The one with the holiday

People have asked what impressed me the most in Paris and every time I was stumped. I honestly don’t know – and I just might as well say nothing. I like the old streets, the little restaurants on every corner (good food, too ), I like the Seine, the large boulevards, the imposing buildings, I like the variety of ethnicities and beliefs, I like the gothic churches, I like museums and parks and reliable public transportation – but I still don’t know if I loved Paris. I must have liked it, but it felt crowded, chaotic, quite dirty and a little on the dangerous side (police chase after some guys twice; obnoxious pigeons all the time ). But there were moments when it was simply intoxicating – so I guess it might grow on me on a second visit – a longer visit. I’d like to walk the streets and explore…and mostly, I’d like to be less tired. In this week my friends and I tried to fit in as much of the touristy stuff as we could – and in the end, that kinda killed the joy of a new city.

A bunch of pics below – I can’t really take credit since most of them were taken by my friend

Paris also meant my fourth Depeche Mode concert – and I certainly hope not my last, since they create something onstage that few others can match -at least as far as I am concerned. I can’t believe that it’s only been a week since I saw this, somehow it feels like a whole year has passed. Dave was full of energy, the crowd was responsive and the show was very well put together. The one thing that struck me as off key was Peace, they seem to be trying to make it a public favorite, but I don’t think it’s gonna work. It didn’t for me, anyways, but I was a bit biased – I think the song is catchy, but otherwise pretty bad: the lyrics are basic and the video projection during the concert feels like something out of the U2 trick box.

Back home – there was The Killers – and a much more energetic (and soaked) crowd than I would have imagined. That Brandon Flowers doesn’t have much of a voice, but he’s really working onstage and they put on a good show. I would have enjoyed it more if there hadn’t been water dripping out of my hair, but I think I made the best of the situation

In my bookworld nothing much has happened – just two reliably enjoyable holiday reads: Terry Pratchett’s Small Gods (which got me thinking a lot about Neil Gaiman’s American Gods and whether it wasn’t just a bit inspired by Pratchett) and also Mr. Gaiman’s Stardust (sometimes it’s good to go back to fairytales). Plus, I visited a second hand bookstore and left with a bunch of potentially great stuff: Zadie Smith, Jeffrey Eugenides, JM Coetzee, Paul Auster, John DosPassos.

All in all, this was my one week holiday; back into the real world my city has gone tropical on me (daily rains in the pm? what’s up with that?) and I am so much more tired than I was when I left.

Placebo. The Palace of Dreams

So-so album, but pretty damn great concert: Placebo. I just got back and in 6 hours I should be getting up because my plane leaves at 9.30 (and, completely unlike me, I also left packing for the very last minute) but I didn’t want to go before writing about the concert. Not that it was the best concert I’ve ever been to, but it was so much fun. I suppose the audience was good too, at least around me were screaming the shrillest voices ever; my ears are still ringing and I honestly don’t know if it’s from the music (I was really close to the stage) or the hysterics I’d never seen Placebo live before (last time they were here I was out of town) and Molko’s voice was a nice surprise, it really sounds like on the albums. He chatted with the public a bit; including comment about the great freedoms we enjoy – as opposed to the UK where apparently he can’t smoke onstage – and I couldn’t help laughing at the irony. Of course, he wasn’t actually being ironic (and I don’t expect history lessons from my rock stars ) but still…

