Back in the beginning of November we bought a phone set from a company called Top Vision. The phone w/answering machine came in right away, but the additional handset never showed. We emailed. They said it was on backorder and to wait a month. We emailed in a month because it was showing up as ‘in stock’ on their website but we still hadn’t received it. They said it had been in stock, but for some reason a set was never shipped to us and they were now out again. We said… enough, refund our money. And since then we’ve waited and emailed and waited some more.

At first the replies were cordial… ‘we’ve forwarded your email to our accounting/complaints/refund department, you can expect a credit to your bank account within the next days’. Now they hardly even bother to answer at all. Oh, and here’s an irony, once, ‘for our troubles’ we got a code for 10€ off our next purchase… yeah, like I’m ever ordering from them again.

Anyway, what I’m wondering is, do I have any recourse? Is there ANY way to force these numb nuts to refund the €€ they owe us?? Because this is now officially driving me crazy. We’ve been emailing them roughly every 3 weeks for the past seven months, and they continue to give us the runaround. Plus their supposed customer service phone number (0651-4629899 … we’ve memorized it over the past 4 months or so) is never answered by an actual human being.

Online shopping in Germany has been an easy and pleasant experience for us with the exception on this one effing company…

Today as we were leaving school, Sydney pointed to a little boy with dark brown hair and a Leggoland t-shirt, and said “See that guy, he’s a total asshole.”

I politely pointed out that we do not go around calling people ‘total assholes’. That ‘asshole’ was a grownup term that she shouldn’t be using for a good 8-10 years still. Besides, I asked, what’s so bad about him?

Sydney: He likes to stick his hands down the back of his underwear and then pull them out and rub the hair of all the girls in my class.’

Me: Jesus! What an asshole!

Syd: Totally…

I’m beginning to feel a little guilty about not having written anything real in such a long time. Suffice it to say I’ve got a lot on my mind and it’s apparently blinding me to the plethora of possible posts. But hey, just because I’m not bringing my A game doesn’t mean I can’t come up with things to talk about… or does it?

For now here are a few things I’ve been watching & reading… and, wow, was Paranoid Park ever good. I saw it a week ago and I’m still circling back to it on a daily basis. I highly recommend it.

Paranoid Park:
Paranoid Park serves to remind how life can be ruined by an unfortunate chain of events. But it’s the telling of the story that makes it so unique. Alex (played superbly by Gabe Nevins) is a typical teenager - smarter than he’s given credit for but incapable of verbalizing even the simplest of things. His parents are going through a nasty divorce, his girlfriend’s a nag, and school sucks. The only thing that makes sense is heading to Paranoid Park in Portland to watch the skaters.

Then one night something goes horribly awry and Alex finds himself culpable in the death of a security guard. And though (depending on how you choose to view it) it technically wasn’t his fault, what we witness is his struggle to come to terms with what he’s done.

Let me just say - the visuals for this film are stunning. Beautiful shots as Alex deconstructs while washing away blood in the shower, or disconnects as his girlfriend seduces him. And skating is mystically transformed from a primal teenage ritual to something achingly beautiful and graceful. Add to that a moody and thoughtful musical score, and you’re just beginning to scratch the surface of how incredibly good this film is.

Final thought - Paranoid Park isn’t one you shake off easily. I found myself turning it over for days, dwelling on the moral issues and reveling in how perfect I thought the ending was. Absolutely worth watching…

Across The Universe:
The first 10 minutes or so I was convinced Across The Universe was mediocre at best. But then it found its footing and became something unique and, ultimately, very watchable. This is an absolute treat for Beetles fans and, I suspect, not so thrilling for those who aren’t fond of the band. Still, on an artistic level I’d like to think most viewers could find something to appreciate.

A film like this is best viewed as a journey - don’t try anticipating what comes next, just take it on faith that it’ll lead you somewhere great… and it does.

Run, Fat Boy, Run:
After reading all the negative reviews I had low expectations going in. That said, I really enjoyed Run, Fat Boy, Run. The jockish, locker room humor was kept to a minimum, and what we were left with was surprisingly funny & fresh.

Simon Pegg plays an affable security guard convinced he has nothing to offer to the girl he loves but left, pregnant, at the altar five years prior. He’s an attentive, if misguided at times, father who fears he’s about to lose everything he holds dear to another man - played wonderfully by Hank Azaria. Never finishing anything in his life, he sets out to prove to his ex-fiancée he’s changed man by running a marathon. Not an easy task for an out of shape layabout.

