On the way to Ikea, Terri pointed out a sign advertising that Bambi II was coming out on DVD. (At first I didn’t hear the “DVD” part, and thought “Bambi II” must be a new South Shore gentleman’s club). I’ve seen lots of these sorts of apocryphal sequels in the Disney world, which I attributed to parents getting sick of watching the Lion King over and over again, so, hey, why not Lion King IV: Simba gets a haircut to mix it up a little? But the same thing is even worse in the Star Wars world, where about half of the most recent movie makes no sense without the backstory that you were supposed to get in a Cartoon Network series (which I was lucky enough to get summarized for me by Glenn right after we went to see it at the Uptown(?) theater in D.C.).

Anyway, something finally occurred to me that has occurred to a lot of other people already: it’s more than bored parents that are responsible for this dynamic. It’s that the same relatively cheap tools that make it possible for amateurs to create and distribute their work can also be used by the pros.

Yes, Big Content can now produce its own fanfic!

So, we finally went to Massachusetts’ first Ikea Saturday, a couple of months after it opened, braving it even though we figured it would be a madhouse on a Saturday afternoon. I guess the light snow scared enough people off, because it really wasn’t as crowded as I expected.

We bought a bunch of Billy bookcases for the dining room, some lights for under the kitchen cabinets, some new curtains and pillows for the bedroom, and some other odds and ends. And with some creative rope work, it all fit in the Civic (to the surprise of both me and the Ikea workers out on a smoke break in the loading area). I did note for future reference, though, that if we do need to take something big home from there someday, they do have Zipcars of the large variety parked there, as well as a shuttle from the Quincy T stop.

I tried to put my finger on what I like about the place, given that I’m pretty good at curbing my enthusiasm for most stores even if I tend to like their stuff (because they are stores, and it is stuff, and it’s just not my thing). It’s really that I tend to come out with more good ideas than actual stuff, I actually think about how I can organize my space better, and I already have enough bags of unburned tea lights to know not to get tempted to buy a lot of stuff there just because it’s cheap.

We went to see Capote a couple of weeks ago with some friends. It didn’t really impress me, mostly ’cause I’m a goddamn grump, but it did make me want to read In Cold Blood (which I also picked up in Portsmouth over the weekend).

I actually do owe Truman Capote the whole “RealFake” thing. The whole idea got planted when I saw Breakfast at Tiffany’s a couple of months after college, which includes this little clip (3MB, .mov ).

As a youth, I was like Holden Caulfield, and couldn’t stand the phonies. And then as a late-youth I thought that people who couldn’t stand phonies were all adolescents or folk singers. When I heard Holly Golightly described as a “real phoney” something clicked and I understood that there could be a third way where artifice and necessity were fused into an atomic whole and the whole dialectic didn’t matter. Or at least that such a thing could be strived for.

Funny thing is, now I think Holly is pretty much just a plain old phoney, albeit for good reasons. But the phrase still has magic properties for me.

We took our annual surprise-approximately- Valentine’s-day- getaway trip this weekend; this year, we went to Portsmouth, NH. It’s a frequent day-trip spot for us, but we’ve only stayed there once before. We stayed at a place called the Sise Inn, and our room had a bubbling tub which was very nice and made me feel like cooked spaghetti. Haven’t been that relaxed in a long time!

I bought a copy of the collection Jay Ryan’s posters, 100 Posters, 134 Squirrels at the Riverrun Book Store, and got into a brief conversation with the man and woman at the counter about Andrew Bird (Jay Ryan did the art for the Mysterious Production of Eggs, and I bought a poster from him at the Middle East show, and he complimented my coat). His posters are so much fun, and very inspiring.

Otherwise, we spent a lot of time sipping hot drinks, went to the Portsmouth Brewery (twice), and tried to stay out of the unbelievably frigid winds.

Apparently, they’re not Danishes, they’re “Roses of the Prophet Mohammed“.

While I don’t know exactly what would happen if I slapped Terri with some blood-soaked goat hide, I’ve got a good enough idea that I think I’ll leave it as a thought experiment.

I really do love the film of Doctor Zhivago.

I just rag on it every time I mention it because I worship the book, and the film is just a very different thing. It would be better if I could just get past comparing them, or even of thinking of them as the same thing.

So, I’m very overdue in writing any of the book reports I promised. I’ve been too busy either reading or working on my webbified Exquisite Corpse (yes, that’s back in the works). So I will begin to rectify.

The first book of the year, back at the beginning of January, was Richard Russo’s The Risk Pool. I’ve probably talked a lot about Russo here, but it’s good stuff. This one was worth reading, but there’s not much in it that I hadn’t already encountered in Mohawk, Nobody’s Fool, or to a lesser extent, Empire Falls, whether in setting, plot, character, style, subject matter. I’m not really complaining, but I wouldn’t necessarily recommend it as a starting point, or if you aren’t sure you want to read everything. I’d start with Empire Falls or maybe Straight Man or Nobody’s Fool.