About the book (which is the second part of the title) I actually wanted to write more, but a couple of lines will have to do. The writer is Albanian (to my shame, his name fooled me into thinking he is Turkish) and he immigrated to France in the early nineties. The Palace of Dreams was forbidden in communist Albania, but found great success abroad, and personally, I really loved it. It feels like it’s got a bit of Kafka in it – the palace with the identical corridors, the hushed whispers and most of all the dreams, and their prevalence over real life. In short, the story takes place in the capital of the Ottoman Empire, where a young man, Mark Alem, who is part of an ancient & noble Albanian family (the Quiprilii – hope I didn’t mess up the spelling) and who gets a job at the very prestigious Tabir Saray, the Palace of Dreams. Here all the dreams of the Empire flow every day, they are sorted and interpreted and then presented to the Sultan. And it’s not just dreams of the individuals, but dreams of nations – of oppressed nations, of free nations, nations living in various natural conditions etc (there is a scene in the archives where all the categories are presented – it’s a bit chilling) – and they all have an influence on the events of the waking hours. Decisions are taken, dignitaries enter and exit the favour of the sultan and men are tortured in order to retrieve the real root of a dream they might have had. Over his rise in function at the Palace, Mark Alem will find all these out and he will become, from a frightened novice, a well versed, thick skinned director. At the time, the book was considered to criticize the communist regime and its absurdity (similar to the sway the dreams had in this version of the Ottoman Empire) and because of this, Kadare was considered a dissident. Funnily enough, he never considered himself to be one.

Random saturday thoughts

Today is officially my first day of a very long awaited holiday. Starting Monday, I’ll be in Paris for a week – and I do take recommendations of things to see there It started out as a trip to see the Depeche Mode concert (and that was quite lucky, I got the tickets in December, long before the whole concert cancelling debacle) but I figured – since I’m already there, why not spend some time in the city Except that now I have to pack and I can honestly say I’m not excited about the prospect of going anymore – I’m tired, and I know that when I’ll get back, I’ll be even more tired and I’ll have to jump right back into work. But no matter, it’s Paris, baby (where can one get that kind of enthusiasm?)!

I have to write about one more book before I go though – probably tomorrow Also tomorrow is the Placebo concert – promoting the new album which is…a little linear if you ask me. Not bad…just slightly dull. Most of the songs seem like afterthoughts of previous albums. Another new & dull album? Depeche Mode. Seriously, if I didn’t love their previous stuff & if their setlist didn’t include a lot of old songs (and In Your Room, my all time favorite, which I’ve yet to see live), I’d have second thoughts about the concert. Sounds of the universe is, without a doubt, my least favorite Mode album, I can’t even go through listening to the whole thing in one session.

I’ve started watching Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip again, and I can only say it seems better the second time around. Sucks that a show & cast like these weren’t given a second chance – although I can see why it didn’t appeal to many. When it comes to the backstage of the White House you expect seriousness, Issues (with the capital I), tough decisions and even a bit of self righteousness – all falling in perfectly with Master Sorkin’s writing . But when you’ve got the backstage of a comedy show (or a sports show, for that matter) people must want light & funny – not discourses about right and wrong, about discrimination, press practices and whatnot (I’m all for that, but I’m probably part of a minority ).

Someone in an apartment across the street (I guess) is always practicing on some instrument (now sure which though, maybe a flute?) and I can hear bits of songs – it makes me feel like I’m somewhere far away & I like it

Nocturnes. Five stories of music and nightfall

Kazuo Ishiguro’s latest work – and long awaited, at least by me (so thanks Anthony F. for bringing in around ) – is a short story collection. Personally, I’m not really into short stories – given the choice, I’d rather go for a novel, but I’ve read some amazing ones this past year (and here I’m talking about Jhumpa Lahiri’s Interpreter of maladies) and I have to say the Nocturnes is not really in the same league. OK, so this isn’t the best comparison; to be more straightforward – it’s not Mr. Ishiguro at his best. He’s great at creating atmosphere, at appearing to randomly gather elements to sketch a whole range of imagery and emotion that the span of a short story simply doesn’t allow for.

