You're A Swine!

In honor of "Snoutbreak '09"

Maybe You Can Help Me

I would like very much to acquire a copy of this book
but I do not wish to spend upwards of $75.00 on it. If you should ever run across it at a thrift store or yard sale, would you be so kind as to purchase it for me? Or if you happen to have it sitting in your book case ... (hint, hint. I'm not naming names, but you know who you are. I'll give you a small amount of cash and a signed note that I will never again dis' J.K.Rowling in public. I promise!)

Lunatic Fringe

In a WaPo article today, headlined Gun Owners Attack Rush Limbaugh (no comment; I try to walk the path of nonviolence) I read that a number of national sport-hunting organizations are upset with that flaming liberal Mr. Limbaugh for doing public service announcements for the extreme fringe group The Humane Society of the United States, helping them "mainstream their image."

The Post reports:

Rush Limbaugh's new pet project -- fighting animal cruelty for the Humane Society of the United States -- is riling sportsmen from coast to coast, prompting fears that the talkster typically supportive of gun rights is aiding a group they say has a secret agenda to end all hunting in America.

Twenty-eight groups representing millions of hunters and sportsmen are demanding that the conservative radio commentator end his collaboration with the HSUS and stop "helping them to mainstream their image in the minds of reasonable people."

I have a few questions here. What the hell is a "talkster", as in "talkster backs animal group"? You mean he's not a mean-spirited, treacherous, oxycontin-using, bigoted, chicken hawk anymore? He's traded all that for the kinder, gentler handle of "talkster" -- one who likes fluffy kitties, no less? Why in the world would the HSUS want Rush to be a spokesperson? Does he even know that he is a spokesperson? The interview with Faux News' Greta Von-whatever her name is would suggest not.

This is just absurd! I didn't think I was going to get to use this tag again, but ... Jesus I'm sick of these people!

Book Review: Men At Arms by Terry Pratchett

My name is Suzy and, friends, I have an addiction to the writing of Terry Pratchett. It is not necessarily a harmful addiction by standard definitions. I still go to work, stay clean and sober, and feed my family. However, it does set the bar ridiculously high for literary quality. In short, because of Terry Pratchett I can no longer read just anything. His books are that good. In fact, there is a book -- currently out of print and stupidly expensive so I have not read it -- called Guilty of Literature. It's a collection of essays by other authors (A.S. Byatt, for one) about Pratchett's writing.

Men At Arms is the second book about the Watch, the police force of the ancient city of Ankh-Morpork. When the story opens, the Watch -- a typical old boys' club -- is struggling to integrate some new affirmative action recruits: a dwarf, a troll, and a w-. Captain Samuel Vimes, a 25-year Watch veteran, is retiring in 24 hours when he marries Lady Sybil Ramkin and becomes a part of Ankh-Morpork's society elite. Corporal Carrot ( a dwarf by adoption), Sergeant Fred Colon, and Corporal Nobby Nobbs round out the core group of Watchmen.

In the midst of this internal upheaval, a series of murders rocks the city of Ankh-Morpork. A murder in Ankh-Morpork is nothing unusual, but these murders appear to have been committed with a one-of-a-kind weapon invented by the genius Leonard of Quirm, and believed to have been destroyed by the Assassin's Guild: Ennog Eht. (Leonard of Quirm preferred to write in mirror writing.) Worse yet, Ankh-Morpork's patrician, Lord Vetinari -- a former assassin himself -- has ordered Vimes not to investigate.

Men At Arms is an excellent example of the brilliance of Pratchett's writing. He combines explicit and relevant social commentary with great stories, memorable characters, and exquisitely bad puns. Dear [blog] readers, there is a reason that Pratchett became Sir Terry Pratchett last year and is the second most popular fantasy writer in Britain. (OK, that one's easy: It's because J.K. Rowling had a lot of money backing her.) Maybe his writing isn't for everyone, but if you enjoy a good book -- I mean a really well-written book -- and you like to be made to think and laugh, then for Pete's sake, don't make me say it again: Read Terry Pratchett!!

The Watch series begins with the book Guards, Guards, then Men At Arms, Feet of Clay, Jingo, The Fifth Elephant, Nightwatch, and Thud!

Happy Birthday, Mr. Ether!

Here's the cake I wish I could make for you. I love you! (Go wish him a happy birthday yourself, over at his blog, Enriched Geranium.)

Blogger Meet-Up

Tweetey and her lovely daughters in Green Bay, Easter weekend. It's fun to put real faces with the words people write.

