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Going Senile

Something must be wrong with me. Maybe I’m getting old. Like old. I’m going to be almost 30. I thought everything was cool being 28 but then this happened. THIS HAPPENED. I need to tone down on the italics.

But there I was, sitting in a cafe along with an iced coffee, enjoying my book of short stories when BOOM. I drooled. I DROOLED. I know, right? What? Only babies and old people drool. Well, I drool in my sleep but that’s because I’m sleeping. Babies and old people drool when they’re awake.

And that’s what happened to me.

Here’s the thing. My drool was so unbelievably powerful that it ruined my book! I can’t read that paragraph anymore! I have no idea what Eric leaned his face ag–what? Huh? Oh no.

I should just go kill myself now.

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Bookcases

MRod started a group art project where we all take pictures of our bookcases and share them online. Being a nerd who always forgets to dust, I couldn’t pick which bookshelf to choose from. So here is one and a quarter, including my shelf devoted to Diana Wynne Jones. Oh gosh, she’s amazing.

Bookcases

Wow, that dust is really annoying me. I’m not even home right now but all I want to do is drive back and Swiffer the crap out of everything.

PS. Those squirrels aren’t mine.

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Christmas Cookie!

Alright, it’s December 30th and I’ve just finished my 51st book of 2008. I threw in an extra book last minute because I was afraid that I included a graphic novel like Scott Pilgrim to my list and I knew that comic books wouldn’t really count, but I just checked and I totally DIDN’T so there, I overachieved my reading goal by one book…OR WILL IT BE TWO??

I’ve got little over 24 hours left to read one final book. What shall it be? Geek Love? Heartbreaking Work of a Staggering Genius? Dicey’s Song? (I rescued this old book from a sad pile at my old office, so don’t judge.)

Or maybe I should just go to bed?

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GRRR!

Don’t you hate it when you have an idea to start something (someday) and then your boyfriend brings you a book that IS BASICALLY EXACTLY WHAT YOU WANT TO DO even though your original version would be 10 times better BUT YOU CAN’T SHOW IT OFF BECAUSE SOMEONE ALREADY BEAT YOU TO IT BY GETTING IT PUBLISHED?

ARRGH.

That’s it. I’m going to really write and draw my own comic vignette series. I just have to come up with a different idea now. Something that involves shooting aliens and baby koalas.

This morning, I ran into a very good old friend who I hadn’t seen in like a year. I know, it’s weird that I consider him a very good friend cause we are email pals but we never manage to get together. The best part was that this was on the 134 Westbound freeway in Burbank. Crazy, huh. He gave me a honk, a wave and then the finger. Yay for friends! Yay for LA traffic!

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Hmmph.

So, I just finished reading Lauren Groff’s The Monsters of Templeton. I really liked it. I liked it so much that I stopped reading this snoozer of a book to spend the rest of my weekend finishing it. I liked it so much that I don’t really feel like reading anything else anymore. Hmmph. This puts me in a bad mood.

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Dang, it’s only March and we’ve already discovered who’s been plagiarizing in the literary world.

My sister forwarded me the new story about Margaret Seltzer who has finally admitted that her memoir, A Refugee From Gangland, is a complete load of bullshit. The book illustrates her supposed adolescence growing up in a foster family in South Central Los Angeles and becoming a drug dealer. Someone’s been watching The Wire a little too closely.

In the vividly told book, Ms. Seltzer wrote about her African-American foster brothers, Terrell and Taye, who joined the Bloods gang when they were 11 and 13. She chronicled her experiences making drug deliveries for gang leaders at age 13 and how she was given her first gun as a birthday present when she was 14. (link)

Here’s the first best part. Seltzer actually grew up in Sherman Oaks–quite far from the gang-torn neighborhoods of South LA–and went to my elementary school.

Margaret B. Jones is a pseudonym for Margaret Seltzer, who is all white and grew up in the well-to-do Sherman Oaks section of Los Angeles, in the San Fernando Valley, with her biological family. She graduated from the Campbell Hall School, a private Episcopal day school in the North Hollywood neighborhood. She has never lived with a foster family, nor did she run drugs for any gang members. Nor did she graduate from the University of Oregon, as she had claimed.

Hahaha, this is awesome. Campbell Hall has to be one of the most sheltered, snobbiest and whitest schools in Los Angeles. Actually wait, that goes for all the private schools. But my memories there include my third grade teacher condescendingly explaining how good the school was for employing Mexicans on the staff (aka janitors) and every year, the school would throw a giant Bagpipers Ball to raise funds. There was one black kid in my class but he disappeared after fourth grade, and this was over the entire 6 years I was there. And the only gangs we would encounter would be a herd of pigeons on the football field.

It’s equally as amusing to read the New York Times’ review of her book, before they knew that it wasn’t fake. I mean, how eye roll worthy are some of Seltzer’s quotes? Not only did the publishers (or the journalist) fail to do any proper fact-checking, but couldn’t even see past the utter crap this lady was saying.

For example, after getting knocked up, she describes:

Rya’s father, she said, was “the first white guy I ever dated, and she was the first white baby I ever saw. I said, she looks sickly, is there something wrong with her?”

REALLY? You ARE WHITE. You don’t even know what a white baby looks like? Plus, knowing that she probably spent 85% of her school days around white people, she was straight out lying about the dumbest things.

Or,

“The first time my o. g. visited me here” — meaning original gangster, the gang’s leader — “he slept 20 hours straight. In L.A. your anxiety is so high you sleep three hours a night.”

Thanks for explaining to me what OG meant. I had no idea.

Then she mixed up a batch of perfect buttermilk corn bread without measuring anything. “I make it so much I can eyeball it,” she said. “I’m working on a cookbook right now. Big Mom would roll over in her grave, knowing I’m giving her recipes away.”

OH NO YOU DID NOT JUST BRING IN THE CORNBREAD.

It’s sad to think that much of her experience is real, but through the minds of adolescents actually growing up in horrible, violent environments. They may have been Seltzer’s friends, but to profit from their stories is pretty fucking messed up.

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