Hmm…perhaps I should have started off with the good? Because there is a lot of it and, while I’m not sure this book will bring him legions of new fans, for the Ishiguro enthusiast there is plenty to regale with. All 5 stories have the same general feel of most of Ishiguro’s works: nostalgia, loss, longing – creating a certain sense of a shared intimacy with the characters. All stories are narrated in the 1st person but, stylistically, they are very similar; or perhaps the differences are too nuanced and subtle – either way, it didn’t feel like 5 distinct voices (although each narrator had his own backstory). What they all share is music – and more precisely, musicians. Four out of these 5 narrators are musicians – be they seasonal players in some Italian piazza (like in Crooner and Cellists) or artists trying to find their voice and place in the world of records and touring (Malvern Hills and Nocturne).

Come Rain or Come Shine stands out for a couple of reasons: the narrator is a teacher in his 40s, visiting his college friends in London (who are going through a rough patch in their marriage) and the „music” part of the deal is the memory of the peculiar record collection that had brought them together 20 years before and which, even if briefly, brings them together still. Plus, the occasional toying with the absurd brings back memories of The Unconsoled – and this is perhaps the most important thing setting it apart.

My favourite though was Malvern hills – the English setting, the young guitarist trying to make it as a singer/songwriter, the visiting middle aged Swiss couple dealing with their son’s indifference and their diminishing enthusiasm and joy got their profession – all great stuff

I kinda have one more thing to criticize: Nocturne felt a bit clichéd: the greedy agent who would do anything to push his client higher (even if said client harbours well founded reservations), the entertainment industry’s obsession with form over content, looks over talent, starlets born out of gossip magazines – all just too obvious. But even so, Mr. Ishiguro manages to insert a twist and a bit of soul and humour in this all too familiar concoction.

Looking back over what I’ve written so far, I realize that I appear a bit inconsistent – saying I enjoyed the book and then doing all this nit picking. Thing is, while I was reading, none of the book’s shortcomings sprang to mind, I was too engrossed in…well….reading So in the end, I did like it, but I’m still hoping for a new novel

Most of the reviews I skimmed through were positive – The Times, Guardian, The Financial Times (with a contribution by Jonathan Coe)…only The Spectator seems a bit…cautions.

The Master

In all honesty, Colm Toibin’s Irish descent is what attracted me to this book. I have always been fascinated by all things Irish and I harbour the dream – the intention – to go and spend some time there. On the other hand, the subject of Henry James left me rather cold and uninterested; in fact it made me wonder if I will ever go through the book. I have nothing against Mr. James really, I just found this prose (3 or 4 years ago when I read some of his works) somewhat stuffy and his characters, with all their obeying of unspoken rules and society codes – tiring. Come to thing of it now, this affirmation might be rather unfair – I only read The Ambassadors (which does portray very vividly the late 19^th century society) and Daisy Miller & other short stories (which I very much enjoyed). Perhaps Mr. James is, to me, more tolerable in smaller doses

Back to The Master though – it’s more or less a fictitious chronicle of a few months in Mr James’s life, spiced with memories from his childhood and youth. It takes place between 1895 and 1899, starts with Henry’s attempt at theatre (Guy Domville and the embarrassing failure it represented – in contrast with Oscar Wilde’s successful works and popularity and James’s despise for both was great to read, especially since I’m an admirer of Mr. Wilde’s ) and ends with the author comfortable retired in a newly acquired home in Rye (Lamb House – which to me looks like the perfect place to live ) where he would spend his final years.

The novel goes back and forth in time, focusing on certain relationships that constituted a powerful and influential force in the author’s life: his father, Henry James sr. (respected and renowned theologian of his time ); his sister Alice (whose tragic life culminated with her much desired death); his buoyant, sparking cousin Minnie (who also found an untimely end); his close friend Constance Fenimore Woolson (who committed suicide). Especially regarding the last two, Henry feels a certain amount of guilt and uneasiness, having refused them both his company in a time when (even if he hadn’t known it) they most needed it. The gondola scene, after Constance’s death is especially powerful and moving: a man racked with sorrow and guilt, trying to do a last and perhaps unneeded gesture for his friend in the hope that they will both find peace. Speaking of Constance, I thought the depiction of their relationship, the insight and the woman’s struggle, her multidimensional portraying is one of the highlights of the book. From James’s letters she takes a life of her own, which he can’t control, a life whose fascination sometimes surpasses his. Of course, I’ve no idea how much is fact and how much is fiction, but, as a literary character, Constance was quite a presence. One thing makes me wonder though – related to her and to other popular novelists of the time mentioned – how much of what we read now will still be known in 100 years’ time, how many of all these writers will deserve even a footnote in some History of Literature of the future?

