To See, or Not to See: That Is My Question

About six months ago, my brothers introduced me to Nickelodeon's Avatar: The Last Airbender. With my friend Erin, I blew through the first season and Netflixed the last two seasons as quickly as I could get my greedy little fingers on them. Sometimes, I watched an episode twice.

Yes, I get it. The anime-style cartoon is directed toward 9 to 12-year-old boys, but I, like many people, was hooked. I was hooked into the story, the characters, the excitement, the wondering "What's going to happen next?!?!"

So I do not regret those couple of months in my life at all. In fact, I enjoyed the series so much that I'm re-watching them this summer, and I wish I had the money so that I could buy all the DVDs. Yup. I'm a fan.

Here comes the dilemma: The movie is coming out (tomorrow, in fact), and the reviews so far have been, well, awful. On the rotten tomatoes meter, Shaymalan's The Last Airbender has one of the worst rating I've ever seen on that site: 6% . Even the Twilight movies, which I love to loathe, have significantly higher rating that this apparent disaster.

I am terribly curious, of course, how Shayamalan translated this beloved story to the screen. I think a lot of it would be fun to see in live action. But I don't want it to soil my fondness for the series. Can I separate the two enough in my head? If the movie proves to be as miserable as everyone is making it out to be, can I pretend/convince myself it never happened? Or maybe I should right now pretend that it never happened and simply not go to see it. Disappointment is, likely, inevitable.

Bah. I'll probably end up seeing it. I'll let you know how it goes.

Book Review: When We Were Orphans, by Kazuo Ishiguro

My Rating: 4 out of 5 stars

I picked up this book because a) I really liked The Remains of the Day, by the same author, and b) it was recommended to me by Dr. Joe McLaughlin, my professor of 20th Century Brit Lit. While I didn't think it was quite on par with Remains, it was still a very good read.

Ishiguro once again plays with an unreliable narrator, Christopher Banks, who grew up in a British settlement in Shanghai not long after the first world war. His parents' eventual disappearances, along with his childhood playacting of detective work with his Japanese-born friend Akira, serve as catalysts for his eventual and very successful career as a detective. In time, he puts his skills to the test and endeavors to find his parents.

Although Banks is a detective, this does not read like a detective novel. Rather, we read about cases he has solved but are given no details about them, and he makes large strides toward discovering his parents' location without bothering to offer the details. But that's not what the book is about. Rather, it is about Banks' obsession with finding them that drives the novel, and the reality of the world he ignores and the people he sacrifices in order to do it.

What I love about Ishiguro's novels is the smooth and elegant writing, the subtle but sharp humor, and the highly original plots. I know when I'm reading an Ishiguro, and I look forward to the next. Highly recommended.

Been a While

Peanut butter is the best thing in the world.

Nuff said.

Why do I do stuff that is bad for me? I stay up late and complain when I can't stay awake at work. Also when I stay up late and try to talk to people when I'm too tired, I invariably end up saying really stupid and embarrassing things that I later regret. I am too eager if I'm really hungry, eat too much, and then feel sick. Yesterday I ate cake and an alfajor for dinner and drank mate--a lot of mate. A lot of mate when one hasn't had any for months does a number on one's stomach. My only justification is that the cakes had fruit on them. Not that it helped me any. All this resulted in me, in bed at a respectable 11:30, wide awake and wired.

For one, I had cake for dinner, so I was starving. I also had had several mates, which never kept me awake before. Guess there really is caffeine in it. Or something. "I can't sleep!" I thought. Then I started thinking of all the things I needed to do today and during the week. I got up. I turned on the light. I made a list of everything that needed to get done. (OK, not everything. Many things. Urgent things.) Still wired. I did 20 push-ups and 50 crunches. I did leg lifts. I did jumping jacks. I went to the kitchen and had a bowl of oatmeal and museli. I read an article in a magazine.

Still wired.

