Book Beat: South of Broad

"Broad" is the word for Pat Conroy's latest novel.

There's something inherently likable about Leopold Bloom King, the 18-year-old hero of South of Broad by Pat Conroy (who also wrote Prince of Tides). He's a kind, well-meaning kid with a sarcastic sense of humor and a deep, dark past that includes juvenile probation for cocaine possession and stints in mental institutions after his older brother committed suicide at the young age of 10. The story begins just as Leo is finally turning his life around. He's got a paper route, his probation is almost over, he's starting his senior year, and for once, he's going to be a normal teenager. Or so he thinks.

His parents, anxious that Leo's days are busy and full, ask him to look after the new kids coming to school that year--and soon he has assembled a motley crew of friends who bond for life. Conroy makes it abundantly clear that this group of eight would have been almost impossible in 1969 in Charleston, South Carolina. Besides homely, middle-class Leo, there are two African Americans, two poor orphans from North Carolina, one openly gay kid and his vampy twin, one girl jock, and a couple of snooty rich kids thrown in for good measure. The drama, tensions, sexual relationships, etc., soon begin, with Leo's undying loyalty serving as the glue that holds the group all together. As a team, they tackle bigotry of all kinds, horrible pasts, psychotic relatives, and even disease--it gets pretty mawkish.

This was kind of a dirty trick. I was hoping for one kind of novel--a sort of Holden Caulfield adventure with Leo at center stage--and wound up reading a soap opera. I admit that I was reluctantly hooked for most of the book, even if I rolled my eyes a lot (especially when the plot leaps ahead 20 years and this unlikely eight-some is tackling the AIDS epidemic). Despite the abundance of plot and melodrama, Leo's uniqueness kept me turning pages. I wanted to know if he'd ever be able to heal--or at least accept--the gaping hole that his brother left in his life.

But, ultimately, there's just too much going on here. Too many characters. Too many issues. Too much melodrama. When I finally buckled under and finished the last 100 pages, I was not surprised to find that they were rife with rape, abortions, suicide, cold-blooded murder, and hurricanes. Too, too much.

Also disappointing: the dialogue. Everyone in the book has the same sarcastic one-liner approach to life that should have been Leo's alone. You can't tell who is talking without the attribution, and it's too bad.

Of course, while I wouldn't recommend this book to anyone, it wasn't a complete waste of time for me. I enjoyed Leo's complex relationship with the Catholic church--how he was anchored to it, in love with its ritual and routine, and yet was not completely comfortable with it and even alienated sometimes. There's a funny moment when he says that his childhood finally made sense after he found out that his mother was a nun before she married his father. Catholic humor.

The Catholic references also double as references to James Joyce. Leo's mother is a Joycean scholar with a passion for Ulysses, and references to this staggering work abound--probably more than this amateur reader of Joyce's masterpiece could pick up on. Some are blatant, like the pivotal role of Bloomsday (June 16, which is the date that the events of Ulysses take place) or the names of Leopold Bloom King and his brother Stephen Dedalus King, which are the names of Joyce's two heroes. Others are a little less so--for example, the last sentence of the book is very similar to the last sentence of Ulysses.

In keeping with the Joycean influence, the city of Charleston itself serves as a central character, and probably some of the best stuff in the novel is the portrait of the complexities of this Southern city. But the novel just doesn't hold together with its overcrowded plot and burgeoning cast of characters with nearly identical personalities. Do yourself a favor, and skip it!


South of Broad: **

Fine Dining: On the Road to McBesity

Why this mom gets extra points for bringing home a Happy Meal.

Swim class ended today, and what better way to reward hard work than with the timeless McDonald's Happy Meal? I mean, everyone knows you have to start associating success with fatty foodstuffs early—otherwise, the young 'uns won't have a good reason to try hard. So age 15 months and change seemed just about right for the hallowed nuggets, fries, and a toy. But who knew just how much value $2.79 could buy? Here's a taste:

• More ingredients in the milk. The boring white stuff in your fridge usually has two measly ingredients, milk and vitamin D3 (for us indoor types who don't get enough sun). But the McDonald's Milk Jug has so much more! We're talking skim milk and concentrated skim milk here, people, with vitamin A palmitate thrown in for good measure. Now that's a milk jug.



• Potatoes the way nature intended. Nurturing your toddler's palate to appreciate vegetables can be a long road—so why not take a short cut? Blanketed in a child-pleasing blend of salt and grease, French fries will instantly make your baby a root-vegetable fan without the tantrum. And good news for moms: You'll never have slave over mashed, boiled, or baked potatoes ever again.



• Less cluck for your buck—the way they like it. For picky eaters, nothing says "no thanks" more than a possible run-in with protein. That's why the tiny "all-white meat" portions of these chicken nuggets take a backseat to the substantial cloud of fried batter surrounding them. Let your dog have at the meaty center, then serve up those crispy shells and bask in your little one's smile. She'll thank you for it, and so will the retail clerk at your plus-size baby clothing outlet.



• Critical thinking challenge. If mealtime conversations with your toddler usually consist of "that cup is NOT a hat" and "the dog already had her dinner," try livening things up with a brain teaser or two. Look no further than the Happy Meal bag itself for such promotional puzzles as: "Take a break—/Get Outside! / It's Fun to / RUN and JUMP / Online and Off!" Explaining that your DSL connector cable is not a jump rope will never be more fun.



• Advanced play opportunity. Sure, you can ask for an age-appropriate toy for your under-three-year-old—if you're a wuss. Say goodbye to Mensa if your kid can't operate a pull-apart Lego car without getting the teeny, weeny wheels caught in his throat.

McDonald's Happy Meal: *****

Reel Time: The Time Traveler's Wife

This film adaptation of the popular novel doesn't deserve such bad reviews.

Our book club doesn't go in for the traditional assigned reading with postmortem discussions. Instead, we each bring in a good book from our private stashes, give a Reading Rainbow-style recommendation to the group, then pile up our treasures on the center table. When the coffee-house staff starts stacking chairs and closing up the patio, we sort through our riches for the loaners that most intrigue us. We read them at our own pace (no pressure to finish before the next meeting!), then repeat the process. The result? No one feels ashamed about falling behind. No one worries about a book not being "literary" enough. And we each get to read books we enjoy without having to slog through stuff that doesn't interest us. It's great!

With so many wonderful choices and diverse interests before us, it's rare that all of us will read the same book--but every once in a while, one races through the group like wildfire. The first time this happened was five years ago when one of us brought in The Time Traveler's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger. A romance with sci-fi tendencies was an unlikely hit for our group, but the characters were so well drawn, their experiences so relatable, and their situation so compelling that none of us could put the book down.

The story chronicles the relationship between Clare and Henry, a guy with a time-placement disorder that acts a lot like epilepsy. The result of Henry's uncontrollable time-traveling "episodes" is that Clare meets Henry for the first time when she's six years old--when Henry meets Clare for the first time, however, she's in her twenties. As you can imagine, this makes for an interesting relationship!

The film version opened last weekend to mostly mediocre reviews. Rotten Tomatoes lists it at 36%--a dismal number (though not as dismal as the 8% awarded to the animated Garfield a few years back). I'm not sure why the critics have been so harsh. Our book club saw the film as a group over the weekend, and most of us really enjoyed it. Sure, it doesn't incorporate all of the lovely nuances of the novel--but it was a fairly faithful retelling of the plot, and we all recognized the characters we'd come to love in the book.

Here's where the film got it right:

1. Casting. Eric Bana, with his troubled eyes and sexy hair cut, gives Henry the brooding, sensitive streak that is so endearing in the novel. He also spends a good portion of the movie with his shirt off (clothes don't time-travel), which is a crowd pleaser in a theater full of women. Rachel MacAdams is a decent Clare as well. She's perhaps perkier than I expected the novel's introspective heroine to be, but this makes for good contrast with Henry's more reserved character. The actors play wonderfully off of each other to create the tenderness between the characters that is so essential to the book. To the LA Times reviewer who said that the film's stars had no chemistry, I give a big whatever with a raspberry on top.