But perhaps the most important and submerged relationship is that of James with himself. Biographers have speculated on his sexuality and his reasons for never marrying and now the general agreement seems to be that he was a very (very) closeted homosexual. Toibin toys around with these feelings, revealing for a second desires that James would instantly repress and, once, before the visit of sculptor Henrik Andersen, indulge him in a short and unlivable fantasy of them sharing a life.

Something else I really liked – the discussion (based, I assume, on biographies and notes of James’s) on the fact that most of his characters had real life counterparts (Daisy Miller was based on Minnie, Isabel Archer of Portrait of a Lady was based on Constance , a ghost story finding its inspiration in an anecdote told by a friend etc.). Everytime he saw or heard something, James explored its fictionalized potential, he made mental notes and used all these scenes and characters in his works. Maybe that’s why he managed to produce such a detailed and accurate account of the fin de siecle.

When talking about the driving forces of James’s life I forgot to mentions his mother. He reminisces about her a lot and lovingly; she was protective of him (perhaps too protective), ready to embrace an imaginary illness that exempted her second son from the army or from any other domestic duties, thus allowing him to discover and pursue literary interests.

The whole novel has a very jamesian feel to it, Toibin even inserted expressions and passages from his novels (which, of course, I wasn’t able to detect ). After an initial slow start, the atmosphere and the characters drew me in, and overall, I have to say that I liked it, and found it a lot more interesting than I was expecting.

Must be a bit strange though, to use a real person, who led a real life, and put words in his mouth, thoughts in his head, feelings in his heart (pardon the idiotic expressions ). You’re creating a character and at the same time bringing someone back from the dead – and I wonder, how much liberty can you take; and how much is too much?

For good and well informed reviews you can go to The Guardian, New York Times and The New Yorker (where the review is signed by John Updike).

The Mysteries of Pittsburgh

Michael Chabon’s first novel, started at the age of 21 (this makes me feel so old ) is not, and does not aim to be, a great novel, but it definitely is an entertaining summer read. It all takes place in a hot fiery Pittsburgh summer, and the temperatures outside really help set the atmosphere – you can smell the burning asphalt Plot-wise it’s quite straightforward: Art Bechstein’s summer holiday bounces between his new found friends Arthur and Cleveland, his new girlfriend Phlox, his visiting father and his newly discovered bisexuality (props to Chabon for the weird & unlikely names per no. of characters ratio ). Art meets Arthur (Lecomte) after a visit in the public library and is instantly drawn into his world by his politeness and outdated mannerisms. This world includes Cleveland, his oldest friend – a man with a really messed up life (dead mother, gay father, on/off girlfriend, drinking – the works) to whom he takes quite a liking. He is immediately accepted in their circle, starts dating Phlox (the standard quirky girl) and all goes rather well for a short while – before confusion breaks on all fronts. He will quickly be involved in Cleveland’s “job” (he is a henchman for the local mafia) while finding himself more and more attracted to Arthur (with whom he eventually starts a relationship, proving that his adolescence suspicion that he was gay wasn’t exactly far off). And if you put head mobster Bechstein senior in the mix – you can pretty much guess nothing good will come out of it. The ending is not that suspenseful, but I wouldn’t want to give it away

My only complaint (aside from the needless attention grabbing names) is that the characters are a bit of a sketchy cliché; still every once in a while you get a glimpse of real life:

As a child, coming home at sunset through the infinite chain of backyards that led from the school-yard to our house, I would catch glimpses in windows of dining rooms, tables set for supper; of crayon drawings tacked to the refrigerator; of feet on low hassocks, framed photographs and empty sofas, all lit by the bland light of the television; and these quickly shifting tableaux of strange furniture and the lives and families they divulged would send me into a trance of curiosity.