Surprisingly (I really wasn’t expecting much) I found the film to be equal parts sweet, charming, funny and silly.

The Mist:
Ugh. Terrible. Just terrible. Set in a fictional town in Maine, THE MIST is about a, well, mist that rolls into town one day after a particularly bad storm. A cross-section of townsfolk end up trapped in the local grocery store where they must battle a tentacled monster, super-sized vermin, and each other.

The only thing decent about this film is its ending. And while the ending’s a nice surprise, it doesn’t make up for what overall is a very mediocre offering. Other than that it’s chockablock with lame allegories, tired gore and an army of over-sized bugs. My advice - skip it and save yourself 126 minutes.

Horton Hears A Who:
A sweet film with a good message; Horton Hears A Who features a not-over-the top Jim Carry as the voice of Horton, savior of all the Whos in Who-Ville. The film showcases the need to make your voice heard, even if what you’re saying happens to fly in the face of conventional wisdom. A lesson everyone (young and old) should take to heart. There are plenty of jokes for Mom & Dad (a particularly funny JKF reference comes to mind) and lots of giggles for kiddos. Sydney was thoroughly entertained throughout, even cheering and chanting “We are here!” at the pivotal point of the film.

I can’t help but think Dr. Seuss would be proud…

Now books:

Girl, Interrupted:
While this was unquestionably entertaining and well written, I felt it barely scratched the surface when it came to her mental illness. Painted with broad brush strokes, this novel (to me) read more like a screenplay than a book. It was almost too disjointed and random. Some chapters felt a little indulgent and contrived (velocity-v-viscosity & mind-v-brain both come to mind) - almost as if the author was trying to prove how clever she was.

That said, there were some nice elements to the book. I enjoyed the conversational tone, almost as if Susanna Kaysen was sitting across the table telling stories from her past. I thought her description of the motives (or lack thereof) for suicide were fascinating and, scarily enough, probably true in most cases.

State Of Fear:
When it comes to Global Warming I only know what I’ve heard on tv. Experts tell me it’s bad… Brad Pitt uses solar panels to heat his home, and the evening news reminds me global warming is responsible for the extreme weather footage I see on my tv each day. Surely that’s enough to prove its existence, right? Perhaps this is why I didn’t mind the reams of notes, charts & graphs Michael Crichton provided in STATE OF FEAR. He was dumbing it down for novices like me - something I actually appreciated.

State of Fear tackles the high stakes of eco-fundraising and the lengths both industry and environmentalists go to in order to prove their point. It’s fast-paced, full of action and adventure, and manages to educate without leaving the reader feeling as if they’ve been talked down to. Kudos to Crichton on those points.

However, what takes a hit (and this is my constant of Crichton novels) is character development. He introduces us to potentially fascinating people and then leaves us hanging. Perhaps he felt that with such a political novel something had to give… and robust, likeable protagonists got the ax.

All in all I don’t regret the time spent reading State Of Fear (and it was quite a commitment - it’s a looong book), I just wish I’d come away with more of an attachment to the leads.

These adorable little flowering trees are EVIL. I so much as look at one and my eyes swell up, my mucus production goes into overdrive, and I can’t stop sneezing. Right now Benadryl is only thing standing between me and certain death.

Yeah, fuck you Spring…

Everything works out the way it’s meant to… everything works out the way it’s meant to… everything works out the way it’s meant to.

My new mantra.

Sorry the site’s been down so long - ever since upgrading to the latest version of Wordpress I’ve been inundated with spam. I think I’ve got the issue in hand now, but will know for sure over the next few days. In the meantime bear with me…

*Update: Hmmm, comments can only be left using the Litmus skin. I’ll need to get that fixed…

Sydney and I have a tradition. For each new book I start (which is often), Sydney makes a brand new bookmark for me. Some are fancy glittery, bedazzled affairs… others are inspired by whatever she happened to be watching that day, and then there are some that sort of defy categorization. Take my latest for example:

‘Sometimes it looked like love : But it’s not love’

I asked her what she had in mind when she wrote it and she just said “nothing really, it’s just true. and lots of people can’t tell the difference.”