2. Production design.
With a plot that moves alinearly, it's vital for the audience to be able to follow the jumps in and out of the past without scratching their heads. The visual cues in the film are excellent, and each location is memorable. The set decoration is also excellent--you can tell from a glance at the decor if the scene is past or present. Also, props to makeup and hair for making it clear which iteration of Henry was appearing in the present.


3. Overall tone. While the two-hour film can only cover so much of the novel, each major plot point is present and, with few exceptions, these feel as natural as they do in the book. This means that the overall feel of the story is present in the film version. The tenuous, but loving, relationship between two people in an impossible situation comes through loud and clear, as does the theme of living with loss in its many iterations. Overall, it's a moving, interesting story.

That said, there are many areas where the novel excels that the film could not possibly touch. While the film was quite satisfying from my perspective as a fan of the book, it definitely is the lesser of the two works. Here's why you should check out the book:

1. A story for both girls and boys. The reading men in my life, including my husband, really enjoyed the book--something I chalk up to Henry's manly exploits in the novel that got stripped from the screenplay. The film version is definitely aimed at the ladies. You rarely see Henry's more dangerous adventures, and Bana's screen time is dedicated more to being a leading man than to being a guy's guy. But the novel's Henry is much more complex and interesting. He regularly gets into fights when he lands naked in the middle of nowhere--and he has to be scrappy and resourceful to get himself clothed and oriented between episodes. The sense of danger that pervades the novel is mostly absent from the screen version, which focuses more on Henry's complicated feelings about Clare. But even those scenes in the novel are infused with a uniquely masculine perspective that didn't seem to make it to the reel.


2. Parallel narratives. While the film favors Henry's perspective, the book gives both Henry and Clare equal weight. In the novel, one chapter gives you Clare's POV; the next focuses on Henry's. This back and forth builds the tension of the story--and it serves to make Clare as round a character as her time-traveling counterpart. In her accounts of her long waits for his return, her frustrations, and her worries for his safety, you also feel an unbearable suspense for Henry's fate--which is often left open at the end of his chapters. That subtly increased tension is an art that just can't make it to the silver screen.


3. Less creepy child interactions. In the novel version when six-year-old Clare meets a thirty-something Henry alone in a meadow, the creepiness of the situation doesn't really stand out. This is probably thanks to Niffenegger's telling of the story through Clare's childlike perspective to give the meeting a magical quality. The film version of this scene, with Bana towering over the child actress, gives it a much more Lolita quality--an ick factor that took me right out of the scene. It's too bad this pivotal plot point wasn't handled better in the film.


4. Character-driven time travel. Usually, I roll my eyes when I hear the words "good book" and "time travel," but this is a remarkable exception. At first read, the rules Niffenegger creates for time travel seem entirely plausible (they unravel a little on closer inspection, but they're still pretty good). Henry's "episodes," often brought on by stress, come across as entirely organic, which means that time travel in this case is not at all a nifty plot device. Instead, it's always a reveal about Henry's character. The movie doesn't really go into the logic of Niffenegger's time travel, a weakness that might leave viewers who are new to the material dissatisfied. The film also leaves out some interesting, and very human, interactions between Henry and his past selves (thanks to gintastic for the reminder!).

The Time Traveler's Wife (book): *****
The Time Traveler's Wife (film): ***

Chain Chat: Ralph's Lives Up to Its Name

In which I blow off bullet points for an astounding real-life encounter with supermarket kind.

I tend to avoid Ralph's supermarket. We have a lovely small grocery store nearby (a smaller chain called Fresh & Easy) that rocks my little world. And we have Trader Joe's, too! But every once in a while I end up at Ralph's, either to get a missing ingredient or because I happen to be in the neighborhood. Well, after today, I won't be going back for a looooooooong time. (I want to say never, but never say never, right?)

I should have seen the weirdness coming when my progress was blocked multiple times by carts parked smack in the middle of the aisles. Usually, this doesn't happen in every aisle, but today was special. The old lady muttering mild expletives under her breath in the bread aisle was another omen I ignored after giving her a suitably wide berth.

When the time came to check out, there were only two lanes open, and as the salty-tongued lady was at the end of one, I chose the other. The fresh-faced young 'un manning the register waited too long to inform me she was closing the lane after the next customer, so I strolled back over to the ever-lengthening lane behind Old Mrs. Potty Mouth. I was about to unload my groceries, when the manager came over.

Now, the manager was at one time one of my favorite checkers at this establishment. She was always quick and polite and funny. But as manager, she's an imposing woman. Loud, large, and no-nonsense authoritative. Before I could place my chickens and eggs on the conveyor belt, she personally escorted me to a lane that she said was just opening up. Of course, it was just the same lane I'd been to earlier--the little chickadee must have been told that going on break in the middle of a cash-register rush is not store policy.

Anyway, there was already a guy in line--a fortyish athletic-looking fellow who'd spent the better part of his time in the grocery aisles taking up more than his fair share of space. But that doesn't mean he deserved what followed. To my chagrin, the manager boomed him out of the line. "THERE WERE PEOPLE WAITING," she shouted.

"But I was waiting, too," he noted calmly, and not improperly.

But she would have none of it. She badgered him loudly until he put his cart in reverse. Suddenly, I found myself in front of him, too disoriented and embarrassed to remember to do the proper thing and let him ahead of me. When I finally realized what I had done, most of my groceries were already on the conveyor belt. I made myself look him in the eye and say, "I'm so sorry about that. That was so confusing."

He met my eyes, not unfriendly at all, and said, "That's OK. They should have more checkers." He continued to make me feel better and worse at the same time by being extra sweet to baby G, who was happily playing with the Cheerios box in the basket.

After that, the experience kept going downhill. Little chickadee coughed dramatically all over her hands before giving me my receipt (sigh), but the weirdness wasn't over. Just as I was about to peel out of there with the packed cart, the frail little employee who bagged the groceries stepped in front of me. She had surprising stamina for her appearance--it looked like the effort of hefting just one soup can into a shopping cart would be enough to overwhelm her.

I stopped the cart, adjusted the baby on my hip, and moved my wallet to my free hand.

"That wallet you have," she said. "I saw it on TV."

I should mention that the wallet in question is a handy all-in-one number with a key-chain, a cell-phone pocket, and a zipper pouch with pockets for ID, credit cards, etc. But it's not particularly unusual looking. It's a pretty shade of red, but that's its one real distinguishing feature. And I'm pretty sure she didn't see this particular wallet on TV--my wallet-giving benefactress doesn't watch infomercials.

Uh-oh, I thought. This is not going anywhere good."It... it was a gift," I mumbled, hoping this true tidbit would get me out of the conversation in a hurry. The last thing I wanted was to prolong my Ralph's experience by chin-wagging about wallets with the bag clerk.

"$19.99," she said, awed. She turned to the baby in my arms. "Your mamma has good taste."

Good meaning expensive, I could see. Mortifying.

"Can I see it? I think it's the same one," she said, reaching out her hand. "With the pocket for the credit cards..."

While technically, the touch of one cart wheel would have felled her, I couldn't do it. Pretending not to understand, I turned the wallet over in my hand, just showing her the back of it. "Yeah, that sounds like it."

"Well," she said conspiratorially. "Your friend got it on the Internet."

It is rare that I find myself at a loss for words, but rack my brain as I might, I could not come up with the proper, expedient response. "Oh," I said finally, practically doing a wheelie with the cart in my 180-degree getaway maneuver. "You have a good day, now."

"You, too!" she called after me, in a voice that said she knew my secret and would keep it forever.

