Books worth another look

After I posted about classic lit and plot amnesia, I came across this list from Publishers Weekly, “10 Classic Books You Read in High School You Should Reread.”  Writer Kevin Smokler picked the ten classics “where I found that useful thing I missed the first time around.”

That’s why I’m re-reading Catcher in the Rye. What would I take from it now? What can I learn from it as a writer? And the top reason: I can’t remember the plot.

Here begins Smokler’s list.

Smokler’s number one. And he means read it, not go to the 3D disaster.

Number One. The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald – Fast cars, huge houses, a raised martini glass and a love that cannot be. No wonder F. Scott Fitzgerald’s third novel gets credit for both naming and embodying the most glamorous era of the 20th century. I had forgotten that Nick Carroway tells the story of Gatsby and Daisy in flashblack, a eulogy to a romance and an era that are gone. The novel’s unforgettable closing passages are as much about acceptance as longing, as much about the pain of age than forbidden desire and American dreams.

The full article is here.

Does that star-spangled banner yet wave?

Students yesterday field tripped to the Twins stadium and enjoyed America’s favorite pastime. They laughed, they cheered, they used sunscreen for the first time since September.

Since I’m not a sports fan, I spent my time people watching and stadium inspecting.

I guess this is where I’m supposed to complain about billionaire owners charging $4.50 for water or $6 for mini-donuts. The water situation is extortion, but you can’t put a price tag on mini-donuts.

Make it a perfect game, US Bank!

Or maybe I should point out how fans are held hostage by marketing and money. But everyone already knows corporate logos are stadium wallpaper; and that Ronald McDonald himself strolls past the U.S Bank Home Run Porch, waving at fans looking for the Budweiser Roof Deck.

Old news.

But, please, let’s consider one boundary. I hate to deliver a bloated patriotism lecture styled after Limbaugh or O’Reilly, because nobody owns patriotism, although corporations are bidding for it.

Yesterday’s pre-game tradition began with fans standing, taking off their hats, and singing the “Star Spangled Banner.” This rendition was brought to you by Super America. Not as in, our great country, but the gas station.

The announcer actually said it. Today’s national anthem is brought to you by Super America. He didn’t even gag.

While a digital version of the U.S. flag spanned the lower screen, the Super America logo popped up next to it, so gallantly streaming.

Sorry. I couldn’t resist.

What’s left to sell?

I like writing dialogue, so I spent two innings imagining the chumps brainstorming a marketing plan for client Super America.

I’ve got it! We’ll sponsor the national anthem and mix company’s logo with the flag!

Umm … the American flag?

Hello, knucklehead! You think we’d mix the logo with the Venezuelan flag?

I’m just not sure about this, Jerry. Seems a little disrespectful.

It’s profound. Nothing’s more patriotic than baseball, the flag, the national anthem, and our client’s name. I can just hear it. America the Beautiful and client Super America. Because America is beautiful, and our gas station is super. Super America!

Umm … the national anthem is the Star Spangled Banner.

You sure?

I googled it.

Crap! It doesn’t even have the word America in the title. Can we get that changed?

And so we have a gas station writing a check for the anthem and the flag. Super America. America is super. Come buy our gas.

I’ll be filling up at Kwik Trip. They sell hot dogs, but not at the stadium.

Not yet.

Homer hankie, peanuts and cracker jacks

Some people take phrases so literally. When my daughter sang, “take me out to the ballpark,” she meant it. So, field trip to the Twins. I’m a chaperone. I’ll be the one buying peanuts and cracker jacks.

More tomorrow.

The buddy work day

Yesterday I had a co-worker and an hour-long commute.

My artist friend works from her metro home. Denise understands isolation and the lure of  temptress Madam Nap. Denise and I try to work together once a week, but lately our schedules had other plans for us.

Finally, we co-worked. She conquered her deadline monster, and I plugged away on Novel 2. Another productive day behind us.

More importantly, the work date chased away the crazies suffered by artists and prisoners in solitary confinement. When you talk to your daughter’s American Girl Dolls, you know you’re dangerously lonely. (It’s like McKenna reads my mind. We’re that close.) When you organize batteries according to size, alphabetize them, and put them in labeled bags, it’s clearly time to zap the routine.

Most home workers tell me they’d never invite a friend for a “work date.” Too disruptive. Too tempting to chat. And, philosophically, the buddy arrangement plays into misperceptions that home workers goof around for hours and work for the remaining twenty minutes.

Denise and I share the belief that friends can work productively together. Call it a buddy work day. Your time together is like working in neighboring cubes at an office, minus health insurance. The difference is we have to catch up on all the “non work” work to mirror the office experience.

Here are the talking points from “Shelley and Denise’s Guide to Buddy Work Days: Just Like the Office Cube.”

1. Buddy work day: Ten minutes of catching up. Office day: It’s called team building.

2. Buddy work day: Talk about projects and their challenges; then brainstorm together. Office day: It’s called project planning and management.

3. Buddy work day: Talk about progress toward long-term goals. Office day: It’s called strategic planning.

Photoshop fun! It’s a buddy work day icebreaker.

4. Buddy work day: Share tips and news from the artist community. Office day: It’s called mentoring.

5. Buddy work day: Use break time for a quick walk to awaken the senses and engage with nature to feed creativity. Office day: It’s called a work retreat.

6. Buddy work day: Eat lunch and share some laughs. Office day: It’s called lunch hour.

7. Buddy work day: Set up a quickie photo studio, take pictures, and use Photoshop to make hilarious photos of each other. Office day: It’s called a conference icebreaker. 

