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.
The Call by Yannick Murphy: The always interesting author of Here They Come and Signed, Mata Hari returns with a novel that whips up a worldview from a rather quirky set of limitations: namely, the call logs that a veterinarian maintains as his son is unexpectedly put into a coma and an unforgiving economy denies him work. What emerges is a surprisingly optimistic, often funny, and very moving account on how one family uses acceptance and forgiveness as a way to atone for hard knocks. (
Birds of Paradise by Diana Abu-Jaber: Forget Franzen and Eugenides. If you're looking for a social novel that counts, Diana Abu-Jaber is the author you're looking for. Building from the free-form exploration of consciousness and identity in Crescent and the gripping procedural structure of Origin, Abu-Jaber's latest novel is her finest, equally fluent with gutterpunk culture and smarmy real estate men. It has been suggested by The Washington Post's Ron Charles that you will likely gain some pounds while reading this novel. This is certainly true. Abu-Jaber's description of food is so precise that it often made me want to do more cooking. But I very much admired the way in which Abu-Jaber presents all her characters as unwitting victims of rough capitalism, which permits them some dignity even as they perform terrible acts.
The Last of the Live Nude Girls by Sheila McClear: This memoir isn't so much about the decline of the Times Square peepshow, as it is about one young woman's efforts to pull herself up by by her bootstraps when presented with few economic options. Filled with self-introspective candor and a quiet dignity, McClear's story is one that might befall any of us in these volatile times. While McClear does get back on her feet, her book leads one contemplating the terrible fates of other young women now moving to New York and falling into deadlier vocations. (
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?