There are tons of reasons not to go to this Ralph's. Like the time I saw the customer sneeze liberally all over the open vegetable displays. Or the day the rotting produce oozed out all over the floor of the fruit section, tripping up unsuspecting elderly customers until I practically had to sit on a manager to get a clean-up on aisle one already. And there was the time the staffer didn't know what barley was and showed me white rice after a 20-minute wait. But this really takes the cake. They won't be seeing this wallet again for a looooooooooooooong time. Preferably never.

Tot Time: Easy Entertainment

Who knew everyday things could be so much fun?

Before baby G arrived, I always figured we were the world's most boring household for kids to visit. Sure, we could muster up a stuffed animal or two, but most visiting tots had to make due with the toys they brought. Otherwise, they had to be content testing out our doorknobs or having staring matches with the dog.

Now that baby G is here, we are much more kid-friendly. There are bins of toys to rummage through and mats to play on and plenty of kiddie lit to read. But while baby G enjoys all of these things, some of the most entertaining items in the house were things we had all along. Who knew?

But before I tell you what they are, let me lead with a disclaimer: Obviously, all children have to be supervised when playing with anything so that they don't hurt themselves (or anyone or anything else). The most harmless-looking magazine can be a paper dagger in the wrong hands, after all!

Now that that's out of the way, here are five household items baby G can't get enough of:

1. Laundry. If you think that age nine months is too early to get your child excited about chores, think again. Pulling out the laundry basket turned out to be a really fun way to entertain baby while getting some housework done—an almost unthinkable combination. At first, baby G contented himself by pulling out the items one by one (socks and washcloths are still favorites). Then as he got older and bolder, he was able to empty the basket at lightening speed (progressing to challenging items like our jeans and bath towels). The basket itself serves as fort, walker, and toy-collection bin. (Look out! He also tried to use it as a step stool once.) Of course, baby G soon figured out it was also fun to unfold the laundry. But for the most part, I can work around the sabotage by putting the piles up higher (like on the back of the couch). So, it's still a lot of fun for both of us!



2. Greeting cards. Since birth, I've been an incorrigible pack rat, which means I've got enough old birthday cards and holiday greetings in the garage to start a museum. So, I was just delighted when baby G took an instant liking to the Valentine sent from his clever aunt. She knew that he would be mesmerized by the hologram on the front. We're talking 10-minute stretches of total concentration while he turned it over and over in his hands. Luckily, that fascination transferred to the two-dimensional variety as well, and we now keep his birthday and holiday cards in a stack for him to look through now and then. Of course, we keep the very special ones out of reach, as there are occasional casualties, and we also have to look out for paper cuts and any ingesting of corners or torn pieces. But for the most part, baby G is very careful with them. He's also a huge fan of the musical/talking ones. He loves puzzling over opening and closing them to make the sound start and stop. Those especially require supervision, of course, as the wee speaker system is loaded with tiny parts that could easily find their way into baby's mouth.



3. Plastic bins. This should have been a no-brainer for me, as many of us grew up rummaging through our parents' Tupperware cupboards. But I didn't realize how much fun babies can have taking toys out of a bin and putting them right back in again. This activity has not only given me hope that baby G somehow got the tidy gene that I don't carry, but it has also encouraged him to be even more mobile. To fill a bin to the brim, he will go to great lengths, including a crawl across the room to find just the right toy. Then he'll pick up the toy and either stand up and take a few steps toward the bin, or he'll do this rather strenuous-looking knee-walk to get where he wants to go. It's pretty fun to watch!



4. Magazines. Like many households, we get a stream of magazines and catalogs in the daily mail. Back issues are a great way to give baby G something to look at. Sometimes when he's sitting at the breakfast table with his dad, they'll both be flipping through their own magazines. It's adorable! Anyway, the photos in magazines like Parents or Real Simple seem to catch his eye, and he's a huge fan of the detachable magazine subscription cards. For the most part, he's very careful turning pages, and sometimes I'll hand him a magazine when he's in the playpen so he can be entertained while I'm catching up on e-mail on the adjacent couch. Of course, there is the occasional rip fest, at which point, I generally take the magazine away and replace it with a board book or something that doesn't have edible pieces. In addition to the safety concerns, I'm not excited about him learning to rip up pages, as I fear for our books and other important papers. But, a magazine packs easily for visits to friends' houses, and baby won't miss it if you accidentally leave it behind.



5. The dog's collar. This was an accidental discovery. One day, the dog was sleeping on the couch next to the collar that I must have removed but forgot to put away (see pack rat reference above). When baby G came up to the couch to visit the dog (always an adventure for both parties), he noticed the collar, picked it up, and began jingling it like a baby rattle. He had a huge grin on his face the whole time. So funny! He also held it up to the dog and giggled like crazy when she sniffed at it. This had the added benefit of keeping him distracted from the dog's very pullable ears. But, when he gets too exuberant and the metal license on the collar becomes a blur to the naked eye, I worry for his teeth and those of anyone within a three-foot radius. So, this is definitely something we only let him play with once in a while and with hawk-eyed supervision. Still, it's pretty hilarious to watch him crack up over it like it is the best and funniest discovery on the planet.

These were some fun discoveries for us, but surely there are plenty of everyday delights we've overlooked. Any suggestions?

Weep Watch: Three Surprise Tear Jerkers

Why I now carry a hankie everywhere.

Maybe I'm in denial, but I never thought I was a weepy person. Sure, I cry over things, but certainly not every other day. Except for this week. This week, I found myself boo-hooing behind 3D glasses, in my car at the gas station, and in front of my parents' TV. I'm telling you, I'm probably dehydrated now. Here are the culprits:

1. The "Songs Around the World" project.


2. Pixar's Up.


3. This part from President Obama's D-Day speech:
   I know this trip doesn't get any easier as the years pass, but for those of you who make it, there's nothing that could keep you away. One such veteran, a man named Jim Norene, was a member of the 502nd Parachute Infantry Division of the 101st Airborne. Last night, after visiting this cemetery for one last time, he passed away in his sleep. Jim was gravely ill when he left his home, and he knew that he might not return. But just as he did 65 years ago, he came anyway. May he now rest in peace with the boys he once bled with, and may his family always find solace in the heroism he showed here.

For my fellow wimps out there, here's a song for you.

Tube Talk: Kiddie TV

How to earn those square eyes early.

Baby G and I caught whatever bug was going around a couple of weeks ago, and so I took the opportunity to introduce him to the Magic Box. Passive entertainment isn't such a bad thing when everyone is cranky and congested. Not that baby G hasn't been exposed to what I like to think of as "second-hand TV." When we watch "The Daily Show" or "Nightly News with Brian Williams," baby G is in the playpen right beside us. But now that he's starting to do a Jon Stewart-inspired exaggerated shrug and chuckling with the studio audience, we might have to be more careful. Which is why we started watching programming made for kids—the following three programs in particular:

• Sesame Street. I loved, loved, loved "Sesame Street" as a child (and looooong after)—but I was pleasantly surprised to see that the neighborhood is still the same after all these years. Sure, there are new people and monsters on the street, but Oscar still lives in his trash can and Maria and Luis still repair toasters at the fix-it shop. And, of course, it still has an unabashed alphanumeric agenda, with fun songs and commercial parodies featuring the letters and numbers of the day.
  
  I had forgotten how clever Sesame Street is—the writers do a good job of keeping parents engaged, too, with parodies like "Law and Order: Missing Letters Unit," "The Adventures of Trash Gordon," "A's Anatomy," and "The Amazing Alphabet Race." Also, at least one celeb features prominently in each episode. This morning, I cracked up when James Blunt and Telly Monster sang "My Triangle", a parody of the singer's ubiquitous "You're Beautiful." I appreciate this because I now know who James Blunt is, which I'm pretty sure knocks 5 years off my age. I also love that Sesame Street isn't afraid to throw in $10 words, like when Cookie Monster's favorite snack broke in two and left him feeling "slightly lachrymose." How often does "lachrymose" appear in a laugh line? So great.
  