It’s not often that I find myself in a fragment of a book – I lead a too ordinary life for that – but this particular phrase really spoke to me and my own memories. (Not that I stare in people’s apartments, but, when on a bus, I occasionally take a peek into other lives and start to wonder how they unravel.)

Last year a movie came out, I haven’t seen it, nor do I intend to, and from what I gather it’s not worth the time (if you want to see a movie based on a Chabon novel – go see Wonder Boys. Personally, I loved it ). Looking through the distribution, I think that the story of Cleveland & Jane (the on/off girlfriend, to whom only a couple of pages are dedicated in the book) takes centerstage, completely eliminating Arthur Lecomte (he’s not even listed as a character). And while I get that a mobsters make a more compelling medium than sexual confusion and murky sentiments, I think this approach robs the story of some of its best bits.

The Namesake

I got the book a couple of weeks ago, but I was very hesitant when it came to reading it. I’d seen reviews saying that it’s a poor follow up to The interpreter of maladies and I was a bit unwilling to face the disappointment. Encouraged by capricornk’s review though, I’m here now to say just how much I loved it, how easy it is to find bits of myself in characters with which, objectively speaking, I have nothing in common and how amazing ms. Lahiri’s prose is.

The book is practically a series of tableaux from the life of a 2 generational Indian immigrant family. Ashoke and Ashima Ganguli came to America shortly after their arranged marriage – he has a fellowship at MIT and she has to follow him. The first part of the book focuses on their gradual adaptation to the American way of life – Ashoke, more exposed to the culture is more willing to embrace it and Ashima, while at first retreating in letters from her family, longing after the only place she felt home in (Calcutta), finally building a life, and an ever expanding circle of Bengali friends in a cold city in new England. The birth of their first child, a boy, shifts the focus towards him – he will be the hero of this book, torn between his heritage and his adopted culture, never completely at ease in any of them. This separation of egos is underlined by the story of his 2 names: Gogol and Nikhil. In Indian tradition, a child’s official name is the responsibility of the eldest relative, while within the family, everyone uses a nickname, a namesake. When the letter containing the name sent by Ashima’s grandmother gets lost in the mail and the American beaurocracy pressures them, the Gangulis use “Gogol”, their child’s namesake, as his official name. Gogol – a reference to Nikolai Gogol, his father’s favorite writer whose book truly saved his life in a terrible train crash – once grown up, will consider the name a burden, will reject it and will eventually officially change it to Nikhil, a name his parents had once chosen. This is how he will spend his whole life – Nikhil in NYC where he studies to become an architect, Gogol back home in the suburbs, always feeling displaced, always feeling uneasy. He goes through several relationships, mostly with Americans of whom his mother disapproves, until he marries and eventually divorces an Indian woman who ends up cheating on him.

This small sequence of facts doesn’t do justice to the book. Ms. Lahiri has a knack for depicting domestic scenes with distance, accuracy and attention to every detail, and the evolution of the Gangulis lives is narrated through a series of moments – sometimes months, sometimes years apart. The ability to start over – Ashoke leaving India behind, Ashima renouncing her comfortable house in the suburbs after her husband’s death to travel back and forth between Calcutta and New York, Moushumi (that’s Gogol’s wife) moving to Paris, Sonia (Gogol’s sister) going to school in California – seems embedded in everyone except him. Coming back for the last party in the house where he grew up, Gogol realises that, as much as he rejected his parents’ culture and involvement, he was never more than a 4 hour drive away from them. His mother’s departure and the discovery of a long forgotten present from his his father end the book but perhaps start a new chapter in Gogol’s life: the acceptance and embracing of who he really is.

