by Judy Blundell

(Once again, I actually listened to this. So if I make some spelling mistakes, it’s not on purpose!)

Brief Summary:  Evie Spooner (fantastic name!) and her family have decided to take a break for awhile. Even though Evie has school and Joe (her stepdad) has work. They drive to Palm Beach and find it…mostly empty. They make due, however, finding a hotel to stay in for a few weeks.

But they aren’t the only ones escaping the northern cold by heading south. They’ve been followed. Joe, who Evie adores, has started acting funny. Evie’s mom refuses to let her grow up. And then there’s Peter Coleridge – the slightly older man that Evie is crushing on. But nothing seems to be adding up. Everything is just a little … off.

Pretty soon Evie is sorting through an assortment of lies to try and figure out where everything went wrong. And if she can ever make it alright again.

Kell’s Chatty Review: Once again, I listened to this book. I wasn’t thrilled by the narrator, but the plot of the story hooked me so that it didn’t matter who was reading it. What I Saw and How I Lied reads like a film noir movie in novel form. Every page brings both a truth and a lie and, like Evie, you are trying to figure out what the heck is going on.

The best part: was Blundell’s slow deconstruction of every character in the book. She gives you what seems like a pretty solid character base at the beginning and slowly, you and Evie start peeling layers away that you had NO idea where there. Brilliant.

Evie: I adored Evie, even though she was ridiculously naive.  This literally was her coming of age story and it was done beautifully.

Even though I listened to it: I absolutely ADORE the cover of this book. It completely embodies the many things that were going on in Evie’s life, but still is so simple and elegant.

What I most wanted to do after reading this book: Put on red lipstick and a retro dress.

What life lesson I learned from this book: Characters aren’t always what they seem.

Where this book came from: Borrowed from my local library!

The Astonishing Life of Octavian Nothing: Traitor to the Nation; Volume I: The Pox Party

by M.T. Anderson

Brief Summary: America is on the cusp of the Revolution. Chaos is slowly taking over the streets. There is talk of a slave uprising.

Octavian, an African-American living in a fine house, is getting a classic education. And when I say classics I mean Greek, Latin, history, science, music, etc. He is practically the center of the attention at The College of Lucidity, the house where he lives with his mother and an ever-changing number of scholars (literally numbered). He most certainly does not consider himself a slave. But as the Revolution ramps up, and the College of Lucidity suddenly finds its funding disappearing, Octavian discovers that things aren’t as simple as they seem. Rather, things are far more convoluted and disturbing than he ever thought to believe…

Kell’s Chatty Review: Octavian has received a ridiculous amount of accolades. Ridiculous amount! And after reading it, I can see why. Anderson presents the story in a unique tone: manuscripts, diaries, letters, flyers, etc. Different voices all contribute to create the life of Octavian and describe the people and situation that surrounds him. It literally feels like you’re reading a scrapbook from the Revolution.

But: (you knew it was coming, didn’t you) I wasn’t particularly shocked when I was supposed to be shocked. I had pretty much guessed what the mysterious plot was prior to the big reveal. I also found myself struggling to get through the middle section because half of it seemed unconnected to the actual plot. So, overall, I can’t say I was as awed as all the reviewers out there that lavished it with praise. I’m with them on the uniqueness of the book…just not on the actual storyline.

(I semi-wonder if this is because of my unfortunate feelings toward books about the American Revolution. I was traumatized by Johnny Tremain in middle school and have never quite gotten over it… )

There is a sequel: with an equally long and incredibly fun to say aloud title. It also was a Printz nominee, so if I want to stick to my guns and read them all….I’m going to have to read it. Maybe I’ll like it better? Maybe I won’t feel like all the action was buried? Here’s hoping…

College of Lucidity: Best name for a scholarly society ever, methinks. Pretentious and semi-secretive. Perfect.

What I most wanted to do after reading this book: Not really sure honestly. I read this over a VERY long time (again, the slow part in the middle I had trouble with), so by the end, I just wanted to finish it.

What life lesson I learned from this book: Not to trust anyone. (seriously, Octavian gets hurt by trusting people about 100 times in the book.)

Where this book came from: my lovely library!

The film “Together”, aka “Sammen”, is a new Norwegian film by the director Matias Armand Jordal. It´s a very realistic coming-of-age drama about a boy´s relationship with his father after their mother and wife has been killed in a car accident in the beginning of the film. The boy´s father, Roger, is not handling the situation very well, and with focusing only on his own grief, he is is completely lacking interest in taking care of his 12-year-old son Pål. Pål is played by Odin Waage, who is doing an extraordinary interpretation of his character, making this film one of the best productions in Norway for years. This is a very intense drama about a young boy´s struggle with grief and love and I would like to give it the best ranking possible.