They all take place in some small manufacturing town that’s seen better days; there’s a lot of drinking of cheap beer in local bars; there’s usually a kid or two who have escaped and gone to college and gotten out; there’s some trash-talking; there’s a lot that might come off as melodrama if it weren’t done so well. They’re all also really funny. One of the things I most admire is Russo’s ability to take something that’s almost unbearably well-trodden in literature (say, the later-middle-aged English professor who’s had writer’s block since his first book was published, as in Straight Man) and to somehow make all of it seem fresh, like no one’s ever written about it before. I think it’s a rare but useful feat to not shy away from the obvious yet be totally original. As much as we all love to cling to our uniqueness, the truth of the matter is that most of the things that are really important to us have already been experienced by others, often millions of others. To not examine it, or cherish it, or share it, just because it’s been done before seems like a big mistake to me. And while a lot of writers blather about finding wonderful things in the ordinary, a lot of that kind of writing comes off to me as more pretentious than actual pretense.

Then again, maybe I just like it so much because the milieu Russo writes about is one that’s very familiar to me.

Our dear pal Editrix’s blog has some really engrossing reading about a recent SUV crash at Porter Square Books, a local (and wonderful) bookshop. It started here, and a commenter gave a harrowing first-hand account, and there’s even more.

Terri and I are watching the snow pile up here at The Curtisian. We’re taking a break from watching “David Lean’s film of Doctor Zhivago” which is what the title screen says, I believe aptly. It’s something that probably should be qualified, like calling Kraft singles “cheese food”. It shares the same plot as the book, but it’s really not a whole lot like it. Terri is doing some of her physical therapy back exercises, and I’m waiting for a little more snow to pile up before taking a turn with the snowblower.

* * *

several hours later…

* * *

April called and tells me that the news in France has been all about the people who are freezing to death because of the record cold in Russia. Whole towns suddenly plunged into crisis when their pipes burst. What people freezing to death of cold in Russia? Can’t even find anything about it, except from stuff on the BBC from Jan. 19. We both agreed that the news is very warped lately; focusing on really trivial stuff, while the whole Iran thing is basically going to turn into World War III, and oh, while the news spent two days just itching for the snowstorm to come to the Northeast, the Yemeni prisoners who were being held for bombing the USS Cole in 2000 escaped. But I’m sure they just wanted to get back to their families and have no intention of causing any further trouble.

Anyway, April agrees that Doctor Z is a perfect movie to be snowed in with. Speaking of hard times in Russia.

Good news, in case you haven’t heard yet.

As of February 1, 2006, the Brattle Film Foundation has signed a one-year extension on our current lease at the Brattle Theatre!

Terri and I are going to see next Monday’s double-feature of the The Awful Truth and Holiday. Holiday has Carey Grant marrying into a rich eccentric family (the older sister in which is Katherine Hepburn), and The Awful Truth features him and Irene Dunne as an almost-divorced couple who do a lot of witty verbal sparring but can’t quite sever the knot. Join us if you’re interested!

The RealFake song of the month is “Paper Moon” by Harold Arlen, lyrics by E.Y. (Yip) Harburg. (”Yip”, folks, “Yip”!) I haven’t found my favorite version yet. Most recordings I’ve found start after the intro, with “it’s only a paper moon, sailing over a cardboard sea”. In fact, hunting through about 15 versions, the only one I’ve found with the whole intro is by Rufus Wainright, of whom I’m not overly fond. Sometimes I want to be, but he’s somehow too Starbucks-y for my taste.

I remember liking it as a kid, too, but whose version did I hear?

At first you think it’s just bubble gum, and then you realize it’s about death and maya.

I never feel a thing is real

When I’m away from you

Out of your embrace

The world’s a temporary parking place

Mmm, mm, mm, mm

A bubble for a minute

Mmm, mm, mm, mm

You smile, the bubble has a rainbow in it

Say, its only a paper moon

Sailing over a cardboard sea

But it wouldn’t be make-believe

If you believed in me

Yes, it’s only a canvas sky

Hanging over a muslin tree

But it wouldn’t be make-believe

If you believed in me

Without your love

It’s a honky-tonk parade

Without your love

It’s a melody played in a penny arcade

It’s a Barnum and Bailey world

Just as phony as it can be

But it wouldn’t be make-believe

If you believed in me

Our fridge currently contains

• double gloucester
• aged mahon
• fresh mozzarella
• Cabot “hunter’s” cheddar
• some Vermonty aged cheddar
• fontina

From Wired:

“Hedda Gabler, of all Ibsen’s plays, is about transcendence, the desire to escape this world and the characters’ inability to escape the roles society shapes for them,” he says, looking down at his vegetarian chili, then back up as though it had spoken to him. “It made perfect sense: robots.”

I’m not a big football person, as you may know, but growing up in Pittsburgh in the 1970’s, it’s hard not to have a soft spot. Just about all of the steel mills closed, the population of Allegheny County went down 150,000 between 1970 and 1980 (about 10%), and we won 4 Super Bowls. As you can imagine, having one thing going on that didn’t completely suck made a lot of really diehard fans. I remember the regional depression produced a lot of Jesus freaks, too, but I think the Steelers have had more enduring and consistent devotion.

Anyway, yeah, I’m pretty happy that the Steelers won on Sunday.

I turned 32 last Thursday, and 32 was Franco Harris’s number, so, you know, it was pretty much a done deal, right?

Ed came downstairs after the game and generously offered that he’d understand if I needed to go out and flip his car.

Oh, and that’s a photo my Mom sent me of one of their cats wrapped in a Terrible Towel, watching the Steelers’ victory parade on KDKA.

(Also thanks to everyone who came over and watched the game and sang happy birthday!)