My little Zen guru…

I’ve been giving this whole cooking thing a try. I’ve got several months with not much going on, so why not learn to cook, right? Naturally I started with some of my favorite things. Beyond rice-a-roni & the creation of the world’s best banana muffins, I’ve been working heavily in thai (my all-time favorite kind of food). Coconut milk and curry paste, fish sauce and peanuts, bananas and jasmine rice all adorn the shelves of my cupboard and pantry these days.

And let me tell you, this cooking stuff is the bomb. Most of the hot & spicy dishes I’d been missing for 2+ years I could’ve had all along. Here’s the kicker, though… Jim and the girls hate most of the new stuff. Their idea of ‘exotic food’ is americanized italian pasta dishes. In the past few weeks here’s what I’ve come to learn about their culinary preferences:

worcestershire sauce: good / soy sauce: bad
garlic salt: good / fresh minced garlic: bad
paprika: good / curry: bad
cinnamon: good / ginger: bad
macaroni noodles: good / rice noodles: bad
french toast: good / shrimp toast: bad
spaghetti sauce: good / fish sauce: bad
bananas in muffins: good / bananas in coconut milk: bad (is it just me, or does ‘bananas in muffins’ sound naughty??)
potato salad: good / cucumber salad: bad

I couldn’t be more diametrically opposed to this setup if I tried. However, they do outnumber me, which means I usually end up making at least two meals per night. The other day I suggested we each write down what we wanted for dinner that evening and I’d draw a winner. Here were the entries-

Robyn: ravoli
Sydney: macaroni & cheese
Jim: baked chicken
Me: pad thai with shrimp

As the Sesame Street song goes:

I’ve never been a diehard ‘Blair Witch Project’ fan, so I was iffy on Cloverfield after everyone started comparing the two. I knew the whole hand-held, shaky cam thing could be an effective tool (if you don’t believe me, just watch Irreversible), but there has to be more to it than just that.

Anyway, screw all of that, Cloverfield is excellent! It’s squealingly, heart-racingly, hide-your-eyes-behind-your-fingers but peek anyway… good. The premise for the film is pretty simple - yuppie guy from Manhattan gets job offer in Tokyo and friends gather for a final farewell, with his best pal filming it all for posterity. Suddenly there’s the sound of a large explosion and everyone piles on the roof to see what’s happened.

After this, my friends, the proverbial shit hits the fan. It’s not a terrorist attack… it’s not a natural gas explosion or some other act of god… nope, it’s a … well, it’s a… hmmm… it’s a great big… I say cricket-looking… Jim says dust mite-looking (really? dust mite? that’s the best he could do??) thing that likes to eat people and hatch tons & tons of pissed off babies.

I can not begin to tell you how much better this is than Blair Witch. The hand-held cam pumps you full of adrenaline and leaves you giggling with glee (if not a little motion sick). Awesome.

I highly recommend it for horror fans.

I’m not really sure why it’s taken me so long to read Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov. Perhaps the subject matter? I’m sure it didn’t help. Also I had a particularly obnoxious professor who felt it her duty to remind us weekly that Nabokov was the best thing since sliced bread. I couldn’t stand her and, I guess, by osmosis, I couldn’t stand poor, unsuspecting Lolita either. What a shame. It wasn’t until a few months ago, sitting in a restaurant in Vienna talking books with Pat from Euro Like Me, that I finally decided to take the plunge. He’d read Reading “Lolita” in Tehran and, never having read Nabakov’s novel either, couldn’t understand the lure of the original…

So here are the nuts & bolts: (taken from Library Journal) Nabokov’s classic story about a middle-aged, expatriate European man’s obsessive love for a 12-year-old girl is a beautifully produced novel that pushes the boundaries of the medium. While Lolita continues to raise the hackles of would-be censors even today, most readers will marvel at the restraint and playful humor with which Nabokov limns his tale. This doesn’t begin to cover it…

Some parts are incredibly uncomfortable to read: (on his preference of ‘nymphets’ between the ages of 9 & 14) The bud-stage of breast development appears early (10.7 years) in the sequence of somatic changes accompanying pubescence. And the next maturational item available is the first appearance of pigmented pubic hair (11.2 years). My little cup brims with tiddles.

Some are tragically sad: At the hotel we had separate rooms, but in the middle of the night she came sobbing into mine, and we made it up very gently. You see, she had absolutely nowhere else to go.