Nothing feels fake about this family and nothing extraordinary. They’re not a crazy dysfunctional family (although Gogol’s return home after his father’s death got me thinking about the first Six feet under episode ), they’re not dealing with extraordinary circumstances and they’re not prone to drama. They could be your next door neighbours, they could be your own family – they really could be anyone. Their universality is really what makes them special.

There’s a 2006 movie made after the book (starring Kal Penn of the Harold & Kumar fame, who’s now apparently some sort of consultant in the Obama administration ) – if anyone is interested. I’m definitely not, I’m quite sure the movie won’t be able to capture the whole feeling of the book.

NYT review – here. My sole issue here is not with the book itself, but with the translation – or, to be more precise, with the many annoying misspellings in the Cotidianul edition. I know they go for cheap, but I’d gladly pay more for better.

Life and Times of Michael K

There is no home left for universal souls, except perhaps in Antarctica or on the high seas.

I knew this book had something wonderful in store the first time I read the title. To some it may sound dull, to others mysterious and poetic – and the same goes for the book. I ended being part of the latter and I enjoyed it immensely. Michael K, later known simply as K (my first thought was, of course, Kafka, and apparently the name really is a tribute) leads a peaceful life in Cape Town. Eversince he was born with a hare lip, his mother rejected him, sent him away to an institution to be schooled (a bit like the bleak portraits of English boarding schools) and generally refused to have anything to do with her weak and strange son. All her life, she’s worked as a maid, in her old age, her powers abandon her, she gets ill and can’t do anything but lie in bed. With his dog-like devotion, K agrees to take her back to the province of Prince Albert, so she can die on the farm where she had spent her childhood. It’s all very romantic, but since they can’t obtain a travel permit to leave the capital (war-time measures) they turn into fugitives. On the road, his mother dies and K ends up being a lonely vagrant. All this is narrated from his point of view and, while political details are scarce, on a personal level many scenes are so palpably descriptive that you can’t help feeling involved and moved.

K, lacking the social skills that would help him survive, is caught, lives for a while in a work camp, then escapes – all without a greater plan, all in search of peace and quiet. He tries to build a small garden on an abandoned farm but goes through periods of intense starvation that get him caught again and admitted in a hospital. In a couple of phrases you can easily understand the kind of being K is – aerial, immaterial, almost part of a different world:

He thought of himself not as something heavy that left tracks behind it, but if anything as a speck upon the surface of an earth too deeply asleep to notice the scratch of ant-feet, the rasp of butterfly teeth, the tumbling of dust.

During his hospitalization, one of the doctors is so moved and so intrigued by Michael’s motives – or lack of -  and by his story (a story which, once back in Cape Town, he will regret not being able to truly tell) that he ends up dreaming of fleeing all confinements, all responsibilities and running after his now-once-more-escaped patient into the freedom of the unknown. He is the only one who truly sees Michael – for everyone else, just like for his mother, he is a slow weakling whose loss would never be felt – or a servant at best.

I didn’t quite warm up to the ending, for me, Michael should have remained a being above above the carnal, above the earth and the desires we are all made of. Mr Coetzee writing – sparse like the landscape and precise like K’s attempts at a routine – builds up a whole universe of suffering, intolerance, uselessness and pain, a universe to which K is not privy. Like the people at NYTimes say, he’s a bit of a Robinson Crusoe, discovering his own little island in a forgotten garden.

Does this mean I watch too much tv?

