fir boughs. It’s long days, warm houses, and lots and lots of good books.

This week I am making pine and fir wreaths for the house. Next week, something else. Maybe baked goods. Maybe gifts. I’ll let you know, unapologetically.

True story: Graham Young, mildly antisocial British youth with a penchant for playing with chemicals, kills family, is convicted, receives prison sentence at age 14, proclaimed “cured” by age 23, released from prison, kills again. I like serial killer stories as much as the next guy, but I hadn’t heard of this one until I saw the movie. It’s deadpan and terribly funny at times, mostly in a way that makes you shake your head in disbelief that this kid could have gotten away with his shenanigans for so long. As a film it works really well, Graham’s victims and near-victims are all completely caricatured so it ends up being a trippy look into the psyche of a lunatic kid rather than anything sad or horrifying (which, in reality, it probably was).