The moral to the story here is that, simply, I need to live in Hawaii.
Or, Florida. Wow: Video: Dolphin races waterskiier: MyFoxTAMPABAY.com
Taking inspiration from one of the final chapters of Jennifer Egan‘s A Visit from the Goon Squad, here’s my take. Click to embiggen.
Swamp full of danger, or respite? Image by Odalaigh via Flickr
Florida has been called America’s heart of darkness, a descriptor mentioned in a book I just finished, The Lost Memory of Skin by Russell Banks. The comparison with Heart of Darkness, Joseph Conrad’s novel chronicling a journey in the uncivilized Congo, is still apt — modern Florida is a scary, fascinating place, full of terrors joyful, nightmarish and mind-numbing, which is perhaps why it so often serves as the setting for terrific books. Along with The Lost Memory of Skin, I’d add Swamplandia! by Karen Russell to the category. Reading the books one after the other was an interesting, serendipitous exercise.
The Lost Memory of Skin chronicles a few days’ existence of ”the Kid,” a young, not-too-bright convicted sex offender living on the muggy streets of a Miami-like city. The Kid’s life is harrowing and complex. He must contend with living under a causeway with a bunch of other exiled sex offenders while navigating a legal, social and cultural system murkier than any African river from Heart of Darkness. How will he, if at all, overcome the odds?
Skin’s point-of-view is two-fold — first from the Kid’s, and also from a sociologist researching the Kid, known only as the Professor. They provide different viewpoints to understand the issue both from the offender’s perspective and that of our society at large. Only briefly does Banks cross over into preachy exposition, via the Professor, in an attempt to make us understand the Kid’s circumstances. The Kid comes across as a somewhat sympathetic figure, a fully developed person, just as some sex offenders are in real life, despite what we’d like to believe. Banks shows us the Kid is lonely but not evil or without love – he cares for pets, taking in an iguana, a dog and a chatty parrot. He seems more of a hapless product of his environment, one in which pornography of the most illegal kind is only a click away for anyone. By the time the Kid finds his way into the real swamp, the heart of darkness, we are relieved. The swamp – with its invasive, deer eating Burmese pythons and mosquito swarms – seems quaint compared to the Florida streets or even the Kid’s childhood bedroom. I found myself hoping he’d stay put, and not move back to the causeway, fraught with its urban dangers and temptations.
By the end of the book, the plot has turned from an interesting novel with an intriguing scenario – how do castigated Florida sex offenders make ends meet? – to a murder mystery/thriller. The pace is fast and riveting, if at times a little too rapid. (The Kid gets fired from his job, loses his best friend and kicked out of his encampment, all on the same day.) Because of how human he made the Kid feel, I would be curious to see how Banks might write from the perspective of another character in the book – a state senator turned sex offender, who Banks hints committed crimes far more heinous than the Kid’s, and who is hard not to despise each time he appears in the book. What’s his story? Do we feel more comfortable with him living the completely unlivable life of a convicted sex offender?
Swamplandia!
Then, when you pick up Swamplandia!, keep the Kid in front of mind when the novel’s protagonist, Ava Bigtree, encounters another intentionally vaguely named character, the Bird Man. Ava, also a product of absentee (but loving) parents, lives on a former wildlife-based amusement park on a mangrove island in Southern Florida with her teen siblings and widowed father, who is often back on the mainland trying to find new ways of supporting the family. Because of the remoteness of her home, Ava lacks access to modern temptations like the internet, but that doesn’t mean she stays out of trouble as she grows up. She too embarks on a journey through the vast Florida swamp, trying to find her runaway sister. While we were relieved when the Kid sought out the swamp, we feel the opposite for naive Ava as she sets out on her quest. Waiting for her is the Bird Man, who I see the Kid becoming as he reaches middle age, still lurking in the swamp. Russel’s Swamplandia! doesn’t tackle any big political issues (though it does touch upon the shifting economy in Florida), but it is is more mystical and dreamy, and less gloomy. It’s an easier read, since Ava isn’t constantly assaulted with obstacles like the Kid.
While it might be easy to peg the Kid as the criminal and Ava as the victim, both books will make you ponder that assumption, and at what point did the Kid cross over from victim, to criminal, or did he ever, really?
This weekend my family gathered in Corpus Christi, Texas, to remember the life of my uncle Steven. He survived so much in life – most notably a gunshot wound to the head at close range when he was in his early 20s – but ultimately colon cancer was his chief nemesis, which also took my grandmother’s life. They are now resting near each other, both free from the immense pain cancer causes. I will never forget the way he communicated with the world, using his own phrases and finger spelling at lightning speed with my aunt Martha (equally amazing person), who then translated what Steven was trying to say. The world lost a unique form of human expression and language when we lost Steven. I have so many good memories of Steven, even though his life was cut short at the age of 54.
