October 2007

It’s Ben’s 28th birthday today. He’s not big into birthdays, but I try to do the best I can where he’ll let me. For example, instead of buying him some big present, I bought him a bunch of little stuff, wrapped them, and then hid them around the house so he’d find them throughout the day while I was at work (in the sock drawer, refrigerator, shaving kit). You know, kind of like if you combined the best parts of Easter and Christmas (and took out the religion). I’m sure in six months I’ll find a dusty gift behind the dryer.

And, as much as he minds a big to-do about the day he was born, Ben doesn’t mind consuming carrot cake. At all. With this knowledge, I called up my M’am-Maw and asked for her amazing carrot cake recipe, which is a stunning piece of moist carroty goodness. It’s a show-stopper - the cream cheese icing isn’t too sweet, the cake isn’t too roughly textured, and did I mention that it’s moist? It is more than moist, it is a three-tiered monument to moist things around the world and throughout all time.

Here we go:

2 cups sugar
1 cup vegetable oil
4 eggs

2 cups flour
3 cups shredded carrots
2 teaspoons baking soda
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon cinnamon

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Before you begin, spray three 9-inch cake pans with non-stick cooking spray. Next, cut out three circular pieces of wax paper, place them in the bottom of the pans, and spray them with cooking spray, too. It might seem like a lot to go through so that you cake doesn’t stick to the pan, but don’t forget how MOIST this stuff is.

Next, mix your oil, sugar, and eggs in a large bowl. Add the dry ingredients, which you have mixed in a different bowl (flour, carrots, baking soda, salt, cinnamon). Beat for two minutes or so. Separate the batter between your three cake pans and bake them together for about 25 minutes. Keep an eye on it, though, you don’t want it to be dry.

Now the icing:

8 oz of cream cheese
1 box powdered sugar (or to taste, really)
1 tablespoon vanilla extract
1 stick of butter
1 cup chopped pecans (optional)

Whip the softened cream cheese, softened butter, and vanilla on high. My grandmother first claimed she put in half a stick of butter, then changed it to three-fourths of a stick, then confessed that she puts in a whole stick. This is the major problem with good cooks - hidden butter - so I put in a whole stick and it came out great. I mean, it’s cake — a cake celebrating someone’s first day on earth — let’s not act healthy and cut corners.

Start adding the powdered sugar slowly (with the mixer off when you pour it in) and then whip it as fast as your mixer goes. Keep adding and testing it until you’re happy with the consistency and the sweetness. I think I added about two cups, but I don’t like sweet frosting. If you’re in to nuts, chop some up and add either to the icing in the mixer or after you’ve iced the cake. Since it’s October and since we’re not big nut fans, I decorated mine with candy corns.

A note or two: after you take the cakes out of the oven, place them on a cooling rack for a while before you ice anything. I always get impatient and do it too soon and the icing melts everywhere. Also, make sure all of your baking dishes are nine inches in diameter. Mine were three different sizes and my cake came out looking like the leaning tower of Pisa (see above). Except that it was delicious.

Whenever I put on makeup, I feel like a seven-year-old girl rummaging through her mother’s things - I have no idea what I’m doing, my entire feet have slid down into the toes of her high heels, I’m one step away from smearing lipstick all over my cheeks or eating the mascara.

My cannon of knowledge of the subject of makeup application is pieced together from dog-eared waiting room copies of Cosmopolitans, senior prom, watching women on the train, and the half-dozen times my friends have tried and failed to make me over during junior high sleepovers. My makeup bag consists of presents my aunt gave me a few years ago at Christmas (very subtle hints) and  that time a few years ago when I dressed up as a gypsy for Halloween (non-sexy, people).

I probably wear the stuff a few times a month. Mascara, lip gloss (I think), eyeliner, roll-on eye shadow (or something) and foundation or conceal or liquid power - whatever the brownish stuff is called. In the end, I look like some sort of cross between a painted baby doll and a whore, although my friends touch my shoulder lightly and reassure me that it just looks strange on me since I rarely wear it. That they would look strange if I saw them without it.

To insult everyone who can’t read, the situation feels like what it must be like to not be able to read. I walk the streets everyday, looking at the women with shining pink lips and flawless-looking skin and eyes that pop, and it’s so easy for them. Natural. They take it for granted. They do it every morning without thinking, like how I read Newsweek or the back of the cereal box.

But really, when I think about it, I’m not even sure I want to wear makeup - and that’s not merely sour grapes. First and foremost, it’s expensive. Lately I’ve been consciously trying to cut spending that’s unnecessary to my happiness, and I remember when I was a teen I read about how much women spent on beauty products a year and it was staggering. There are just other things I’d rather have, like the money, for one.