My Trusty Steed

I had an unsettling experience this morning. When I went to the garage to get my bike for the (ridiculously short) commute to work, I immediately knew that something was not right. We're pretty loosey-goosey about our garage, which mostly seems to be a haven for the neighbor's cat, squirrels, and once, a skunk ... but things didn't look right. My first thought was for Mr. Ether's bike, a nice vintage Trek and by far the most valuable. It was there, all the bikes were there, but his bike and mine were kind of tipped over. My bike had a big old grafitti sticker stuck to the seat that hadn't been there before, and when I went to ride it, the seat was tipped up at an awkward angle.

Furthermore, in a burst of common sense Mr. Ether had closed the garage door when we left on our little vacation last week, but when we returned he found the garage door open and Sparkly Seacow's bike in the driveway. He didn't make much of it, until my discovery today.

It looks as if someone came and took our bikes out for a spin and then returned them. How strange is that? I'm grateful that they were only borrowed, not stolen, but I still feel somewhat violated. I guess the lesson is to lock up our bikes, even in the garage, and keep the door closed.

Odd, very odd.

Book Review: The Wet Engine

A few years ago my brother sent me this sweet little book, The Wet Engine: Exploring the Mad Wild Miracle of the Heart, by Brian Doyle. First, a few words about my brother Paul. He's an extremely funny and smart guy, wielding sarcasm and cynicism like a finely honed rapier. In our house there is an oft-repeated quote of his that has become something of a mantra for Sparkly Seacow: "Sarcasm in a child is an ugly thing", delivered dripping with sarcasm of course. Anyway, underneath Paul's oh so tough exterior is (and always has been) an incredible well of compassion for all sentient beings and for the natural environment. (However he doesn't suffer human fools gladly.) In short, he's a marshmallow.

Anyway, receiving this little gem of a book meant a great deal to me. Paul dropped everything and flew across the country to stay with me when our daughter Sophie died. He has been consistently attuned to my loss, and the gift of The Wet Engine was one more example of this.

Brian Doyle had twin sons. One was born healthy and whole, while the other one, Liam, had just three chambers in his heart and underwent two open heart surgeries as an infant to make his heart functional. This experience inspired Doyle to write an ode to this very essential organ, to all that it means to the human psyche, and to the doctors that saved his son and thousands of other children every year. Doyle's prose reads like poetry, by turns poignant, informative, and funny.

I've read it twice now. I will admit, it was a bittersweet read for me. Liam survived, in all likelihood will live into adulthood, and grow to be an old man. My daughter did not. But Doyle's purpose in this book isn't to celebrate a victory at the expense of all the other children who die of congenital heart defects. In fact, this book is so loving, sometimes I felt as if he was speaking directly to me and my bereavement. I often think that Sophie's death -- whatever situation led to her death -- resulted in new learning that saved the lives of many babies who came after her. Perhaps even Liam's life.

Doyle deftly interweaves his memoir with facts about the heart, some startling and some sobering. Here is a passage:

In America these days one woman dies every minute of every day from a failed heart. More women die of failed hearts than men. Failed hearts kill more women and men than the next seven causes of death combined. The highest rate of death by failed heart is in Utah. The lowest rate is in Mississippi. More than four hundred babies are born every day with flawed hearts. Eight of every thousand babies are born with flawed hearts. One percent of all babies born all over the world are born with flawed hearts. Twenty percent of all babies born with flawed hearts will die before their first birthday.

The Wet Engine is a quick read, though you might want to savor it. It's a lovely book. Highly recommended.

(Just a personal note for anyone who knows my family -- or is my family -- and is reading this. The warm embrace of family and friends, the way that Sophie has been integrated into everyone's lives even though she is not physically present, fills me with love and awe. You are amazing.)

Go, Vermont!

(From Think Progress this morning)

Yesterday, Vermont Gov. Jim Douglas (R) vetoed a bill legalizing gay marriage that passed the state legislature last week. Now the legislature has voted to override Douglas’ veto: The Senate voted 23-5 in favor of the override, and the House voted 100-49. Vermont joins Massachusetts, Connecticut, and Iowa as the only states where gay marriage is legal, and Vermont is the first state to approve gay marriage through the legislature.

Memorium

When I said "a world full of tragic news" I was thinking globally/nationally. I just found out that my former principal took his life yesterday. I am sick at heart. I worked with him for only one year but he restored my faith in teaching, in leadership, after a few years at the hands of an insane and vindictive principal. He resigned after just one year, saying that he couldn't be the kind of educator he wanted to be in the top-down, mandates-driven climate of our school district. I know that many people were angry at him for that. I was sad when he resigned, but I understood. When I talked to him privately later he told me he knew that I, more than anyone else, would get it.