Steven, gentle giant, biker hippie, the sweetest uncle a niece can have, I will miss you.
Yesterday Brendan and I did a small hike at the Basha Kill Wildlife Management Area. We didn’t see much wildlife beyond squirrels, but we did have one great sighting that made up for weeks of nature-less existence in Queens (readers, I’m going a little nuts lately from too much urbanity). This sighting was helped enormously by my new vibration-control zoom Nikon lens, a great birthday gift from the dear husband.
Let’s play a bit of feathered Where’s Waldo. You can click any of these photos to get embiggen ‘em.
Somewhere in that tree on the right is Haliaeetus leucocephalus, hiding in the sunlight.
Let’s try a similar framed shot, but with different lighting.
See him/her yet? S/he's right smack in the middle of the photo.
Now, let’s crop my photos and see what we get.
Are you immediately compelled to sing 'My country 'tis of thee, sweet land of liberty...'?
S/he turned to the right for us.
S/he also mooned us. They're bald on both ends!
A full look at the Basha Kill wetlands, aka the eagle's territory. There are geese on the right, on the water. The eagle is in the tree, just very hard to see without a great zoom lens.
The name means "a little morsel of meat." But you get a lot more than a little bit.
A few weeks ago, Brendan and I formed our very own New Year’s resolution-like pledge — to eat at more restaurants in our neighborhood. Since moving back from Mexico City in 2010, we’ve been living in Astoria, Queens, but doing a dismal job of getting out and sampling the local eateries, which range from real street food (none of that silly cupcake food truck stuff you see in Manhattan) to white tablecloth service. We like it all, but it sure is hard to find the time, especially when the couch and Netflix beckon so strongly night after night.
Last night, though, we stepped out for first eating adventure: Roti Boti, a Pakistani-Indian joint on 21st Street and Astoria Boulevard. We’ve always been intrigued by this place, which seems to cater to taxi drivers. It must be good, right?
Roti Boti is not the place to go if you're seeking romantic ambiance. Unless you're into plastic flatware, TVs blaring foreign news programs (we think in Urdu), and harsh lighting.
When you first walk in, you’re met by a long row of glassed-in buffet trays with steaming food. There are no signs we could read, but we did locate a tiny menu taped to the window, scribbled in English, with prices. Luckily, an older man walked up and asked us for our order, and we pointed to various things, and asked what they were. He fired off the names of everything on the line, most of it various types of chicken dishes, in sauces. Trying to get a variety of stuff, we ordered lentils, chickpeas, chicken tikka, and naan. Not sure what to do next, we wandered over to the dining area, and sat down. (Some of the patrons seemed to be going directly up to the buffet and serving themselves — not sure what that was about.)
And a feast soon arrived, plate by plate. First, salads with a spicy yogurt dressing, likely a type of raita (but much spicier). The server also brought us cups and a full pitcher of cold water, which was handy because we didn’t order drinks. Then all our food arrived in rapid order.
The two helpings of naan were perfection — crispy and a little burned on the outside, doughy and hot on the inside. Also, the size of a large dinner plate.
That's Brendan's hand -- big by any standards -- looking tiny compared to the naan.
The chickpeas — akin to chana masala — were good, if a little overcooked and mushy (but still quite palatable). Ditto to the yellow curry lentils, which were similar to mung dal.
The showcase item was definitely the chicken tikka. They serve it very spicy, and chargrilled to perfection. Without the naan and cold water to help me get through it, I’m not sure I could have eaten all my chicken, as savory as it was — it was that spicy.
Packed with pepper!
All told, we were stuffed. Best of all? Total price: $17.
I first heard this song on Treme, which does a fabulous job of showcasing New Orleans music.
This song has to be among the finest. Feeling a little sad? Listen. Feeling a little tired? Listen. Feeling a little homesick for the South? Don’t listen — it will just make that worse, while also making you crave hush puppies and spicy boiled shrimp. Or maybe that’s just me.
This is antidepressant medication in a song, people.
…you see signs like this.
My friend Adam posted this photo on Facebook after spotting it at a car repair shop in our neighborhood of Astoria, Queens.
It’s brilliant on so many levels. First the Queens accent I hear in my head when I read this: no smokin’ fo NObawdy! You can’t live in this borough and read that sign and not hear that thick, jarring, nasal-y accent.
Second, the health consciousness of it. New York long ago banned smoking in restaurants and bars, but apparently it’s still a problem in auto repair shops — where, you know, the presence of flammable fuels and welding materials would make you think that no smoking would kinda be a no-brainer. But, apparently not.
Third, the mystery. Was this an innocent mistake on the part of a native speaking in the local dialect, which is heavy on the double negative? Or was it crafted by someone belonging to the 46% of the Queens population who is an immigrant whose first language is not English? Or ….maybe…was the sign maker just trying to be healthy, safe and funny?