Screenshots from the audition:

See also the director Matias Armand Jordals own blog with the complete audition films!

When I was a boy, I would wake up at 5am, run to my parents bay window overlooking the front street, and wait… For some reason, I had a desire to watch the garbage men pick up the trash, turn the cans upside-down in mid-air, and watch the off-colored white bags fall into the jaws of the truck. I would dream at night of being a garbage man, of riding on the back of the truck, free, wind whipping through me. As I grew older, it seemed a silly dream to have. Who would respect, who would honor and idealize a man who picked up garbage all day? To my knowledge, there are no monuments dedicated to garbage men. No national prize given out, like the Pulitzer for writing. No parade, no day in honor of, no nothing. I decided to move on to a much more glorious profession: Writing (ha).

Yes, as I became a young adult, I decided that I had a nack for noticing details and putting them down on paper (that was until I read some other fantastic author and as a result: humility). About five years ago I had this notion in my head that I would write the next great American novel. That I would be a short story phenom in no time. That my poetry would change lives and alter the course of history (again, I reiterate, “ha”). Since that time, I have realized that there are very talented people feverishly writing everyday with a far greater gift than I have, which is fine. I am not being self-deprecating, I simply acknowledge the fact that there are better authors out there. There is no problem with that. I love to read them and they make me a better writer. What strikes me particularly hard is my youth, my original dream to be a garbage man.

Now, do I really want to be a garbage man at this point in my life? Probably not–although, I have considered it after correcting eighty essays. I want to grab hold of the innocence I had, like it’s 11pm with a first love. I could tell myself all day that I don’t want to be recognized as a writer. I could lie and tell you that it doesn’t matter whether or not someone likes my stories or is changed by any of them. But, the truth is, It does. And when I was a young boy on my parents bay window, I didn’t care if anyone knew me. I didn’t care if a soul recognized me as a garbage man. I simply loved what they did and admired them for it. I’m an egotistical fool, I keep telling myself, hoping that someone will read my story and be transformed. Then again, I would be calling every writer that ever wrote a story that transformed my life an arrogant jerk with this theory. I guess the notion of having people being changed for the better by my writings isn’t completely egotistical. I do want to simply help people. I want the writing to spark positive change. That has to count for something, right?

When I think more about this, I can’t help but to think of my admiration for the garbage men. In essence, I was a reader and they were the authors. What transpired back in my parents house wasn’t simply a young boy’s innocent admiration for a man doing something. It was a young boy’s dream of being something in life that inspired others to do something great. Those garbage men inspired me just as I want to inspire readers of my stories. It doesn’t matter if you are a writer, garbage man, teacher, coal miner, or factory worker. Everyday is another day to incite change, change in others, change in yourself. I don’t have to be a writer, or garbage man; so long as I am doing something moral and positive, stay open to constructive criticism, and don’t vegetate, I can inspire. I remember American actress Mary Astor in an interview state, “Once you start asking questions, innocence is gone.” Does innocence really end after asking questions, as I have been doing in this journal? Can we no longer retain any of the innocence of our youth anymore? Oh no! I just asked more questions, more innocence has left my soul! I’d like to believe that I still have a child-like innocence within me. An innocence that believes there is good in the world and I can grow up to become a writer that inspires and transforms my generation. I guess only time will tell with regards to the writing part. As for the issue regarding maintaining our innocence, I’ll leave it up to you.

Also known as “Akrovates Tou Kipou” or “The Backyard Acrobats”, this is a nice Greek coming-of-age film from 2001 about a group of 11-year-old boys spending the summer together. They often gather at a local water cistern, diving and challenging each other. They play some fearless games even though they are perfectly aware of the hidden danger waiting beneath the surface. Sometimes they fight with the neighborhood kids, like kids usually do. You will also get a glimpse into the Greek culture when following the daily life of their families. This is a drama but with some humoristic elements. There are also some rather scary scenes where you´ll jump off your seat. The story is set in 1974 Greece right before the Turkish occupation of Cyprus, so you´ll will also get some historical flashbacks. The focus of the film is however on the boys Aaron (Mihalis Evripiotis), Stelios (Giorgos Pappas), Akis (Themis Mitropoulos), Galanos (Stathis Vrachas) and Verios (Sotiriadis Miltos). The director is Christos Dimas. This is a film I would highly recommend!