Next, I have to wonder what makeup is doing to women, right along with uncomfortable shoes and botox and padded bras. Why are women expected to wear makeup while men are not, for example? It might seem like a silly question, but I’m not so sure - if all men walked around in lipstick, wouldn’t that seem weird? I guess we could talk about genetics and ancestors and gender roles and whatever, but I say that even if it is has been “natural” for women to rely on their appearance in centuries past, it doesn’t mean we have to abide by that or use it as an excuse. I mean, I want you to close your eyes and picture your father or boyfriend with bright red lipstick on. Maybe some sweeping blush. That’s weird, right? Then why would I do that?

On the other hand, I want my eyes to pop. Maybe not every day, but every once and a while. The feeling creeps out sometimes, like when I put on a skirt. Maybe it is genetic. Maybe I’m just getting older and that’s making me less idealistic or more materialistic or, simply, more splotchy and uneven, especially in the T-zone.

I’ve been talking about this with some of my more savvy makeup friends. They’ve suggested a visit to a nearby makeup counter and a consultation. As terrifying as that sounds on all levels (the face level, the comfort level, the talking to strange painted ladies level, the being in the mall level, the wallet level) it sounds like something I have to go through before I know what’s right for me. And I’m not just talking about eye shadow shades.

I’ll report back next week with the results.

It’s been another big week for Britney Spears - not only was she involved in another paparazzi hit and run incident, but the Fed-Ex vs. Brit-Brit custody battle has become so confusing that I’m not even sure the judge knows where the kids are any more. But this is only the present. And, as always, the present is mere seconds - seconds! - from being the past.

I should be worried about the future. More specifically, I need to be worried about next Tuesday, October 30th, when Britney Spears’ new album, Blackout, hits the stands. It’s her first  original music release since 2003 and I have no idea what to expect. On one hand, I should probably buy the album and listen to it on repeat until I have it committed to memory - both so that I may know my enemy better and because I need to learn from her for when I finally get around to recording my five world-wide hit pop albums.

On the other hand, should I buy the album at all? Should I support Brit’s downward spiral of a drug-dazed life by purchasing her CD? Wouldn’t that be sending the wrong message to Jive Records and the music industry at large?

Well, some of Brit’s closest acquaintances and former hangers-on say no. In fact, they’ve started a MySpace page, Be Proactive To Help, which urges anyone who truly cares about Brit to boycott her music and merchandise (and here I was, about to buy her new fragrance, In Control, so that I could see what Britney thinks being in control smells like). More than an utterly confusing mashing of an absolute train wreck of un-diagramable words, Be Proactive To Help really wants to see Britney get better and return to her former rock-hard-abs glory. The thought behind the boycott is that if Jive was financially affected by Brit’s mental state that they will force her to seek help and get healthy.

Upon first viewing the page, I was a bit moved. Here are people - fans - being proactive to help. Together. Would so many people be proactive to help me if I were in trouble? Would they even make a weird MySpace page for me? I decided then and there: as much as I wanted to hear it, I wouldn’t buy Blackout next week. I would save the pop star and save the world.

About an hour later, I was still on the site. The sun had set without my noticing, my blog was sitting cold and unupdated at updating time, my cat was hungry and confused. I couldn’t stop reading - the comments, the profiles of the commenters, the profiles of the significant others of the commenters. Oh, the body glitter and the sadness! Oh, the creepy middle-aged men who say they haven’t bought an album since …Baby One More Time! Oh, the pink backgrounds with slightly darker pink fonts! Oh, the John Mayer soundtracks!

And, around that time, when I was getting pink MySpace wallpaper eyestrain, that I realized that I had been tricked. Be Proactive to Help might be being proactive to help Britney, but they were being proactive to hinder me - my goals and my dreams. Instead of doing any of the many tasks I need to complete in order to surpass Britney’s success, I was sucked into wasting hours of my time. On purpose.

Yes, I will buy Blackout next week. And I will study it and I will learn. I will not be tricked by Brit’s posse again. I will stay focused and see nothing but my goal of being better at life than Britney Spears. In the end, hopefully, I will reek of being in control. To help.

Read the last installment of Sarah vs. Spears

I have trouble finding the right way to have conversations about books. Book clubs usually bother me. And while getting my MFA, the three required 500-level literature seminars I took probably rank among the least favorite and most useless hours of my entire life. Literature classes are too much about showing off, about making other people in the class feel bad, about assuming that the author and his work fit perfectly into certain genres, time periods, and trends. Literature classes too often assume that any book read in a literature class is perfect and that the author knew exactly what he or she was doing with every single word. Not to mention that literature classes are usually way too serious and seriously boring.