  Probably the biggest change is that the last 15 minutes or so are now a segment called "Elmo's World" starring the red-felted Muppet with the Jar-Jar-like voice. Luckily, this little monster is a lot less annoying than he was back in the day. "Elmo's World" is geared for the youngest viewers, and baby G does perk right up when "Cat"—his word for Elmo, and any Muppet, for that matter—appears on the screen. Elmo explores one theme every day—usually anatomy like feet and eyes, or activities like jumping and helping. Sure, I have some beef with the creepy mime bit and the annoying ending song where Elmo plinks out the tune to "Jingle Bells" and sings the word of the day over and over. ("Eyes eyes eyes eyes eyes eyes"—yeesh.) But it does get the message across: After the segment on "teeth," baby G was pulling back our lips and shouting "chooch!"—a word that now serves for both "tooth" and "couch."
  
  Anyway, it's pretty great that baby G and I have something to watch that we both enjoy. After 40 plus years, "Sesame Street" is still the gold standard of children's programming. *****

• Yo Gabba Gabba. When my brother called to tell me about this show, he said he didn't know if it was the greatest thing ever or the worst acid trip for kids he'd ever seen. You get the indie/emo flavor from the intro of this Nick Jr. program, which you can check out here. The show opens with the host—a young guy called DJ Lance who sports Buddy Holly glasses, a fuzzy orange Cossack,  and a matching jumpsuit—grooving across a white screen with his boombox. ("What's that?" The kids are going to want to know.) He opens the box to reveal what looks like a set of five grodie Gumby figurines that magically come to life (as people in full-body suits) when he lifts them out.
  
  The characters have babytalk names—Muno, Foofa, Brobee, Toodee, and Plex—and their neon color palette comes straight out of a highlighter set. The character voices aren't as shrill as the Chipmunks, but they have a similar timbre—maybe more like a higher-pitched version of the little green aliens from Toy Story. In other words, they hover close to annoying, but are fairly watchable. To frenetic beats, the characters sing about being polite, going to sleep, the seasons, the dangers of crossing the street, etc.—and the show is broken up with little segments of kids dancing or bizarre interludes such as Devo's Mark Mothersbaugh teaching kids how to draw or DJ Lance making funny faces.
  
  The problem with "Yo Gabba Gabba" is that the imperative prevails! Dance! Smile! Play! Every song is a command, and has maybe 10 words in it. After what seemed like the billionth chorus of "Don't give up, don't give up!" I wanted to rebel and quit everything. This is the kind of show I imagine kids have to watch in dystopias like the one in 1138. Dance! Like it! Or else.     ***



• Dora the Explorer. I was prepared to love Dora. After all, she's a smart, bilingual girl protagonist with cute gear that all the kids seem to love. Girl power! The 30-minute cartoon airs on Nickelodeon, and I set the DVR to record every episode.
  
  Boy, was that a mistake! It is absolutely unwatchable. Dora and her friends—a monkey and a map—have such obnoxious, shrill voices (or is it the same voice?), that I'm pretty sure they can pierce small ear drums. The show format is a lot like an activity book maze. In each episode, Dora and friends must solve a problem by getting from point A to point B through a variety of obstacles. To stay on the right path, the characters break the fourth wall and ask the viewers to shout out answers to questions, such as "Should we go LEFT or RIGHT?" While Dora and pals re-shriek the question over and over, an arrow icon hovers on the screen for a very long time before clicking on the right answer. How lame! And this happens over and over again. It is interminable. Even baby G turned his back to the TV.
  
  I was most disappointed by the bilingual element—there seemed to be very few Spanish vocabulary words, and the ones they used weren't reinforced well. One segment of "Sesame Street's" "Murray Has a Little Lamb" introduces more Spanish vocab than three episodes of Dora combined. So, I bid adios! to the tot icon and turned on Magnum P.I. Hey, there's only so much kid stuff a person can watch in a day!     **
 

Growing Pains: Aging Alert!

Five ways to tell this spring chicken is now a summer fowl.

1. I watch "Nightly News with Brian Williams."


2. I hyperventilate over $9 tickets to a matinee.


3. I get all wistful when I hear that song from The Breakfast Club.


4. I give my neighbor the hairy eyeball when her boyfriend roars up the street on his hog.


5. I call a motorcycle a "hog."

Reel Time: Required Viewing

In which the Schoolmarm of America goes all multimedia.

No curriculum is complete without the multimedia element. And by multimedia, I mean the old-school '90s definition: the VHS tape. (This was before every student was hooked up to a series of tubes called the intarweb.) Sure, I guess the principals of the era counted the overhead projectors and blackboards as "media"—but it was really the portable TV cart with the attached VCR that made their hearts swell with pride.

We students also thrilled at the sight of the TV cart. Not only did this mean an hour with no lecture, but it was also guaranteed that the teacher would spend a good 15 minutes treating the VCR like an exotic animal he had never seen before. After gingerly attempting to jiggle the wires, press every button, and cue up the tape, he would throw up his hands and threaten to lecture—at which point, the one techie kid per class would leap to his aid and have the video playing in no time.

The substitute teachers, however, had it down. They understood that their sanity depended on dulling our senses with whatever magic light show the teacher had provided, which meant it was up and running the minute the bell rang. In high school, our health teacher was the most regular sub, and she was no nonsense about the VCR. After pressing Play, she would plant herself at the teacher's desk (where she could not see the video) and periodically glare at us over her book. I'll never forget her livid face when our European history class erupted at the orgy scene during Caligula, the PBS series we were watching as a supplement to our lessons on the Roman emperors. She had her back to the TV when she threatened us to settle down or else—so she didn't see the guys in togas playing the Roman equivalent of spin-the-bottle behind her. For us Catholic school girls, whose in-class videos were usually about martyrs in South America, this was funniest thing we'd ever seen! And you can bet that we remembered this scene from Caligula long after we forgot the succession of emperors.

All this is the long way of saying that if I were magically to become Leader of the World (as posited in the last post), I would supplement my subjects' required reading with some required viewing for extra indoctrination. Here is what would play on the VCRs across my domain:

• A State of Mind. This eye-popping British documentary follows two young girl gymnasts who are preparing for the Mass Games, a massive-scale pageant in honor of North Korea's Kim Jong-il. They train for hours every day for months to prepare for this one event. The film, released in 2004, provides an intimate look at family life in one of the world's most enigmatic dictatorships, and the disturbing devotion the people of North Korea have to their Dear Leader, despite the terrible conditions (especially food shortages) that plague the people. In one telling scene, family members pause to curse the United States when the electricity goes out during a routine blackout. North Korea isn't known for open access to journalists, so this might be the closest any of us gets to the viewpoints of its citizens.


• Hell House. Lest anyone believes that scary brainwashing only happens on the other side of the world, welcome to Hell House, a chilling look at one iteration of fundamental Christianity on our own soil. This 2001 documentary follows the young members of a Baptist church outside of Dallas who put on a graphic, haunted-house-style pageant depicting what happens to those who don't live their version of a Christian life. Visitors to Hell House go from room to room to witness horrifying skits featuring "un-Christian" choices and subsequent damnation—at the end of which, each attendee is offered a conversion opportunity. It's jaw-dropping. Make sure you have a light comedy on hand for a chaser. You're going to need it.


• Koppel: Iran, The Most Dangerous Nation. Ted Koppel is basically the man. In this 2006 documentary for the Discovery Channel, Koppel plumbed the source of tensions between the United States and Iran by (gasp!) actually speaking to people in Iran. The range of interviews and perspectives he gets from people of all walks of life there is truly enlightening. We need more journalists like Koppel, who delves into the complexity of the problem rather than just regurgitating the propaganda from both sides.