So I went downstairs and filed. Good thing, too--I was a couple of months behind. Then I placed an ad for a rental unit, a task that has been defying me for months. Then I paid bills and filed some more. I wondered at being responsible for these things and laughed. I checked my email. I checked facebook. I considered practicing the violin.

When, 2 hours later, I decided I could probably fall asleep, I noticed a census questionnaire that I had been avoiding filling out and mailing back. Heck, those past two hours had been the most productive of the last 24 hours, so why not keep going? I finished filling that out, sealed the envelope, and put it with the bills to be mailed.

Why did I not cross the things off of my list? It would have been so satisfactory.

But coming back to doing things that are bad for me . . . staying up late is bad for me. It makes me grumpy the next day. Putting off filing things for months is bad for me. It makes my house messy, but it does provide me with something to do when I can't sleep. Eating cake for dinner is bad for me. But it tastes so good. Drinking too much mate (apparently) is bad for me. But it doesn't taste very good. Eating a cookie for breakfast is bad for me, too. (But, seriously, how much better is that than eating Chocolate Marshmallow Mateys?)

I suppose there are worse things I could be doing, with worse consequences. Still, why do we do things like that, that make us so miserable as a result?

Flipping Pages

I used to have a weakness when it came to reading books. This was years ago, when I was still a kid. You see, the problem was, I'd get so drawn in to a story that I'd get anxious about where things would go, how they would end. Does Character X survive? Do so-and-so and what's-his-face get together? Will I feel happy, or sad? Satisfied or unresolved? The tension was more than I was willing to bear.

So, to deal with it, I flipped through the pages, reading a line here, a short paragraph there, and too frequently that final page. Ultimately--and I recognized this as well then as now--I ended disappointing myself. Either way the story ended, I missed out on the thrill of the build up to a happily ever after or the heartbreak of a sorrowful end.

At least I knew that there was an end.

And I was prepared for it.

I find myself wanting desperately to flip ahead in the pages of my life, to discover if I must prepare myself for heartbreak. It's a good thing, I suppose, that I can't. I don't know if I would be able to deal with the answers.

Funny what a difference $200 can make

Dad laughed when I showed him the right-front tire, and he laughed harder when I said I hadn't gotten new tires since 2004 . . . if I remembered correctly. Might have been earlier. It was bald.

"Car drifts to the right when I let go of the wheel," I further informed him.

"Well, I guess you know what you have to do."

And yes, I did. I pride myself a little on being fairly conscious of the state of my vehicle. A Hyundai Accent GL, silver, 2001, it wasn't exactly a nice car. But it worked. I bought in the summer of 2003. Almost right away I had troubles with the transmission. Not long after that I had to replace the rear axle. Then the tires. Then the brakes. The exhaust pipe. It's gone through tune ups, "major" tune ups, dead batteries, the bright red blinking engine sign of doom, and yet not once has it stranded me on a major freeway during one of my many trips from Indiana to Utah, from Utah to California, from Indiana to Ohio, and wherever else I need to get. I always catch the problems in time, before they become real problems . . . though not early enough to prevent problems. I carry a tight purse.

I like long rides in the car. In fact, I prefer 12 hours in a car to 4 hours on a plane. I like to see where I'm going. I like to be in control. I like the stereo blasting my music, or my book-on-tape, while I pop sunflower seeds and watch the mile markers fly by. It's just me, in the car I bought, the car I care for, and the thousands of miles of paved USA. I guess, on a level, it's an issue of independence. I'll use google maps, but I prefer an atlas--I like making guesses, especially when they prove right. But I also like fixing mistakes, knowing the rules of the road and the geography of my mind well enough to course correct in minimal time.

I like the surge of the engine as I pass slower vehicles on a two-lane highway; I like stopping for gas in the country, where there's nothing in any direction but me, the road, and this one gas station; I like testing myself by taking new roads without consulting a map, and allowing my inner compass direct me a little south, a little east, until I meet up with a familiar road. I haven't made any major mistakes yet.