On the other hand, book clubs suffer from different but equally bad problems. Too often the discussion disintegrates into emotional reactions - like which characters we liked or didn’t like, as if these characters really existed. Too often after that, the conversation too quickly deteriorates into talking about boys or shoes. Usually, these book clubs take place in quaintly quirky coffee houses with mismatched chairs, $5 espressos, and music that is just a little cooler than the music you listen to. Without exception, these coffeehouses have punny names like “The Daily Grind” or “Not Your Average Joe” or “See You Latte.”

So, you can imagine my horror yesterday, walking to a tea house called “Subtle Tea” to meet with my work-related book club for the first time. As I walked into the place, esoteric trip-hop music on the stereo (which was a just little cooler than my music ) and Mac laptops covering every flat surface (way, way cooler than my Mac laptop), my hopes were not high. Even though I wanted to talk about the book, I wasn’t sure I was ready to be disappointed again. You might even say I was filled with a deep Apa Tea.

But what followed, to my delight, was a pretty intelligent and fun discussion of the book we read (it was Marisha Pessl’s “Special Topics in Calamity Physics - you can read my review here). No one got interrupted, no one talked too much, no one said “semiotic” or “paradigm” or “post post modern.” Someone brought chocolate.  

It reminded me that, even though most organized book-talking sessions go wrong somehow, getting to talk about what you’re reading with a diverse group of people is something to work toward, even if it means sitting within earshot of a hipster knitting circle discussing skinny jeans. Not only do you get to ask questions and hear about totally different and interesting readings of the book, but I also find myself reading the book more closely before the discussion and getting more out of it. The whole thing filled me with hope and got me totally excited about next month’s book, Ian McEwan’s Atonement.

After the meeting, I met my friend Amanda and we got talking about books, too - a new short story writer she’s discovered, her first experience with Dos Passos. And when I got home, I talked with Ben about the short story I read on the train that he had recommended. Here I was thinking that I never get to talk about books, when really I spent the whole night doing it with one person or another, in one way or another.

My friends, I suppose, make up a more loose-knit un-official book club - we often borrow and lend books to each other, argue over this or that author, talk about this or that review or trend. And I think that’s just as rewarding and just as important. I supposed the only difference is that our book club meets in bars. Bars with more straightforward names like “Cheap Shots” and “Why Not?”

Either way, I’m glad I now have both venues.

Sam Beam, the man behind the stage name Iron and Wine, starts his new album, The Shepherd’s Dog, with a practical joke. The first few bars of the first track are of a lone acoustic guitar - quiet, scratchy, low-fi, simple. It sounds like the beginning of any song off of his first two albums, both of which mostly consisted of the original four-track demos Beam recorded in his bedroom and sent to Sub Pop at the urging of Jonathan Poneman.

Then, after ten or fifteen second of these familiar, quiet, soothing sounds, the album jumps to life: enter stereo sound, enter layered guitars, enter drums, enter some backing vocals and piano. Enter a new kind of Iron and Wine.

It’s the best kind of new album from an artist that you love. Most of the core themes and sounds that you find irresistible are there, but it’s also not a carbon copy of the band’s earlier efforts. The essence of Iron and Wine isn’t lost in the layers: the largely narrative, touching, sometimes sentimental lyrics. The whispered melancholy voice of Beam and unshakable Southern Gothic feel. The folky sound and gritty realist imagery that can only come from a big guy with a full beard and a guitar.

On the other hand, you can also see Beam exploring and trying new things. Growing and learning and having some fun. Although the first three or four songs sound like vintage Iron and Wine with the added help of studio equipment and a band, the album becomes increasingly experimental with each track. And Beam isn’t just trying out new mixes and new instruments - he’s trying on different genres and sounds: rockabilly, Afro-pop, even reggae (I think).

 Is that a xylophone? you’ll ask yourself. Are those bongos? Is this beat Caribbean? Am I actually dancing to an Iron and Wine song, when usually I curl up into a ball and think about days past and loves lost, a single tear rolling down my face and onto a gothically Southern quilt, threadbare and softened by so many restless nights?

Well, you will dance. Try to listen to “The Devil Never Sleeps” without at least tapping your feet.

Don’t get me wrong. As much as I enjoy the new sounds and the increased energy of this album, there’s a piece of me - the crying on a quilt softened with age piece of me - that misses the utterly sad and quiet almost spooky moods of Iron and Wine’s work up to now. Unlike his first two efforts, this is not an album that you can put on to go to sleep to, or write to, or drive across the Midwest in the dead of winter to. But it’s still wonderful - a natural progression for Beam - and I’m sure I’ll find other things to do while I listen to it. Perhaps drive through the Midwest in the first days of spring.