• Koppel: The People's Republic of Capitalism. Koppel's four-part series on modern China, which aired on the Discovery Channel right before the Beijing Olympics, focuses on the economic boom in that nation and how it affects our own economy. With the same balance he brings to his series on Iran, Koppel talks to everyone from farmers and industrial laborers to business moguls and American factory workers. He also spends a fair amount of time on the rising middle class. Did you know that a black Buick is the ultimate status symbol over there? I didn't. This series captures China at a pivotal point in global history—and it serves as an invaluable primer for those of us who don't know much about today's Chinese culture.


• The Hobart Shakespeareans. Some titles on this list left me whimpering in the fetal position; others just made me anxious—but this 2004 documentary warmed the frigid cockles of my heart. Under the guidance of Rafe Esquith—author of the excellent book about his unorthodox teaching methods, Teach Like Your Hair Is on Fire—the fifth graders of Hobart Boulevard Elementary School in Central Los Angeles put on a full-length Shakespearean play once a year. For most of these students, English is not the primary language spoken at home—so their perfect, passionate delivery of the Bard's dialogue is truly moving. The film also highlights the many ways Esquith goes above and beyond in the classroom: extra math lessons before school begins, guitar classes at recess, and even a field trip to Washington, D.C. Esquith puts all of his energy into helping his students become hard-working, courteous, independent thinkers who refuse to be held back by the sometimes harsh economic realities of their childhood. It's a continuing story of hope and a must-see.

Anything else I should add to the list before I put on my world-domination tiara?

Book Beat: Required Reading

If I were Schoolmarm of America, this would be your homework.

This might sound high-falutin' coming from someone who spent the first half of the year bingeing on a trashy mystery series and even trashier vampire novels (which I devoured with the enthusiasm of a little girl savoring her first Halloween stash, by the way). But, I feel like we as Americans have a serious lack of interest--or possibly access?--to the perspectives of other peoples in other countries. And we remain ignorant at our peril. Globalization is here, folks. In this interdependent world, we can't afford not to know our neighbors, even the ones that are millions of miles away.

This is especially true of the Middle East. I, for one, knew next to nothing about Iran or Afghanistan until these proper nouns started making the daily headlines. But the news blurbs I was reading and watching never gave me a sense of the peoples, cultures, and personal challenges that make up these dots on a map. And so I was profoundly grateful when friends, family, and chance brought me books that help put a human face on some of the world's greatest challenges.

I'm also not convinced that we Americans know our own story that well. That's why if I ever take over the world (and the chances of that are slim, dear reader!), I would not only raise taxes to fund my palatial pool, but I would also require essays from every man, woman, and child on the following books:

• Three Cups of Tea. After a failed attempt to climb K2 in 1993, an American nurse named Greg Mortenson found himself being nursed back to health by the villagers of Korphe, Pakistan. In gratitude, he pledged to build the village's first school. Since then, the Central Asia Institute he founded has built more than 50 schools in some of the most needy villages in rural Afghanistan and Pakistan. Of course, it was no easy accomplishment--and Mortenson and co-author David Oliver Relin describe the fierce obstacles he overcame, including a chilling encounter with the Taliban. The book argues that the way to defeat Islamic extremism in this area is through building access to education--particularly for girls. Three Cups of Tea provides a rare glimpse into village life, and the overall message is surprisingly hopeful.



• Persepolis. The first half of Marjane Satrapi's memoir in comic book form tells the story of the fall of the Shah and the rise of the Islamic Republic from her perspective as a little girl growing up in Tehran in 1979. The fear, cruelty, and extremist restrictions of the time are all the more horrifying from a child's point of view--especially one so inquisitive, passionate, and funny. The second half of Satrapi's tale recounts her experiences as an expatriate in Europe, and how the experience of displacement nearly killed her. Satrapi is as candid about her own flaws as she is about her country's--which is why I prefer her story to Reading Lolita in Tehran by Azar Nafisi, who fills too many pages celebrating her own intelligence. Both Satrapi's memoir and the 2008 film adaptation provide an enlightening look at how drastically Iran has changed since 1979--and how it has changed the people who live there.



• Brief Encounters with Che Guevara. In this short story collection, Ben Fountain describes such vivid characters, places, and situations that it is easy to forget these tales are fiction. Almost every story takes place in a third-world country--the descriptions of which are informed by Fountain's extensive research and travels to Haiti--and centers on the impossible choices the characters living there have to make every day. Will the American relief worker in Sierra Leone steal blood diamonds to keep her women's shelter going? Should the Haitian fisherman turn over the guns and drugs he finds on the beach to the police? Can the American golf pro in Myanmar turn a blind eye to the shady business dealings he sees on the course? Fountain's smooth, polished writing style is funny, poignant, and intelligent. His American characters are often at odds with their own privileged backgrounds and the destitution they see as expatriates, and how they deal with this displacement makes for intense reading. Fountain's collection is fiction at its best.



• Ake: The Years of Childhood. This 1989 memoir from Wole Soyinka recounts his early years--ages 4 through 11--growing up in his hometown of Ake, Nigeria. Soyinka, who became the first African to receive the Nobel Prize in Literature, parallels his own coming of age with his country's search for identity, as both seek to reconcile the African, Western, tribal, and Christian influences that continually contradict one another. The book ends with an amazing account of the rebellion launched by the village women, including Soyinka's mother, against the dictator in power. It's an eye-popping account of a part of the world we so rarely hear about here. I first encountered Soyinka's writing in a college class--his novel The Interpreters is a haunting portrayal of intellectuals wasting away under the corrupt Nigerian government--and I had the pleasure of hearing him read from the sequel to this memoir (You Must Set Forth at Dawn) a couple of years ago at my alma mater. I highly recommend that one, too--although it is much more dense and even abstract at times. Still, it is a gripping read about the succession of corrupt and violent dictators in Nigeria, Soyinka's acts of rebellion and self-imposed exile, and his ever-present longing to return to his native soil.



• Dreams From My Father. Long before our Commander in Chief hit the national political scene, he wrote a memoir about his search for identity as a biracial American. The book, which was written in 1995 after Barack Obama headed the Harvard Law Review, focuses mainly on his childhood in Hawaii and Indonesia, his years as a community organizer in Chicago, and his first encounter with his brothers, sister, and extended family in Kenya. Obama, well-known for his beautiful oratory, is also a gifted writer, with the literary sensibilities of a novelist. He writes with objective candor about his struggle to define himself as an African American man (especially because he had no African-American male role models as a child) and come to terms with the enigma of a father he met only once. The Kenyan section is especially moving--where Obama is at once at home and at sea in the bosom of the family he never knew. It's a fascinating glimpse into the events that shaped this president--and a much more intimate experience than his political expositions in The Audacity of Hope.



• Assassination Vacation. This treat from radio commentator (and voice of Violet in "The Incredibles") Sarah Vowell describes her obsession with presidential assassination trivia. This book is chock full of info about the assassinations of Lincoln, McKinley, and Garfield infused with Vowell's own funny anecdotes about her road trips to all of the locations, museums, and libraries involved in her research (often with her twin sister and young nephew in tow). Vowell's flare for weird details, her quirky personality, and her passion for American history and civics makes this an entertaining read from start to finish. It's so much fun that I promise you'll soon forget it's homework.

OK, class dismissed! Homework question: What books in this vein do you recommend?

Destination: Procrastination

Postpone almost anything with these five evasive actions!

1. Get another glass of water. C'mon, you know it's good for you.


2. Check Google News. How will you know when the sky is falling if you don't refresh the page every five seconds?


3. Throw on a load of laundry. If you don't make your socks a priority, no one will.


4. Catch up on your correspondence. Let the friend who e-mailed you six months ago know you're still kicking.


5. Update your blog. At least you won't be putting that off anymore.

On Queue: "The Prisoner"

What's not to love about this '60s British spy series?