This review had not been possible without the kind support from cvmc.net.

At first impression, the story is very familiar: two American-born sisters of Vietnamese American immigrants  – one the high-achieving ‘good’ daughter with her law degree, the other the ‘lost’ daughter with fast friends and temporary jobs that never last long.

But in Bich Minh Nguyen’s heart-string-pulling first novel, Van and Linny Luong are anything but stereotypes, living complicated inner lives filled with searching and rarely enough understanding. Their distant father, camped out in the basement of their childhood home, considers himself an inventor. His Luong Arm is a promising tool for short people trying to reach too-high places … a metaphor that fits all four members of the petite Luong family. Because of their short stature, he constantly tells his girls they must work that much harder to achieve success, often quoting a mistaken version of Randy Newman’s 1970s pop hit: “short people are no reason to live.”

The girls’ no-nonsense mother who managed to keep the family together, has been gone for nine years, reduced to an Olan Mills portrait and a box of ashes. Both could use some maternal guidance. Van’s near-perfect life disappears overnight when her husband walks out without explanation. Ironically, Linny’s playing the ‘other woman’ with a married man she met delivering ready-made meals to wealthy Chicago families with no time to cook – but plenty of time to step out.

As young girls, the sisters thought of themselves as the invincible Trung Sisters from first-century Vietnam. But as they grew up and their priorities took vastly divergent turns, their communication devolved into barbs and sarcasm. With Mom gone, and Dad buried in his basement, Van and Linny have no other family left except each other … and cautiously, they begin to rebuild their neglected sisterhood, shedding long-hidden secrets one by one to finally reveal their true selves.

Following the success of her delicious debut memoir, Stealing Buddha’s Dinner, Nguyen’s first foray into fiction is a quiet, resonating portrait of family lost and found …

Readers: Adult

Published: 2009

I just completed the Fight Arena quest.  It gave me a whopping 12k attack experience which brought my attack level to 42.  I always believe in questing for experience when and if I can.  It keeps combat level lower by not giving me hit points.

The movie hall seemed strangely quiet except for the low buzz inside my head, like the drone of an ancient biplane hidden in the clouds somewhere far above in the sky. I tried to concentrate on the large screen before me. Through the tears, the picture looked blurred and hazy. I didn’t know why I was crying. The biplane was coming closer with each passing second, gradually drowning me in an violent uprising of a now shapeless noise.

I sat erect and immobile, my back pressed against the plush leather seat, my mind sinking into a fathomless quagmire of random thoughts. I could taste Vicky on my still parted lips. My mouth felt dry. I was breathing through it, I realised. I want to close my mouth and then forget about it. I feel all alone huddled in an infant dark. A bluish white lustre hangs like morning fog tracing rows of chairs immediately before me. Silhouettes of the occasionally bobbing heads in them remind me that I am not alone. The familiar smell of a room-freshner colludes at my nose tip to give the stale air a touch of newness – spring flowers, I gather.

Suddenly Vicky turns and looks at me. In the darkness, I can feel his calm, steady eyes bore into my face. Once again I sense that feeling inside of me. The same feeling that I have carried within for as long as I remember. A feeling that I had, unknowingly, reserved for Vicky. I never asked myself what it was or why. I had accepted it unquestioningly. I grip the arm rest of my seat firmly to subdue a shudder that threatens to rack my body. An uncontrollable desire to run outside into the world of light takes over me. My hands are shaking as I tear them off the arm rest to wipe off the beads of perspiration running down my forehead. I feel feverish and weak.

Far from me, stands two exit signs on either side of the growing darkness, glowing eerily like warning signs of the things that wait outside for me. I felt fear etch ominous messages on my heart, which I didn’t know how to read. The massive doors, which let me in, now seemed like invisible prison gates to a dark padded cell without a key in which I was to spend the rest of my life.

I turned to look at Vicky. Without taking his eyes from the screen, he squeezes my arm as if to reassure me. ‘I am beyond reassurance, my dear cousin,’ I tell him, silently. He won’t understand, I know. He comes from a different world than mine. Every year, he visits with his family from beyond that wonderful, magical world I dream of. Seven seas and centuries separate our worlds. People in my world don’t do or say things that you do, Vicky. We don’t even think the things you do. That would be blasphemy. Our desire has made me an outcast already, do you know that?