"Take it to a Discount Tires when you get back to Ohio," Dad advised me. "You can get by with the back tires for a while longer, but those two front ones need to be replaced. And you'll need to get everything aligned."

So I set off again, back to Ohio, a five-and-a-half hour trip. Easy as cake that comes in a box. I hoped it would not rain, as the wiper on the driver's side didn't work. But that wasn't too important. It hadn't worked properly for about two-and-a-half years, and though I was planning to get the wiper arm fixed very soon, I compensated for its defectiveness with RainX, which had seen me through plenty of storms. Fortunately, though the skies were gray through northern Indiana, they cleared up again through mid Ohio. When I reached I-270, just north of Columbus, I stopped for gas, checked my watch, and ancticipated that I would reach Athens at about 3:30.

I got back on the freeway. Not five minutes later, I heard an odd flapping sound coming from what seemed to be beneath the car. I turned off Bram Stoker's Dracula--downloaded from librivox.org--to listen more carefully. Flip-FLAP flip-FLAP flip-FLAPFLAPFLAP thunk! I turned my eyes to the rearview mirror and saw a sizeable piece of rubber tumble down the freeway. My attention returned at once to the road and to the approaching exit, which I did not hesitate to take.

I pulled into a gas station parking lot, killed the engine, hopped out of the car, and sped around the hood to drop to a knee beside the front-right tire. I could not immediately see the defect, but then placed my hand on the top of the tire and ran my fingers down the non-existent treads. Short spikes stuck into my fingertips, and I pulled back, crouched lower, and saw where the rubber had peeled away. Little metal spikes, like staples, stood up all over. I groaned. There was no possible way I could make it to Athens on this tire. I stood and went into the gas station.

The woman behind the counter didn't know if there was a Discount Tires nearby, but another patron did. He described it to me: "Turn right at this light and take it until you come to Gender Road. Hang a left, go all the way down, over some railroad tracks, and where Gender becomes Bryce, you'll see it on your left."

"How far?"

"Oh, I'd say ten minutes."

I prayed that my tire, in its current state, would last just ten minutes more. After creating a mental map, I returned to my Hyundai to follow it. I drove slowly, and with my hazard lights flashing. I rolled right by a cop without any assistance.

In answer to that prayer, I found the Discount Tires easily, and $185 later, my car thanked me for yet another new part. Well, two new parts. I drove away a little pleased with myself for having correct the problem before it became a major inconvenience, leaving me broken down on I-270 or worse, in an accident from a blown-out tire. The drifting problem had even been fixed.

I like to think that I take care of myself, that I do a pretty decent job at it. It's only now, as I write this, that I realize that there's someone else looking out for me, too, who is doing a much better job of it than I ever could. He answers prayers.

Doing nothing

I'd first like to thank Holly for inviting me to contribute. I hope you don't regret it.

I like leisure time. I like to sit and enjoy the quiet and do nothing. I like a good afternoon nap. Sometimes I like to just waste my time with anything that will occupy it. I like to do nothing. But when there is nothing to do, no work to be done at work while at the same time there are tons of things I could be getting done at home--I don't like that.

So there I was at work last week: my desk was tidy, the mail was in everybody's box, nearly everyone was gone, and I had nothing to do. On occasion a small break is nice. I like to read my book and get involved in the story. But I had just finished my book the night before. I had read both newspapers (though not American Banker). I had read the magazine on my desk--at least all that I cared to read in it. I had already checked both email accounts AND facebook. I was bored. In despair--or something related to it--I put my head on my desk. A nap would be wonderful, I thought to myself. Then, hearing footsteps in the hall, I hurriedly raised my head to see a co-worker return for the afternoon. I was a little embarrassed, being caught trying to sleep on the job. What a relief when he spoke, "Go home! There's nothing to do here, anyway." So I did.