The 1967 British television show, "The Prisoner," is one part Bond and one part 1984, with a splash of "Gilligan's Island" for good measure. You've got a spy trapped in the world's resort-iest prison, the creepy surveillance squad who watches his every move, and the amusing antics (art competitions, sun bathing, afternoon teas) that break up the monotony of his entrapment between daring escape attempts. We've watched only the first two installments of the 18-episode series so far, but "The Prisoner" is already our new favorite thing!

You can get the flavor of this quirky spy show from the opening credits, which shows a British agent (Patrick McGoohan) resign, go home to pack, and then fall victim to knock-out gas. The first episode opens with McGoohan waking in what appears to be his own room in London—except the view from the window looks like a European seaside resort. Turns out he's in the Village—an idyllic holding area for captured spies complete with restaurants, beautiful beaches, and even an old-folks' home—where he'll be kept until he reveals the reason behind his resignation. Of course, he won't talk, not before he knows who's in charge or where he is. The second-in-command, known as No. 2, gives him a number—No. 6—and an ultimatum to comply or he'll have to spend the rest of his life in the Village. So, of course, No. 6 spends every minute plotting his escape, when he's not provoking his captors with cutting remarks over tea.

The pilot alone is worth the price of admission. Here's why you should fast-track "The Prisoner" to the top of your queue:

• Tons of secrets! Where the heck is the Village? Why did No. 6 resign? And who is the mysterious No. 1 that no one sees? A good guy? A bad guy? A guy at all? Not to mention there's a new No. 2 every five minutes. What happens to the old ones?


• An attack weather balloon! Yeah, you read that right. This bad boy thwarts all escape attempts from the Village with its creepy, floaty roundness. Imagine that fluffy bubble that chauffeurs Glinda around Oz, only less pink and on stealth mode. CREEPY.


• Femmes fatales galore! In the first two episodes, No. 6 has already encountered three deadly damsels, each trying to play up her distress so that she can get close enough to probe his secrets. It's kind of fun that these aren't the era's fragile females—even if they're ultimately out for No. 1.


• High-tech hijinks! Dude, nothing is more hilarious than seeing what looked "high-tech" in the late '60s. Doors open by themselves (oooooh!), radios play without off-switches (aaaaah!), and furniture springs fully formed from the floor at the press of a button (whooooa!). The set designers went disappointingly Star Trek for most of the baddy HQ—bleeps, bloops, tiny blinking lights, and a wall-sized video screen—but kudos to whoever came up with the rotating surveillance see-saw.


• Campy quirks! Whip pans, quick cuts, and crash zooms abound. Pleasant PA announcements blare M*A*S*H style in the courtyard. Thunder crashes in the opening credits over images of No. 6's resignation. Not to mention there is a silly salute between Villagers, who hold the OK sign up to their eyeballs, flick their wrists, and say, "Be seeing you!" There's a tongue-in-cheek quality to the whole thing that keeps the episodes entertaining. Can't wait for the next disc!

"The Prisoner": *****

Reel Time: Six Flicks in a Year

A few films we saw live and in person.

If it weren't for the writers' strike of '08, rocky SAG negotiations, and general economic malaise, our household could probably take responsibility for Hollywood's reduced profits this past year. We're movie junkies, and until last spring, you'd find us at the neighborhood multiplex most weekends. We'd even stand in line for opening blockbusters (until we got wise about buying tickets in advance), and when the spirit moved us, we'd brave the traffic for a special showing at the Nuart, the El Capitan, or the Egyptian. We didn't go to hundreds of movies a year—but definitely dozens.

Last year, we saw six. While some parents apparently have no qualms about bundling up their infants and schlepping them to the latest horror flick (gasp!), we have not taken our addiction that far. At this point, a noisy, jerky light show would probably scar baby G for life—not to mention, he hasn't cottoned on to the magic of sitting still and staring at a screen for two hours. We still sneak the occasional Netflix rental (sometimes even managing to see the whole thing in one sitting!), but a trip to the cinema is rare. Thanks to the generosity of babysitting grandparents, however, we do get to the theater every once in a while. Here's a rundown of our ticket stubs from the past year:

1. WALL-E. *****
   This was a perfect first film for new parents! Pixar's signature storytelling prowess, the eye-popping animation, and the toe-tapping sample from Hello Dolly absolutely delighted us. And Ben Burtt's sound design was truly out of this world. We loved this story about a lonely, trash-compacting robot so much that we've seen it twice on DVD, too. Not only is it a lovely story about robot love, but it's also got some interesting social commentary about consumerism, obesity, and laziness that gives one pause without killing one's joy. The DVD extras—especially the commentary from director Andrew Stanton and Burtt's sound-design interview—are worth checking out!


2. Tropic Thunder. **
   One thing that happens when you haven't been to the movies in a while is that all the previews start to look amazing. We kind of fell into that trap with this uneven comedy directed by Ben Stiller, which follows a war-movie cast that gets dropped into the middle of an actual war zone. Implausibly, the actors spend a great deal of time believing that the whole thing is an elaborate set, before having to best the bad guys for real. Stiller leads a great cast, but some performers are wasted. Robert Downey, Jr.'s performance is pretty amazing (he plays an Australian method actor who undergoes a pigment-changing surgery to play an African-American character in the war film), but Jack Black is underused as a drug-addicted stooge. There are some really great moments—such as the hilarious fake movie previews at the beginning—but the over-the-top violence of the war scenes is too jarring. It's uncomfortable to watch, which was probably the point, but not my cup of tea.


3. Quantum of Solace. ***
   This was sleek, action-packed, forgettable fun. I remember so little of this 007 flick that I can't even report on it properly, which is why it gets a retroactive three stars (although at the time, I may have given it four). Calling a Bond film "plotless" isn't very descriptive, as a plot is rarely required—but this installment directed by Marc Forster is more plotless than usual. It picks up just after Casino Royale, which blew my little mind with its intensity, thrilling base-jumping scenes, and prominent Sony ad placements. Now that was a Bond film. Quantum of Solace is just a series of very cool car chases—but nothing amazing. Except, of course, Daniel Craig, who gives Bond a rugged athleticism that injects new life into the franchise.


4. My Name Is Bruce. **
   We have a working theory that Bruce Campbell movies are much more enjoyable if the B-action star is actually in the room with you. This is the second time we've seen him live at the Nuart (the first was for Bubba Ho-tep, in which he plays an elderly, mummy-slaying Elvis), and his Q&A session was definitely the highlight of both evenings. He's got this uncanny way of combining sarcastic put-downs with genuine fan appreciation. For example, when Rabid Fan Woman in the front row proffered roses and a bottle Jack Daniels, Campbell demurred, saying he doesn't touch "brown liquid," and handed her five dollars for her trouble. Someone else got a fiver for saying that My Name Is Bruce was his favorite Campbell film, proving that some people will say anything for a buck.
   Bruce Campbell directed this film about a monster-plagued town that hires (surprise!) B-action star Bruce Campbell to vanquish it. Of course, just like Tropic Thunder, it takes Bruce forever to figure out the monster is real. The monster itself, a Chinese war god that haunts the town cemetery, has some pretty entertaining wrath—but the surrounding lore and the portrayal of the Chinese character (Ted Raimi) who explains it are uncomfortably racist. Campbell does an OK job behind the camera (he admitted he only directs when he has to), but the script is a real drag. There are a couple of decent laughs and Campbell is a good sport about the self-parody as a drunken jerk, but the overall concept doesn't sustain a feature-length film. It's more of a B-movie knock-off than a spoof. Is there such a thing as a C-movie? Apparently so.


