Yeah, you know what: I'm going there

I'm currently laid-up with ridiculous lady-pains (seriously, fellas, when we say "you couldn't handle menstruation", it isn't just so you'll shut the hell up. It's because you couldn't handle menstruation), and my thoughts have wandered over to something that I've wanted to address for a while now, but have been wary of, well, addressing:



I AM SO WORRIED ABOUT THIS, YOU GUYS.

As of late, the entire goddamn world seems to think that this film adaptation of one of the greatest children's books ever (and don't you dare say it isn't) will be a beautifully done, masterful retelling, a creative expansion by some of the best in the business, director Spike Jonze (Adaptation, a shitload of music videos) and writer Dave Eggers (A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, and the script for Away We Go). I mean, Maurice Sendak is one of the producers, how could it be bad? Well, did you watch the trailer? Did you ever read the book? Let's compare the opening of each:

THE BOOK:
The day Max wore his wolf suit and made mischief of one kind and another, his mother called him "Wild Thing!" and Max said "I'll eat you up!"

THE TRAILER:
Wild Thing: You must have a family.
Max: Yes, I have one of those, but...
Wild Thing: Did you eat them?
Max: No! I have no plans to eat anybody.

Do you see? Do you SEE? From what the trailers have seemed to attest, the story hasn't just been watered-down, it's been desperately altered. Where the Wild Things Are is a book about childhood, about anger and the need to be wild. Being wild doesn't mean wearing a wolf suit, it means being disobediant, loud, obnoxious, angry, and uncontrollable. It's a bit like the original idea of Mardi Gras, how people would have one day to act absolutely insane before bowing into the penance of Lent. The idea is catharsis, which is what happens a lot in childhood. It's what kids get away with that grown-ups can't: kicking and screaming and letting it all out. Max, as the 5-8 year old that he appears to be in the novel, is on the cusp of young adulthood. He could be going back to school, or having to give himself a bath, or do chores. He's having to grow up, and the place where the Wild Things are is his little-boy Neverland, where anger can be let out, where chaos can rule, and where he can be the king of all the Wild Things.

The Wild Things, by the way, aren't the shmaltzy, surrogate-family that the movie makes them out to be. They're the Wild Things, for pete's sake: they roar their terrible roars, they gnash their terrible teeth, they roll their terrible eyes, they show their terrible claws!! I see none of that in the trailer. Once again, they're only wild in that they're furry.

Where Sendak's book is a proper mirror for the frustration and happy chaos of childhood, what Jonze's film seems to be presenting is, to put it bluntly, the ideal Hipster child: Max appears to be quiet, dishevled, precocious, well-spoken, slightly wild but not so much that he forgets to be sad in a totally adorable way. It's what everyone assumes thoughtful artists were when they were kids (or what people who think they're artists were as a kid). But children are hardly like that, and certainly, I would hope, not those who grow up to be the INFP type: children are Wild Things. They're supposed to be. So far, I'm not seeing Max make ANY type of mischief: I'm seeing Max build snow forts and searching for meaning with his big, soulful eyes.

The truth is that I'll never know the quality of the movie itself until it comes out, at which point I'll see it, of course, and then duly report a proper review. What disturbs me the most is that it seems like the epitome of the hipster-ization of certain entertainment. It's no surprise that Sendak's iconic book, which I'm sure most people of my generation had read to them as children, has stayed, lovingly in their hearts. It's something, for example, that you would find under "books" on a Facebook page that isn't so much about how much Where The Wild Things Are influenced said person's lifestyle, but rather as a means of being ironically endearing. But that doesn't mean that the legions of the Hip have any right to claim Where The Wild Things Are as theirs to mold and re-fashion. Changing the central theme, the basic idea behind Sendak's illustrated ten-sentence book, even if you throw an Arcade Fire song on top of it, is a big no-no. Remember when Ron Howard took How the Grinch Stole Christmas and turned it into a big-budget, over-plotted wreck of a movie? Yeah, this could be the same thing, just with a different tint.

