To My East Coast Pals
Written byPosted on February 13, 2006
Filed Under Weather
I’m not the only Californian who has experienced a certain level of discomfort when speaking to folks on the East Coast. The problem, of course, is that we’re having spectacular weather out here in February (even here in San Francisco) while you East Coasters are stuck in a terrible blizzard.
Yes, this is unfair. But please know that I am not to blame for this. I empathize completely, even though I’ve never been stuck in a blizzard in my life. But in the past two days, there have been many phone calls and email volleys from folks expressing understandable resentment
I’m not responsible! There were no snow dances on this end, I assure you! There were no secret government projects bankrolled by this scheming millionaire. I didn’t do it! Look, I can’t help it if the weather is making me feel happier and more relaxed. Can you blame me? We had three months of almost continuous rain here. The time has come to leap with joy and to run in the park! You’ll have this moment too, I’m sure. You know, it’s just possible that the tables will turn in a month and California might be hit with another terrible El Niño storm while you East Coasters will get fair weather again. And that’s when you East Coasters get to laugh. Because as anyone who has met a Californian knows, we’re wusses when it comes to the weather.
Please wait it out and let your enmity for West Coasters settle. Justice will be served in a trice — the minute it dips below 45 degrees again and we whimper like cowards and turn our central heating units up as if the digits on a Kelvin thermometer suddenly shifted to Celsius. And then both sides know who the real heroes are.
Comments
2 Responses to “To My East Coast Pals”
Leave a Reply
Books To Jump Up and Down Over
Beyond Heaving Bosoms by Sarah Wendell and Candy Tan. The famed writers behind Smart Bitches, Trashy Books have written a very funny and thoughtful volume about romances, both Old Skool and New Skool. Here is a book that any smug and humorless literary manboy beating his flabby passive chest over Banville or Bolano should probably read pronto, if only for the distant possibility that he might get over himself. While the Choose Your Own Adventure segment at the end caused me to have a very disturbing dream involving Shelley Long (don't ask), Sarah and Candy did have me rethinking many of my own misperceptions when I wasn't busy laughing. They're not afraid to take on the New York Times Bok Review or even the groupthink within certain sectors of the romance community.
Alice Fantastic by Maggie Estep. This wild and highly enjoyable narrative involves two sisters (presumably, the third one was still being rented out by Chekhov), a hippie ex-junkie mother who lives with seventeen dogs, a murder, gambling, and libidinous Hollywood actresses who live in Woodstock. But this is the wonderful Maggie Estep we're talking here. And what seems at first like a quirky yarn becomes something unexpectedly moving about connectivity. What I love about Estep's work is the way that she'll juxtapose an extremely astute observation (now that you mention it, why do cab drivers always have somebody to talk with on the phone past midnight?) with an often outrageous story development.
Generosity by Richard Powers. It doesn't come out until September 29th, but Richard Powers's latest will have anyone committed to books reconsidering their literary fervor. I foresee some animosity from the vanilla critics hostile to idea-driven novels, but book bloggers, YouTube chroniclers, and MFAs would do well to plunge into this chance-taking narrative, which introduces vital questions about what the reader's relationship is with media, scientific dissection, and "creative nonfiction." Are we rats fleeing to happy cities? Or can we find the humanism within the purported plague?
Pieces for the Left Hand by J. Robert Lennon. Lennon is one of the most underrated fiction writers working today. Much as On the Night Plain proved that Lennon had a lot more in the toolbox than heartfelt (and often very funny) suburban satire, this slim but fascinating volume juxtaposes 100 small-town anecdotes -- arranged by category -- in a manner that reads, at times, like Nicholson Baker's passions for minutiae and, at other times, Stewart O'Nan's concern for psychological detail. The result is fiction that makes us wonder about whether one person's subjective view of particulars can entirely be trusted. This book never found a publisher in 2005. But thankfully, Graywolf has released it in the United States, along with Lennon's latest novel, The Castle.
Wonderful World by Javier Calvo. This wonderfully raucous volume has been completely ignored by the Washington Post, the New York Times, and the Los Angeles Times. But it's probably one of the most delightful reading experiences I've had this year. Calvo cavalierly mashes up multiple genres and manages to mix up familial subtext with larger-than-life, almost cartoonish characters. (Indeed, one might argue that one mobster's penis is a character of its own in this sprawling novel.). This is not an easy thing to pull off, but Calvo makes it work. And it's helped immeasurably by Mara Faye Lethem's idiom-specific translation. (See longer post.)
The Means of Reproduction, Michelle Goldberg This thoughtful book tackles the complicated (and little discussed) subject of reproductive rights from numerous angles, which includes a number of unpleasant but necessary ones. The upshot is that there isn't a quick fix solution for declining birth rates and fundamentalist abuses. Just about every political faction has contributed to the friction. But you'll want to read this book anyway to refamiliarize yourself with the topic, but also to understand just what's occurred during the past several decades to get us where we are today. (See also podcast interview with Goldberg.)
Ah only those who would deny the use of “Snow Dances” would know that they were actually used. The old deny deny deny ruse isn’t going to work this time!
It is with a marked joy that I type this today – sunburned, yes sunburned, from a Sunday spent in 85 degree weather. I am not rubbing it in. It is not my fault, as Ed points out. And I don’t know what a Snow Dance is….really.
I believe I may have done a Snow Jig in recent memory (read: each glorious day of this past week)…but no snow dancing. Honest.
I’m sure we’ll get our due. Right?