I do not believe that there is ever a situation in which taking one's life is a solution. My heart goes out to him, for the pain he must have been in, as well as to his wife and children. Dan, I hope you have found peace.

"Personally, I'd pay good money to live somewhere called Treacle Mine Road."

Wow! In a world that's filled with some pretty tragic news this week, this is the best news I've read in a long time!

If you go down to Wincanton in Somerset today you can wander down Peace Pie Street and Treacle Mine Road, named after Sir Terry Pratchett's fantasy series Discworld.

Pratchett visited the town today to unveil the road names at a new housing estate, and was greeted by hundreds of fans – many dressed in costume.

Wincanton was twinned with the city of Ankh-Morpork from the novels in 2002, becoming the first UK town to link with a fictional place.

The builder of the Kingwell Rise development, George Wimpey, asked locals to vote for their favourite road name from a shortlist of 14 suggested by Pratchett.

Pratchett said: "I think it's a lovely idea, even though it makes my head spin to think of the books becoming a little closer to reality.

"And they are nice names, even though I say it myself.

"Personally, I'd pay good money to live somewhere called Treacle Mine Road."

So would I. 3 cheers for the citizens of Wincanton!

Another Day, Another Book Review, Another Book By Jon Katz

As you have probably surmised if you are one of the dozen or so people who humor me by reading my blog (even though my blog reading has dropped off considerably for the nonce -- I'm sorry ...) I'm on a bit of a Jon Katz jag right now. I've been a rather joyless reader this year. There has been very little that has inspired me. I've started a number of books, lost patience with them, and simply quit reading them. Others I've read all the way through, only to close them with a hmm. In short, it's been a dry season. Then I remembered how much I enjoyed Katz's first couple of books about his dogs, and decided to catch up with what he's doing now.

A Good Dog just about broke my heart -- perfect! I welcome a genuine good cry. Reading out of chronological order, I jumped to Izzy and Lenore: Two Dogs, an Unexpected Journey, and Me. Izzy is a purebred border collie, another rescue dog. Initially unwilling to go there again after his experiences with the rescued border collie Orson, Jon -- I've read so many of his books now, that I feel we can be on a first name basis -- Jon realizes that perhaps he has been given a second chance to get it right with Izzy, and decides to keep him. Lenore is a black lab puppy that Jon buys from a breeder.

One of the things I really love about these books is that, although they are funny, moving, and even sentimental, there is little that is syrupy, dewy-eyed, or manipulative about them. Jon simply loves his dogs (and a handful of other animals) and through them, as well as his writing and Bedlam Farm, he is trying to make sense of his life. So in a sense, he is just chronicling his muddling through, and as an experienced muddler myself, it resonates deeply.

The "unexpected journey" refers to Jon and Izzy's work as trained Hospice volunteers. The chapters where he describes Izzy's (and his own) interactions with dying people and their families are beautiful. It may also refer to Jon's struggle with a particularly deep depression that winter, about which he writes movingly and candidly.

I find these books to be very spiritual, and I was surprised and pleased to find out near the end of Izzy and Lenore that Jon is a Quaker. He doesn't claim to have any answers to anything really -- not dog training, not farming, not faith nor love -- and it is precisely that not knowing that makes me want to keep reading his work.

Did I say "keep reading"? Oh yeah, I am nearly finished reading Dog Days: Dispatches From Bedlam Farm, the book that actually precedes Izzy and Lenore. I understand there is a new book coming out this summer, one that spotlights Rose, his workhorse border collie. I'm looking forward to it.

National Poetry Month Begins ...

I do not consider myself a poet. I'm too self-conscious to write quite so intimately. However, our family enjoys making up classical haiku, mainly about our cats Feather and Daisy. Here are a few that were written on the whiteboard on our fridge for about 2 years. I'm not sure which family member wrote which poem. Mr. Ether will probably set me straight.

Daisy sits atop
the dirty kitchen linens.
Does she need a wash?

The mighty huntress
lies in wait for the ambush.
Brrt! Into the tub.
(This one commemorates Daisy's habit of hanging out in the bathroom at the top of the stairs and hopping into the tub with a kitty chirp when you come up the stairs. Weirdo.)

Stealthily she creeps
stalking the wild shoelaces.
Oopsies! Claws got stuck.

Sleek, silky, black fur.
Relentlessly she meows,
"Throw the damned pom-pom!"

The cat wants downstairs.
Loving the chase, the dog waits.
Ow! Bloody shoulders.