Now then, as far as I’m concerned, the 08/09 TV season is done. And since I watch quite a bit more TV than I should (by TV I actually mean US-made TV shows), I figured I’d put my 2 cents in – which would mean me saying that the season wasn’t all that great. I wouldn’t go so far as to say it sucked, but…I guess the more you watch the more you have to be disappointed with. Since I’m a pretty structured person…here come my categories:

Must see:

How I Met Your Mother –my current favorite sitcom, which sometimes gives out a whiff of Friends. I just saw the finale and it was great. But not great enough as to make up for a whole season of…so-sos and near misses. In fact, I can honestly say that there are about 8 very good eps this season: Intervention, Not a father’s day, The naked man, Benefits, Three days of snow, The Possimpble, Three days rule, The leap (I checked the names, I don’t carry around all this useless stuff in my head ). The rest….mediocre or downright baaad (The Stinsons). And season 5 worries me for a couple of reasons: Ted’s turning into an unlikable douche, few people really care who the mother is and – known fact – romantic tension is so much better than the couple stuff (see Frasier going downhill after season 8), so I’m kinda curious how they’re gonna pull of the whole Robin/Barney thing.

The Big Bang Theory – since we’re in the sitcoms department. How can you not love the TV show that brought to the world Rock-Paper-Scissors-Lizard-Spock? This was one of the few that had a good run this season and I’m happy to see it renewed for 2 more

Lost – not that I’m keeping up with the mythology, but I’ll stick with it till the end. Season 5 – I liked it, quite a lot in fact. The return of Locke, child-Ben, Farady turning out to be a less annoying character than I initially predicted, Ben (and I love all things Ben, even whiny Ben at the end. I still think he’s got something up his sleeve) and the little good vs. evil struggle Jacob’s got going on – all these made me forget about the ever so self-righteous Jack and the occasionally stiff dialogue. I only hope Cuse & Lindelof have a master plan – I want it going out with a bang….not with JJ Abrams reading an article in a newspaper about how a mysterious island which might be Atlantis was found.

This leads me – rather abruptly – to my disappointment in the Battlestar Galactica finale. True, I got into the show just a few months before it ended, so it was all fresh in my mind….but I expected more of a twist. It all just seemed like the peaceful and easy way out, and until then, BSG hadn’t really gone down the easy road. I’m looking forward to the movie, but I’d like to see the series back-to-back again. Maybe it’ll leave me less of a bad after-taste. Until then, here you go: the 7 minutes that pissed me off & the song that still gives me goosebumps.

Pushing Daises – they (ABC) killed it after 13 episodes, and forced the producers to cook up a fake ending. I thought it was great – colorful, fun quirky….delightful. And I never knew Kristin Chenoweth can carry a tune like this…

Fun enough ways to procrastinate:

Scrubs – I’ve had a pretty much on again off again thing with Scrubs. And I never missed it; but since this was the final season, I thought I’d see it all. And it went smoothly and forgettable, even more so now that there will be a season 9 – which cancels out the awesomeness of the finale.

Castle – new procedural. I never go for these, but Nathan Filion (of Firefly/Serenity and Dr. Horrible fame) makes any 40 minutes fun. Plus, they even had a couple of interesting cases.

Brothers and Sisters – this was supposed to be my guilty pleasure and I only got into in for Calista Flockhart (Ally McBeal – never a great show but always a fun one) and Rob Lowe (for me, he’ll always be one of The West Wing. Master Sorkin is sorely missing from TV world) – and I stayed for Kevin, Sarah, Justin, Scotty and the big Walker dinners soaked in wine. Season 3 was alright, I’ll probably be back for season 4, especially with Tommy out. I can only hope Robert will be out too, he’s stiff and controlling. But since this usually steps into soap opera territory, Robert will probably hang around for quite some time.

Desperate Housewives – I had abandoned it at one point, but somehow I rediscovered my taste for suburban intrigue. I couldn’t care less who was under the veil in the “cliffhanger” ending and I’m quite sure that, if I get busier next year, I’ll give it up – no regrets.