5. Gran Torino. *****
   I wasn't sure what to expect from this film, which was teased as old Clint Eastwood taking down gangland USA with a rifle. It looked both cool and ridiculous—like a wild urban romp. But that's not what it was. Against the backdrop of violent racial tensions—underscored by Eastwood's character's seemingly endless supply of racial epithets—is the story of a cantankerous widower and Korean war vet who is out of place in a changing world. That world is his own neighborhood in Detroit, where Eastwood spends his days drinking beer on the porch and cursing the neighbors, most of whom are Hmong refugees. It doesn't help when the kid next door tries to steal his prized Gran Torino as part of a gang initiation. Of course, Eastwood eventually befriends this kid and his sister and finds himself going up against the neighborhood gangsters as advertised. Probably the most chilling performances are from the actors who play Eastwood's sons and grandchildren, whose sense of entitlement and total lack of caring for their aging family member are all too lifelike. After the credits rolled, I felt like Eastwood had told me something true about the world, and I can't stop thinking about the film. I'm not sure why this one didn't get an Oscar, unless the Academy was tired of adding to Eastwood's collection. The song over the credits also made my day, punk.


6. Duplicity. ****
   This heisty rom-com probably deserves only three stars, but I'm feeling generous because it was surprisingly delightful. Sure, it is a little long, a little choppy, and a little convoluted, but Clive Owen is easy on the eyes, and his performance as former-MI-6-agent-gone-corporate-spy is fun and enjoyable. Even Julia Roberts, who usually annoys me, does a decent job as the CIA agent who gets under Owen's skin, and Paul Giamatti and Tom Wilkinson give hilarious performances as warring corporate bigwigs. I'm not going to go into the plot—because it's one of those where the less you know (and the lower your expectations), the more fun you will have—but I'm tickled that writer/director Tony Gilroy also wrote The Cutting Edge, which I have loved shamelessly since I was 13. Before you skating haters write him off for this, however, please note that he also penned the Bourne scripts and wrote and directed Michael Clayton, which was excellent. So there!

Music Beat: Classical Escapes

Don't find yourself stranded without these five classical albums.

Way back in the 90s, we kids would sometimes pass the time with questions like, "If you were stuck on a desert island, what five albums would you take with you?" Obviously, that was long before these newfangled iPods with their infinite storage capacity made the whole thing a moot point. If you were alone on a desert island with an iPhone, you'd probably never want to leave. You'd have every album and movie known to man, and if your private beach had WiFi, you could Google for coconut recipes, blog about raft building, and Twitter picts of yourself with your volleyball BFF to the folks back home.

But let's say ye olde deserte islande is back, and you're stuck with a Sony Walkman and five classical CDs. Which ones will keep your mind off the circling sharks? Well, I'll tell you.

1. Portrait of Vladimir Horowitz.
This collection isn't just the best of Horowitz (a celebrated pianist who lived from 1903 to 1989), but the best of piano. The anthology includes beautiful recordings of all the greats that I could only butcher during my piano lessons—Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata," Chopin's "Funeral March," and Mozart's "Alla Turca." It does not include Debussy's "Clair de Lune"; but if it did, it would have all of my favorites. Two gems on this album are the opening track, Scarlatti's "Sonata for Keyboard in E major, K. 531 (L. 430)," which rolls and trills like a lively, light rain, and Schumann's tender "Kinderszenen (Scenes from Childhood) for Piano, Op. 15 Träumerei," which possesses a quiet, haunting elegance. The latter piece served as the bridesmaids' entrance music for our wedding, and I think the music was so beautiful (as were the bridesmaids themselves, of course) that no one noticed the hatchet job the seamstress did on their dresses.


2. Humoresque: Favorite Violin Encores. My grandmother played this album so often that I get synesthesia every time I hear it. From the first note of "Flight of the Bumble Bee," I am on the couch in the my grandmother's den reading a book and chewing on the Riesen chocolate she just tossed me from her chair. This compilation from the great violinist Isaac Stern (who lived from 1920 to 2001) combines folk favorites such as "Greensleeves" and Brahms' "Hungarian Dances" with classic staples including Debussy's "Clair de Lune." His violin becomes almost a human voice in Schubert's "Ave Maria" and Foster's "Jeannie with the Light Brown Hair." Both Schubert's "Serenade" and Mendelssohn's "On Wings of Song" are achingly beautiful. This collection marries the lively, robust sounds of Copland's "Hoedown" (better known as the "Beef: It's what's for dinner" melody) with the melancholy whimsy of Kreisler's "Liebesleid." Each track is a treasure—it's hard to imagine a more delightful, satisfying collection.



3. Vivaldi: The Four Seasons. When I got my first stereo, I used to close the door to my room and pretend to conduct these four famous violin concertos. Air-conducting to a recording behind closed doors has its advantages—the musicians never make mistakes, and no one can see you flailing your arms like an idiot. Each concerto depicts a season. The opening violin strokes of "Spring" always make me sit bolt upright with a grin on my face. It's joy and precision and lyricism all bundled together. What's not to love? Our family once huddled on the steps of the National Museum in Prague to hear a live concert of "The Four Seasons"—it was surprisingly intimate and such a delight. If you can hear it live, don't miss it!



4. Rodrigo: Concierto de Aranjuez; Fantasia Para un Gentilhombre. My parents used to play the LP version of this album for guitar and orchestra during almost every dinner party. This beautiful performance by Australian guitar soloist and Andres Segovia protege John Williams (not the one of Star Wars fame) gave me a lifelong love of classical guitar. Somehow, the quiet voice of the guitar doesn't get swallowed up by the full-bodied roar of the orchestra. The first movement begins almost like a call and response between the guitar and the strings, winds, and brass. But the instruments ultimately weave together to build the energy of the piece, which crescendos to a spectacular finish. Wikipedia says this all much better—but it's probably best to just hear it for yourself.



5. Classic Williams: Romance of the Guitar. No album is more relaxing and refreshing than this gem from guitarist John Williams (the same soloist who performs the "Concierto de Aranjuez" mentioned above). The tone throughout the album may be gentle, but that does not make it boring. In each recording, Williams' guitar is as expressive and arresting as a good storyteller. Ponce's "Scherzino Mexicano," for example, may build on a repeated them, but the way Williams brings out the louds, softs, and pauses of the piece makes each repetition feel fresh. Every track is richly textured. As in Stern's "Humoresque," Williams' instrument becomes the human voice for some tracks, including Myers' "Cavatina" from the film, "The Deer Hunter"—a simple, but haunting melody. There are faster pieces, too, such as deFalla's "Danza Espanola" that highlight Williams' technical prowess. The album ends with the Adagio movement of Rodrigo's "Concierto de Aranjuez," which usually leaves me wanting to hear the whole piece from start to finish—which is why I'm bringing both albums to my desert island.

Of course, this is the age of the iPod, so no need to settle for just five albums. What classical treasures would you stash in your life vest?

Music Beat: Soothing Show Tunes

Musical numbers that put the "lull" in "lullaby."

When baby G arrived last year, he kept a simple schedule: Eat for an hour, sleep for an hour, repeat. Once we figured this out, it wasn't so hard to find a cat-napping rhythm of our own. Still, sleep deprivation does funny things to the brain—and the cells storing my musical memory short-circuited.

Like many new moms, I sang to the little guy all the time. But instead of the beautiful, child-appropriate ballads my mother sang to me, I was streaming pop music circa 1990. We're talking Nirvana's "Smells Like Teen Spirit," NKotB's "The Right Stuff" (ugh!), and the chorus to Snoop Dogg's "Who Am I (What's My Name)?" In one particularly bad moment, I churned through a piece of meta-pop from Neil Diamond called "The American Popular Song." That pulp—with the telling lyric "The American popular song goes on and on and on"—had been moldering in a corner of my brain since the early 80s.