This morning, on New Year’s Day, I was a little scared/perplexed when I saw this scene on my neighbor’s front patio. I had a hunch, so I googled ‘greek new year’s traditions.’
Turns out it’s just a Greek tradition! (We live in the Greek neighborhood of Astoria, Queens, and our sweet little old neighbors are very Greek.) Καλή χρονιά everyone!
Image via Wikipedia
Colson Whitehead’s Zone One consistently has been described as a “smart zombie thriller.” Having recently become a fan of zombie scenarios (via, AMC’s “The Walking Dead,” of course), and possessing a desire to read something that would take the sticky, boring sweetness out of December, I read the book over the Christmas holidays.
Indeed, this is a smart zombie book (yes, a braaaaainy book, ha ha, oh god, that’s so lame of me). I practically overheated the dictionary function on my Kindle, needing help with captivating-yet-cerebral passage such as these:
“The fortune-teller’s was precisely such an atavistic enterprise, a straggler in the current argot, with disintegrating tinsel sparkling beyond the tacky exhortations stenciled on the window.” (on the presence of a seedy fortune telling business in Starbucks-on-every-corner gentrified Manhattan)
Whitehead has a way of making even words I do know and love somewhat mystifying, and beautiful.
“Every other store on the block ministered to some yuppie lack, bent toward the local demographic sun and absorbing into its capillaries imported kitchen implements and upscale children’s accoutrements.” (on the upscale businesses that surround the fortune teller’s hovel)
If you haven’t caught on by now, this is a book about the apocalypse arriving in New York, specifically downtown Manhattan. Which is why, I, reluctant New Yorker, couldn’t wait to read it. Thankfully, Whitehead does not lean on New York’s one brief real-world glimpse into the nightmare — 9/11 — to terrify his readers, except perhaps his references to everyone having PASD (post-apocalypse stress disorder, naturally), especially the antagonist’s tendency to hallucinate that ash is always falling on him, which is chalked up to the ever-working incinerators torching the bullet-ridden “skels,” belching their desiccated byproduct over the city. With each of his hallucinations, I too saw visions of dust-covered New Yorkers from a decade ago. Yeah, heavy.
Since I am not an apocalypse aficionado, I can’t tell you what new details Whitehead dreamed up, and which he is merely rehashing from the genre, or borrowing from real-life, 9/11-like events. But the level of detail is stunning — you feel the lonely agony of the few who remain, their feeble attempts to feel normal while sleeping in trees, their terror at the sound of uneven footsteps that might indicate a rabid pack of skels stirring to life.
Beyond the vivid “I’m scared of the skel” moments – and I found myself wanting a lot more direct zombie encounters, by the way, though the sloppy grand finale was great — what really resonated with me was Whitehead’s sly insertion of commentary on the absurd way we live these days, and the implication that many of us would be extremely inequipped to deal with a doomsday event, despite our college degrees, Pilates-toned bodies and smartphones. And the book feels very timely – after all, Ivy League schools have been over-charging foolish attendees for generations – but only recently have we begun to shift our lives online, and we’ve done so with very little analysis of the end point.
“The denizens of the void, chewing on their tails, compulsively broadcasting the flimsy minutiae of their day-to-day on personal feeds and pages, didn’t have to name the products directly.” (on the antagonist’s banal job as a social media marketer)
This is something “The Walking Dead” mostly fails to address, with its cast of sharpshooter cops, animal tracking expert rednecks and hardy housewives. It’s too easy to imagine those people surviving into the new world, calmly shooting down the infected, but what about the general lot of us? While my grandparents and previous generations – who could farm, sew, split wood and can food with the best of them – might have fared pretty well in a post-apocalyptic world, even without any special warrior skills, this book was a great reminder that I’ve got a steep learning curve, because I’ve spent most of my adult life chewing on my tail, comfy and neurotic, taking things for granted. And, likely so have you. This book won’t let you forget that.
Zone One joins the roster of books, TV shows and movies stoking the renewed interest in apocalyptic scenarios, which many assume is driven by the dire state of the world. But, I also suspect some of that interest stems from our collective anxiety about how quickly humankind has lost essential survival skills, and that fact — coupled with the predictable mayhem that a worldwide plague or bomb or whatever might wreak — is what is keeping us up at night, feverishly devouring books like this, convinced they might better equip us when the brain eaters (four horsemen, nuclear wave) are nigh.
(Also, I would like to note that 2011 was the year I learned how to chop wood and shoot a rifle. Take that, skels.)
It doesn’t feel like Christmas until I can rip into one of these sweet, juicy gifts from heaven. Thanks to Aunt Martha for shipping me some!
My Dad sent me this photo after they went to go look at Christmas lights. You certainly don’t see anything like this when you live in the Northeast. And yes, those lights are reflecting off a rainy sidewalk – the prolonged drought is easing, and my parents even have a winter garden going strong, with radishes, lettuce and other greens. Pretty amazing.