Some highlight the aberration… the complete fucked-uppedness… of the pedophilic mind: I must confess that depending on the condition of my glands and ganglia, I could switch in the course of the same day from one poll of insanity to the other - from the thought that around 1950 I would have to get rid somehow of a difficult adolescent whose magic nymphage had evaporated - to the thought that with patience and luck I might have her produce eventually a nymphet with my blood in her exquisite veins, a Lolita the Second, who would be eight or nine around 1960, when I would still be dans la force de lage; indeed, the telescopy of my mind, or un-mind, was strong enough to distinguish in the remoteness of time a vieillard encore vert - or was it green rot? - bizarre, tender, salivating Dr. Humbert, practicing on supremely lovely Lolita the Third the art of being a granddad.

Others are poetic as all get-out: I looked and looked at her, and knew as clearly as I know I am to die, that I loved her more than anything I had ever seen or imagined on earth, or hoped for anywhere else. ~ On playgrounds and beaches, my sullen and stealthy eye, against my will, still sought out the flash of a nymphet’s limbs, the sly tokens of Lolita’s handmaids and rosegirls.

But it’s this passage that, for me, sums up the whole of Lolita so well: I loved you. I was a pentapod monster, but I loved you. I was despicable and brutal, and turpid, and everything, mais je t’aimais, je t’aimais! And there were times when I knew how you felt, and it was hell to know it, my little one. Lolita girl, brave Dolly Schiller. I recall certain moments, let us call them icebergs in paradise, when after having had my fill of her - after fabulous, insane exertions that left me limp and azure-barred - I would gather her in my arms with, at last, a mute moan of human tenderness. And the tenderness would deepen to shame and despair, and I would lull and rock my lone light Lolita in my marble arms, and moan in her warm hair, and caress her at random and mutely ask her blessing, and at the peak of this human agonized selfless tenderness (with my soul actually hanging around her naked body and ready to repent), all at once, ironically, horribly, lust would swell again - and “oh, no,” Lolita would say with a sigh to heaven, and the next moment the tenderness and the azure - all would be shattered.

The second I finished Lolita I started right back at the beginning. I was excited… really excited (ok, maybe excited is a poorly chosen word in this case) about what I’d just read, still, I didn’t want to hastily declare it one of my favorite novels. So I went back… read it again… re-read my notes and highlighted text, and added even more notes and highlights.

I started driving Jim crazy by stalking him through the flat reading excerpts that made him cringe and wonder how on earth I could insist this was one of the best books ever written. He’d finally had enough when I pulled back his curtain mid-shower and read: ‘And I also knew that the child, my child, knew he was looking, enjoyed the lechery of his look and was putting on a show of gambol and glee, the vile and beloved slut‘. “That’s it,” he said, “Can’t you find somebody else to talk to about this? I mean, surely there’s a support group? Message board? Therapist? Something?”

Thus began my fascination with what others thought of Lolita. And here’s where it all gets a little disjointed. But I want to fit in some of my thoughts… and, hey, it’s my blog…

• It seems to be predominately women who love Lolita. I’m thinking this is half because women, by nature, are more likely to romanticize the situation and overlook the pedophiliac angle… and because I imagine very few men are comfortable in any way identifying with the subject matter.
• I agree 100% that Humbert loved Lolita, but I balk at some of the reviews claiming this to be the best love story ever written. Unrequited love? Sure. But reciprocal, healthy and mutual love… what are these people smoking??
• I find it fascinating that a small but vocal faction of women who loved the book feel the need to vilify Lolita (Dolly… Delores… Carmencita) for her cruelty to Humbert. It’s almost as if - in order to love & approve of Humbert, Lolita must be the persecutor and not the victim. No consideration is given to the possibility that Lolita’s circumstances formed her as a person.
• Nabokov is an extremely gifted writer. His long, complicated sentences unfold like exotic hothouse flowers. And kudos to him for taking no prisoners in the telling of a difficult tale. I mean, it took balls to write a story like this. He had to anticipate the backlash. Still, he didn’t shy away or give his readers an easy out - a good reason to forgive Humbert. Yet they still did/do. That alone I admire beyond belief.

So Pat, without a doubt, one of the best books I’ve ever read. It’s warm and funny and scary and confusing and (at times) an outright assault on everything polite society brought you up to expect…