My mother gets The New Yorker weekly, and in this issue, the fiction installment is called "Max at Sea", an excerpt from the book that Dave Eggers has written based on his screenplay for the film. This, to me, is an unneccesary amount of convolusion, and I'm wondering how much of that has to do with Egger's hubris, or if the book is actually the novelized equivalent of Sendak's (not, of course, that you'd need an expanded edition. The best thing about Where The Wild Things Are is that it's so short but so damn good despite that, having an expanded edition is like wrapping the most delicious cake in the world with eight feet of bland Reddi-Whip). Anyway, I'll read the story, and hopefully that'll give me a better idea of just what these Hipsters are doing. If it's anything like this:

then we're in some serious trouble.

Good god, where did July go

I have no idea, but it took me with it.

What's been happening lately...well, I got a job at Oak's Park, which is where I worked two summers ago. I was terribly reluctant before I came to work, but then after the past couple weeks, it's been pretty tolerable, and almost fun. There are more people my age there this year, and most of the really scary employees are either gone or working at other places in the park. It's still minimum wage (not that I should be complaining, minimum in Oregon is $8.40 an hour, which is one of the highest in the nation), but if I pull in a little under 40 hours a week, then that comes out to something under $300, which is enough from now until October to get me to Austin, move me in, and have some left over for funzies. If I can finish the summer with $2000 in savings, I should be set to go.

Also, I managed to get (I seriously hope) everything worked out for graduation at UBC. Once that's in, I just have to apply and pay off my debt! Will I go to my graduation? Eh, probably not at this point.

Reading has been slow lately due to being so exhausted at work. My writing time has been cut down to almost nothing as well. Novels I have managed to get in? I started and finished Vox, Let The Northern Lights Erase Your Name, and The Great Gatsby.

Vox, by Nicholson Baker, is about phone sex. That's the best way to say it. It is a conversation that a man and a woman have over the phone, regarding sex. It is also a well-written and sweet account of human loneliness and connection; it is both absurd and believable, touching and, well, arousing. In any case, it's the classiest erotica that I've read (and no, I haven't read a lot), and since there's nothing dirty in the title, you can read it in the bus without being suspected (I hope that other people are as turned on by that idea as I am).

Vendela Vida's novel Let The Northern Lights Erase Your Name only took me a night to read, but that doesn't mean that it's a simple or easy read. When her father dies, Clarissa Iverton learns that he was not her father at all, a fact that her mother, who disappeared when Clarissa was a teenager, never bothered to mention. Clarissa's hunt takes her away from her happy life with her fiancé into the foreign territory of northern Lapland, a journey that is fueled as much by Clarissa's slow-burn depression as it is her desire to know the truth about herself–a truth that is buried further than you'd expect, and which, when revealed, holds more answers than what Clarissa had hoped for. The novel is written with a strong understanding of honesty and mysticism, and even though some themes become a bit too frequent (hint: rape), Vida gives us a likeable and relatable heroine, which is harder to find than you'd think these days.
The Great Gatsby was a re-read. Guess what, the book is still amazing. Fitzgerald's tragic retelling of the American Dream is his most famous work. However, when looking into what the best F. Scott Fitzgerald works were, the next arrow seemed to point directly at Tender is the Night, a book which I know best as being Scott's version of what Zelda wrote about in Save Me The Waltz. After reading and studying and loving the hell out of Save Me The Waltz, I have this to say about Tender is the Night: shut up, F. Scott Fitzgerald. Get over yourself. I don't care about how pretty the second half of the book is supposed to be, I really couldn't take any more of the first part, which seems to be nothing more than rich people jaunting around southern France, all caught up in their own petty issues. I mean, you named the character based on yourself Dick Diver? And his only fault seems to be that he's too nice to his crazy wife? And everyone falls in love with him for no other reason than, I don't know, he's clever? Shut the fuck up, F. Scott Fitzgerald. It isn't enough to ruin The Great Gatsby for me, but that was nuanced and had a shitload of flawed characters, the first part of Tender is the Night is like a shitty Robert Atlman via 1990s A&E movie.