 Here’s a clip of “The Devil Never Sleeps” (the danceable one) on Letterman:

 [youtube=http://http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hvh4xitM2qI]

I spent much of the afternoon reading about how to attract more readers to my website. I opened accounts on de.licio.us, Technorati, and thisisby.us. I left comments on blogs that had similar audiences as mine and I tagged my previous entries with vague promises of subject matter that is enticing to the general population- Entertainment! Health! Food! Britney Spears!

I won’t lie - it felt a little weird. Like writing about how great you are for the About Me section of an online singles profile or talking about the awesome diversity of your hobbies and volunteer work at a job interview.

And then, when it was all over, I wrote a long introspective post about blogging, audience, marketing, the internet, and what it means to be successful. About how I have to resist letting my traffic stats effect my subject matter and how content should create audience and not the other way around. About life, death, sex, and my stupid blog.

In the end I came to the conclusion that no artist wants to self-promote or market. Or, they don’t want to have to. We talk about getting discovered, and getting discovered is a very passive thing. Diamonds get discovered — there they are just sitting there, waiting! And that would be nice - very Field of Dreams, very if-you-build-it-they-will-come. But that’s not exactly the way things are. People have to find me before they can read my stuff, and to help people find me, I have to put myself out there. Fin.

The whole thing was all very meta and pensive and super self-indulgent (and long). It was blogging about blogging, and you totally owe me one for erasing it. On the other hand, I’m pretty sure that this new post could be described as blogging about blogging about blogging, which is much, much worse. What buzz words can I even tag this entry with? Sadly, the word “brooding” comes to mind.

How strange, again, that as I’ve been thinking and writing a lot about poetry and literary readings the last week or so (you can read the original post here), that my poet coworker would lend me a book about just that. Fooling With Words is a collection of interviews of poets conducted by television journalist Bill Moyers at the Dodge Poetry Festival.

The Dodge Poetry Festival seems enormous and a bit weird - audiences in the thousands show up to hear some of the best poets in America read, and they clap and cheer and whoop as if they were at a rock concert. Reading about it - hearing the poets talk about their craft, about readings, and sharing their favorite poems - did a lot to restore my faith in good poetry and the existence of interesting and un-icky readings.

I think the problem comes down to how hard it is to make great poetry and how easy it is to write something that looks like a poem. More than one poet in the book compared the art to jazz, which I liked - anyone can improvise on a saxophone, but you have to learn to play before you can start making things up that are beautiful and meaningful. Sure, I can put a bunch of words on a page in a poem-like shape, but only the true poets know how hard writing poetry is.

The biggest difference I saw between the poems in this book (which, almost without exception, I loved) and the poems that I often hear at readings, are that the poems in the book were about things. While most of the poems I’ve heard at readings are vague images and words that are pretty strung together (reeds-the ocean-lilacs-etc.) and have introductions like, “this poem is about sex and death,” the poems in this book tended to be about ordinary things (gardening, marriage, taking your granddaughter to the circus) and used clear, narrative language. Yes, these poems also had deeper meanings, but they were not heavy-handed and they were not out to impress.

One poet, Jane Hirshfield, was asked about her religion. Although she almost never explicitly writes about it, she is a Zen Buddhist who spent several years in a monastery. She describes herself as a “Teahouse Buddhist” - one who never overtly writes about Buddhism, but one whose poetry is filled with it. She explains:  ”It refers to leading your life as if you were an old woman who has a teahouse on the side of the road. Nobody knows why they like to go there, they just feel good drinking her tea. She’s not known as a Buddhist teacher… all she does is simply serve tea - but still, her decades of attentiveness are part of the way she does it. No one knows about her faithful attentiveness to her practice, it’s just there, in the serving of her tea and the way she cleans the counters and washes the cups.”

Although Hirshfield is talking about the tacit religion in her poetry, I think that the idea can be expanded to all of poetry - great poets must be teahouse poets. No, there’s no way to tell on the surface which poems have that attentiveness, which poems are filled with real subject matter, faith, and compassion. But, reading them aloud, it’s there - hidden, but obviously affecting each word and line.

For example, while most amateur poetry readings I’ve been to focus on traditionally poetic subjects - love, death, nature, and of course, writing poetry - the poets in this book make contemporary subjects poetic: office conflicts, television, adopting a dog. Sure, all of the latter poems have a deeper layer concerning the former subjects, but the latter poems also tell a story and the latter poems are not afraid to be subtle or even a little commonplace.

The poems in Fooling With Words  don’t have to hide behind flowery language or the shock of private subject matter. They are simple. They sound beautiful because the poets have toiled over word choice and rhythm and meter, and then they have worked even harder to make all of their hard work hidden - to make it look clean and easy and natural.  

I’m still not sure if I want to go to any more literary reading and I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be one of the 4,000 people doing the wave for Kurtis Lamkin at the Dodge Poetry Festival. But it is good to know that there are some wonderful contemporary poets out there, working away quietly in their teahouses.