8. Buddy work day: Go shopping. Look for designer jeans for upcoming party. Find matching shoes and jewelry. Realize exotic essential oils are a deserved treat. Get to checkout lane and decide nope. Too expensive. Apologize to checkout lady. Make note in calendar to stop at Goodwill. Office day: It’s called budget forecasting.

9. Buddy work day: Drink wine, eat funky cheeses, gossip, plan trips to fabulous cities, watch YouTube videos, ruminate about being misunderstood, complain about capitalism’s inability to value an artistically creative society, wonder if Van Gogh really cut off his ear. Office day: It’s called the boss is on vacation.

So, you see, it can be done. But yesterday was so exhausting. Today l’ll have to surrender to that vile Temptress Nap.

Reigning cat, not dog

Not the real Bud. Too thin.

I didn’t win the Midwest Book Award for Little Rock Girl. I know, right? I can hardly believe it myself. What were the judges thinking? Were they thinking? Did they just toss a coin to save time?

(Asterisk: I’m kidding. Some people need that clarification.)

Writing is 99 percent rejection, so when I say I’m happy to have been nominated, I mean it. In fact, I mean I can’t f**king believe I’ve been nominated! There must be a mistake. Clearly there’s another Shelley Tougas who published a middle-grade nonfiction book about civil rights, specifically the Little Rock Nine, in 2012. Can’t possibly be me.

So, another rejection. No big deal. I store them in a trunk or two or three.

My first big award loss was in high school. I entered an essay-writing contest about pets, sponsored by the local vet.

I wrote about Bud, my family’s obese and stupid beagle.

Bud’s appetite was insatiable. He’d eat anything, including my dad’s expensive golf equipment. He shredded the golf cart when my dad made the mistake of keeping them in the garage together. Bud ate and ate and ate until, I suspect, he realized the foam seats were swelling in his stomach, threatening a rupture. Then he burped and continued to chow.

He opened the refrigerator with his nose and ate everything on the bottom shelves. Everything. The roast and the foil covering the roast. A half pound of butter, wax wrapping and all. Hotdogs, cheese and bologna. You know how chocolate is supposed to kill dogs? He ate nearly an entire bag of Hershey’s chocolate kisses. I guess the foil wrapping provided protection.

Once he literally leapt into the air and tackled me for a piece of summer sausage that was already in my mouth. And he got it.

Bud would slink into the dining room. When he heard a fork pushing food toward the edge of plate, he would leap Jaws-like to the table, sink his teeth into food, and run away.

How could you lose an essay contest with material like that? That grand prize – $100? – was mine. Until it wasn’t.

I snagged an honorable mention. I went home with a free bag of dog food, which was ridiculous. Obviously they hadn’t read my essay. Did I not make it clear Bud didn’t eat dog food?

I believe the winner was Kelly M., a classmate who occasionally reads this blog — you can find her awesome blog here – and had the pleasure of meeting Bud. Kelly M. wrote a loving tribute to her dead cat. Kelly M. was brilliant—she’d read Tolstoy, write an analysis of Beowulf, correct Stephen Hawkings, and conduct an experiment showing how enzymes break down food into protein. All at the same time.

Kelly M., if you’re out there, somewhere in the lonely world of cyberspace, and you stumble across this bog, please comment and share your side of the story.

(As if there’s another side to the story. Dead cat. Loving tribute. Please.)

The pre-rant rant

Great Gatsby … in 3D! Just as Fitzgerald imagined.

I’m holding back my rant about Great Gatsby being remade in 3D. I guess you should see a movie before you bash it to pieces. Look for me to bash it to pieces soon.

It’s fair, however, to note the following:

• GG is directed by Baz Luhrmann, who made Moulin Rouge. The movie has a cult following, but so does Scary Movie 5. Moulin Rouge is an explosion of the ridiculous. It’s LSD on meth.
• Even the previews show Baz has jackhammered every nuance Fitzgerald so carefully placed in the text.
• Why 3D? To make the audience duck because a martini glass appears to shoot from the screen?

I’ll follow the reviews and note all the bad ones. Feel free to use the comment section to tell me I’m full of crap.

Mishmash and hodgepodge

I’m blog surfing this morning, and the book world is full of news. Just follow the links.

Minnesota YA author Pete Hautman reveals his lurid past … as a mystery writer! The man can do anything. Check out his post, which includes an excerpt.

Nicole Helget answers questions about her soon-to-be-published novel Stillwater, including a

Nicole Helget

one-sentence synopsis in which she makes great use of the comma. “A pair of newborn twins is abandoned and then separated in the logging town of Stillwater, and as they grow, various mothers, of good and evil ilk, raise them as the country, too, grows in ways good and evil, pitting industrial ingenuity and personal ambition against mother nature and inherent human freedom.”

And OhMyGod my favorite YA novel, The Spectacular Now, has been made into a movie that’s making rounds at film festivals. Run to a store and buy the book by Tim Tharp before you see the movie, because it’s always better that way, right?

Back to Hogwarts we go.

My Muggle family doesn’t know this yet, but we’re going back to Florida. The Harry Potter section of Universal’s theme park is being expanded. Sadly, it’s taking the space that once belonged to the Jaws movie. But hey, life goes on and sharks are so out.

Finally, scandal! NPR reveals Mary Ingalls didn’t go blind from scarlet fever. She most likely had meningitis. The publisher changed the illness to make it more understandable to kids. Because as any parent knows, a child reading the book would toss it across the room and shout, “Don’t these people know anything?! It’s obvious Mary does not have scarlet fever. Clearly, it’s a case of meningitis! Mom, this ‘memoir,’” the kid makes little air quotes, “has more lies than A Million Little Pieces.”

And that’s today’s round up. I’m off to price Florida airfare.