Why am I watching these again? – 3 shows that have outlived their usefulness and are only here because of my damned inertia

Two and a half men – I’m really not laughing anymore, they’re rehashing the same silly jokes over and over again. I know it gets huge ratings, but having it renewed for 3 more seasons is just pure crap. I say my goodbyes here.

Heroes – this should be a lesson about how to kill a perfectly good idea. It’s the poor man’s Xmen these days, even with Bryan Fuller back on board. Not even Sylar can save this one, Quinto is so much better as Spock

Grey’s Anatomy – awful season. I can’t even remember why I thought this was fun in the first place. I don’t care who lives, who dies and who marries, I don’t care for sex with ghosts and other silly storylines and I think that actresses like Sandra Oh, Chandra Wilson and Sara Ramirez deserve so much better. Bye bye Grey’s – but you should know that my biggest beef with you is that you’ve brought Katherine Heigl to the big screen, which rejuvenated the production of crappy rom-coms. There’s no forgiveness for that.

Outside the “season” I actually discovered 3 new TV shows that are better than 95% of what’s on these days:

Six Feet Under – I’m only at episode 9, but it does keep me hooked. I’m glad to see Peter Krause in a great role (which reminds me of the amazing Sports Night – another Sorkin gem), I love the dark comedy of it all (Alan Ball – why did you stoop to vampires?) and I love the opening credits – one of the best ever.

Frasier – it got me laughing way too much: David Hyde Pierce is perfect, the writing is witty and it rarely goes for the lowest common denominator (not a lot of that going on these days, eh?). Sure, things went south after the 8th season, but that’s still some accomplishment….

Arrested Developement – why did they cancel this? It’s crazy fun, and you can even get over how annoying Michael Cera is. I’m starting to look forward to the movie

For next year? I hope I’ll have less time for TV watching And I’m already disappointed that Lauren Graham’s & Matt Perry’s TV pilots were shot down. I was looking forward to seeing both again…

Die Blechtrommel [The Tin Drum]

Since, sadly, there’s no concert to go to today, I got around to finishing the book I started 2 weeks ago. I felt sort of guilty for dragging it this long – even so, I still would have rather had a concert to go to But I’ll always have Paris (I hope ).

I felt sort of like I had to read this book; after all, The Tin Drum is big – in a figurative sense – so big in fact that I don’t really think I can say much about it, without sounding silly. I was intrigued by something Dragos said somewhere: that the roots of Rushdie’s Midnight Children can be easily traced back to this particular book. And, while I see the resemblances – the physical disadvantages and the abilities that they generate, the social and political subtexts – I still have a personal preference for Mr Rushdie. There’s just more twisty magic in his world.

The Tin Drum feels in so many ways like a classic: bildungsroman with elements of the picaresque, well defined main character (which probably represents the homework of many German students ), symbols and subtexts. It’s quite a pleasure to read, although not necessarily too accessible, entertaining and gripping while not giving in to sensationalism.

I won’t go spoiling the plot – and I’ll just quickly skip to my favorite thing about it: Oskar’s duality. His destiny is marked from the first second my uncertainty over his paternity (Jan Bronski – his mother’s cousin and lover, the Polish dandy or Matzerath – his mother’s husband, the German merchant) and from then on his preferences will always be clearly split: Rasputin (the carnal and earthly) or Goethe (the poetic, aerial, abstract) in his formative years; Poland or Germany throughout the war; in fact – art vs. war in itself; and the women: mothers or nurses. The perhaps one thing that keeps them all together is his uncanny talent for drumming from which, no matter how tragic his experiences turn out to be he can never really stay away. A rare gift he has (and now that I sound like Yoda, it crosses my mind that Oskar might look a bit like the Jedi master – except for the green skin and pointy ears ): he can sing, evoke his life and other’s life and the touch of the drum – childhood, neighbours, war, interior conflicts, deaths and overwhelming guilt, friends lost and friends gained, love and rejection, the Polish potato fields and the 4 brown skirts, all sorts of darkened pasts.