Obviously, baby G's musical education needed an overhaul! Today, our MP3 player administers regular doses of indie rock songs, folk tunes, jazz sessions, British rock anthems, and classical recordings—but our favorite staple is the musical soundtrack. And why not? The lively song-and-dance numbers are like primary colors—bright, cheery, simple, and entertaining. So, it's no surprise that five of our favorite lullabies come from musical soundtracks. Here they are:

• "Moonshine Lullaby" from Annie Get Your Gun
  Illegal brewing has never been more soothing than in Bernadette Peters' rendition of this treasure from Irving Berlin. We saw her in the 1999 Broadway revival—and the incredible energy she had on stage comes through loud and clear in the recording. With lyrics like the following, how can you go wrong?
  
  "Behind the hill,
  There's a busy little still
  Where your Pappy's workin' in the moonlight.
  
  "Your lovin' paw
  Isn't quite within the law,
  So he's hidin' there behind the hill.
  
  "Bye, bye, baby.
  Stop your yawnin'.
  Don't cry, baby,
  Day will be dawning.
  
  "And when it does,
  From the mountain where he wuz,
  He'll be coming with a jug of moonshine."
  
  You get the idea.
  



• "Stay Awake" from Mary Poppins
  Julie Andrews tenderly delivers this clever piece of reverse psychology from Sherman and Sherman on the film soundtrack. The lyrics may preach resistance to bedtime, but the sleepy melody promises to carry kids off to dreamland before they can put up a fight:
  
  "Stay awake, don't rest your head.
  Don't lie down upon your bed.
  While the moon drifts in the skies,
  Stay awake, don't close your eyes.
  
  "Though the world is fast asleep,
  Though your pillow's soft and deep,
  You're not sleepy as you seem.
  Stay awake, don't nod and dream;
  Stay awake, don't nod and dream."
  



• "Edelweiss" from The Sound of Music
  When I was 10 and wanted my cat to climb up on the bed with me, all I had to do was sing this Rogers and Hammerstein favorite from The Sound of Music. What can I say? The cat had taste. There's something intimate and comforting about the acoustic guitar accompaniment (which my mom played for me when she taught me the song). And the lyrics are hopeful and happy, with a dash of nationalism—just what every kid needs, right?
  
  "Edelweiss, Edelweiss,
  Every morning you greet me.
  Small and white, clean and bright,
  You look happy to meet me.
  
  "Blossom of snow,
  May you bloom and grow,
  Bloom and grow forever.
  
  "Edelweiss, Edelweiss,
  Bless my homeland forever."
  



• "Good Night, My Someone" from The Music Man
  My mom taught me this ballad from Meredith Willson's The Music Man for one of those elementary school talent shows, and I just loved the idea of singing a lullaby to a person I'd never met. The unknown person, of course, is one's true love: "I must depend on a wish and a star as long as my heart doesn't know who you are." Swoon, right? This chorus came right back to me when I was rocking baby G one night, which gave me hope for recovered brain cells:
  
  "Sweet dreams be yours, dear,
  If dreams there be,
  Sweet dreams to carry you close to me.
  I wish they may, and I wish they might;
  Now goodnight, my someone, goodnight."
  



• "A Dream Is a Wish Your Heart Makes" from Cinderella

A song from a Disney animated feature may not exactly count as a "show tune"—but it's my list, and I'm making an exception! Ilene Woods' warm voice carries this dreamy tune from Mack David, Al Hoffman, and Jerry Livingston. Unfortunately, on our version, there is a clanging clock that sounds in the middle of the track, followed by a cranky lament from Cinderella herself. But if you can get around those bits, or just sing it yourself, it's a sweet melody.

I'm a sucker for optimism, and this song is chock-full:

"A dream is a wish your heart makes,
When you're fast asleep.
In dreams, you will lose your heartaches.
Whatever you wish for, you keep.

"Have faith in your dreams, and someday
Your rainbow will come smiling through.
No matter how your heart is grieving,
If you keep on believing,
The dream that you wish will come true."

Maintenance

It's been too long between posts, dear reader (yes, you!). So, here turns the new leaf. The next few entries will be experiments with that HTML staple, the unordered list, in the hopes that this will encourage shorter, more positive, and more frequent updates. Only time will tell. Stay tuned...

Paper Trail: Confessions of a Diaper Hypocrite

How I tossed my environmental conscience into the landfill.

Guilt and worry—two special feelings I can't seem to shake, especially when it comes to the whole diaper debate.

One of the things I obsess about is what the next wave of Earth settlers will find when they dig through whatever remains of our civilization. I imagine squads of saucers deploying teams to puzzle over Crocs, rifle through broken Bakelite, and crack the code for LOL and OMG.

(Inevitably, this train of thought leads to my wide-awake paranoia about being one of the bodies they put into the alien museum—you know, like the mummies encased in glass at the British Museum? "What big hips they had," they'll say. "How short and wide they were!" After seeing the gift shop at the King Tut exhibit in Los Angeles a couple of years ago, I made my whole family promise never to make my death mask into a lolly pop or a pencil eraser or any other novelty item, thank you very much.)

And of course, what civilization excavation scenario leaves out the landfills? Our entire story is in the trash. I imagine the poor suckers who sort the stuff will end up with two piles that tower over everything else: skyscrapers of old cell phones and used diapers.

Now, I don't mind if the aliens go through my address book—but decades' worth of baby poop? TMI, people! Sure, it'll give them incontrovertible proof of our dietary habits, but really. Let's make them work a little for it, right? Also, couldn't they just reconstruct us all like the world's worst Jurassic Park knock-off? People of science laughed at me when I ranted about this, telling me that it was unlikely any DNA would be present. But then I read an article about the world's oldest poop—14,000 years old with DNA in tact!—and vowed that no one in our family would leave such a souvenir.

Most sources on the diaper debate—cloth vs. paper—will tell you that it's basically a wash when it comes to the environment. Paper products eat up trees and build up in landfills (up to 20 years to biodegrade!), while cloth diapers have pesticides in their past and require bejillions of gallons of water to scrub them clean. Even Bill Nye on his guilt-inducing show "Stuff Happens", which catalogues the environmentally unfriendly things we do in every room of the house, didn't give a definitive answer. The skeptic in me thought that maybe paper-diaper advertising fixed the fight—although I never stopped the TiVo long enough to confirm my suspicions.

Still, since almost every paper diaper is also individually wrapped in plastic before it's discarded, I couldn't help but think that reusable cloth diapers were the way to go. Cost is comparable, too, if you opt for a diaper service (those who wash their own cloth diapers come out slightly ahead). My parents gave us the best gift of all: the first few months on a diaper service. In fact, it was the same diaper service they'd used in my baby days—Dy-Dee Diapers is pretty much the only game in Southern California. And they are wonderful! Not only did they spirit away the mess and leave us fresh, clean diapers every week, but they also introduced me to exciting inventions. No more leaky, uncomfortable plastic pants for this generation! Now, there are snazzy covers that close easily with Velcro and these marvelous Snappi things that secure the diapers without pesky (and nasty!) pins.

So, the cloth experiment was off to a great start! Of course, we gave ourselves a special paper dispensation for travel. And when people came to visit (no need for visitors to have to go straight to the dry cleaners after stopping by, right?). And when we ran out of clean diaper covers. And when we had a surplus of paper diapers. And when we got lazy. Some weeks, we were probably 50/50. But over the holidays, we pretty much abandoned cloth altogether. No leaks, fast securing (a must when baby figured out how to roll over on the changing table), less bulk for baby, and easy disposal. Sold!

And sold out. It took me a week or two to admit I'd abandoned my principles for the sake of expediency. But today, I canceled the diaper service. Everyone tells me not to beat myself up. They say our contribution of waste is just a drop in the bucket—the very "everyone is doing it" argument that made me crazy when I was on the cloth side. It's the kind of thinking that giant landfills are made of. So, no, I DO deserve to feel bad about this. After all, my guilt will likely erode over the next few months—but our diapers won't!


Dy-Dee Diapers: *****
My paper cave-in: *