Other than those books, I'm still working my way through Invisible Man (it's worth taking my time, this might be the best novel I've read since The Sound and the Fury or The Brothers Karamazov). I'm also reading stories from Karen Russel's collection, St. Lucy's Home For Girls Raised By Wolves, and that's pretty damned fun. So far, the stories have all been about children living in or around the Everglades and the islands off the coast of Florida, where they encounter supernatural, uncanny, or simply enlightening changes in themselves, those around them, and the land itself. The stories make me nostalgic for the 'glades, and for Florida in general; it's Hans Christian Anderson via Southern Gothic, and I love it.


What else what else what else....music!

I have three new releases for you to check out. Let's do them in chronological order: first up is Mos Def's new LP, The Ecstatic. I haven't really listened to much other Mos Def than the awesome The New Danger, but that doesn't mean that I'm behind on this, nor that I'm at all disappointed in The Ecstatic. Mos Def has to be one of the best acts in Hip Hop out there, simply because he's so un-stereotypical, he's the opposite of Flo Rida or Lil' Jon. He's fucking classy, and it makes you listen to what he's saying. When everything these days is about getting Timbaland to produce your new single, you have to give it up for the guy who puts Malcom X on instead.



And hey, look at that: a new Fiery Furnaces album! It really is nice to see the Freidburger siblings putting out something relatively normal (compared to their fifty-something track live CD, that time they put their grandmother on the record, or their new idea, a so-called "silent album"). Compared to something like Window City or the crazier parts of Bitter Tea, I'm Going Away is a return to the blues-psych-rock of something like Gallowsbird's Bark. This album is less about weird narratives and more about detached love songs, it might be the most accessible Fiery Furnaces album to date. That doesn't make it bad, of course, it's a well-tuned and summery record, and I am rather enjoying it. Rather.



Finally, we have The Dead Weather. The Dead Weather is a band invented by professional band inventor Jack White, including a couple dudes from other groups like Queens of the Stone Age and The Raconteurs, and vocalist Alison Mosshart ("VV" from The Kills). This is evidence enough to make me apprehensive. I mean, yes, Jack White is a very talented musician, and a pretty decent lyricist, and every time he does something he has the music community eating out of his hand. Does anyone else notice that? Every year and a half or so, there's just a period of Jack White Zomibiism, where every god damn music journalist raves about how perfect Jack White's music is. And you know what? I'm not buying it. I mean, there's plenty from The White Stripes that I loved, but Get Behind Me Satan was sort of retarded. I never got what was so great about The Raconteurs, they seemed to be nothing more than a vanity project. And now there's The Dead Weather, brimming with reasons for me to hate them: I mean, look at these guys! leather jackets and cigarettes and wayfarer shades? VV from the Kills? Making everything grainy and dark on their website? God damn it, you guys. This seems sort of like a joke, one of those overly-pretentious hipper-than-thou groups that will be flaunted by every boy with tight pants and a patchbeard until, about six months later, people seem to forget that they even existed (like, oh, I dunno, THE KILLS?).

And you know what the really sad part is? It's a pretty damned good album, even if it is called Horehound (blech). I mean, it's tightly good. Alison Mosshart is more or less the girl version of Jack White, which means that she can take all his creepy songs and make them a little sexier. The music and production is top-notch (as you would expect it to be), and it seems like White has found a nice outlet for the Detroit blues and Southern rock sound that he's worked for years to find. Do I admit that I like them? Eh, I suppose. Will I pay $30 to see them in concert this month? Probably not. I can see Will Sheff for $15, and that's a much better idea to me.

Anyway, judge for yourself. Jack white has a marshmellow butt:



And on one last music note, I now own one of these:
Ahahaha, it is so fun. Although, a word of warning if you want one: you have to have a little patience. And know how to make a decent playlist. But I'm enjoying it.