Darkness is a curse because it gives birth to everything that light refuses to conceive. I have been removed from light so that all that was to be will be. My mind has fought with the inevitability. In horror, I accept it now. Ironically, it wasn’t the light but the dark that made the answers so clear. I now know what people meant when they said I was ’strange.’ I now see the meaning of the look in their eyes. I have hated it. I have hated the light that made them see what they did. Yet was not a part of me waiting for the dark to fall? Was this not the shy child’s unspoken desire? Well, the dark has fallen now, for once and all.

In flashes I see the last two minutes of my life come alive before my eyes. Vicky’s fingers gingerly moving on my thighs; the bursting open of a nameless feeling from the seat of my spine, rising like a pleasurable ache through the muscles of my back into my head, into my eyes, onto my lips; my head titled toward his in the dark, his lips on mine, our tongues promising each other fantasies of the unnamed kind, my body throbbing to discover and deny at the same time; his hands inside my unbuttoned jeans, stroking my adolescent pride, the rising emptiness in the pit of my stomach, my arching hips against the pressure of his soft palm, his lips on mine, interlocked in naked desire, lost in time. ‘Stop!’ the violence in my voice surprises me. It was only inside my head that I said it. I don’t want to think anymore. Fear benumbs my mind as I close my eyes tightly in terror against a future that is waiting to happen. A shudder escapes my limp body as I think about my parents and friends. The thought of stepping outside into the world of light where I will live as a ‘gay’ for the rest of my life weighs heavily upon my 16-year old shoulders. I bend down and sob silently away from the light.

]]> http://bookdragon.si.edu/2009/11/25/mahtabs-story-by-libby-gleeson/ Wed, 25 Nov 2009 16:58:48 +0000 terryhong http://bookdragon.si.edu/2009/11/25/mahtabs-story-by-libby-gleeson/

When 12-year-old Mahtab’s father returns home with obvious signs of torture, and her grandfather is forever lost, her family knows it can no longer live in Taliban-controlled Herat, Afghanistan. Her best friend has already left without saying goodbye, hoping to find refuge somewhere in Iran. Now Mahtab and her family must leave her beloved grandmother and the rest of the extended family in search of survival and freedom.

Mahtab, her mother, and her two younger siblings begin their frightening journey hidden in the back of a truck, while her father rides in the front, bribing officials when necessary to get the family safely to Pakistan. There the father must leave his family behind, traveling alone to Australia where he hopes he will be able to prepare a secure new life for his wife and children. They must patiently wait, hidden, desperate, and unsure of their tenuous future. Days and weeks become many, many months … the younger children begin to wonder if they can remember their father’s face … and even Mahtab begins to doubt that the family will ever be safely reunited again.

Mahtab’s Story is inspired by a true story, the book’s cover reveals. In the afterword, award-winning Australian author Libby Gleeson recalls that she was introduced to a group of refugee girls in a Sydney high school in 2004: “Their stories of persecution and fear in their own countries and their escape to Australia were so compelling that I felt I had to write about that experience.” She stresses, however, that this is a novel, not a biography. And yet, this is also sadly a very familiar tale in our contemporary world of questionable wars and the countless innocent victims who must risk everything for survival. In the end, Mahtab’s is undoubtedly one of the lucky stories …

Readers: Middle Grade, Young Adult

Published: 2008, 2009 (United States)

The downside to being a movie buff is that the more you watch, the harder you become to please. I’ve been pretty disappointed with most of the movies I’ve seen lately, aside from a couple good documentaries. Adventureland is the only thing I’ve seen in a while that I would actually watch again. And that’s saying a lot for me, because there are some movies I’ve seen so many times I can quote them from beginning to end — accents included. This is also a significant statement due to the presence of Kristin Stewart.

It’s not really that I don’t like her. I think she seems like a cool person, and I would not mind hanging out and having a beer with her. Wait, she’s probably not old enough to have a beer. Anyway, I just feel like her acting is the same in everything. I guess that could be said about a lot of Hollywood celebrities nowadays. I suppose that is part of their marketability. I actually didn’t mind her in this because there were enough other good characters to prevent her from being the sole focus for two hours. She is definitely better as part of an “ensemble cast” rather than STAR!  I love Jesse Eisenberg — he is definitely the kind of nerdy-yet-adorable boy I would have had a crush on back in the day. And his acting is not half bad either.

Besides the fact that it’s set in the 1980s (and that’s pretty entertaining in itself), what I really loved about this movie is the period in life that it highlights — the time when you are just killing time due to unforeseen circumstances preventing you from progressing to the next phase, and trying to enjoy yourself while also feeling like you have no idea what the hell you’re doing, and you’re  into Lou Reed when the rest of the world is obsessed with WHAM! I’m not sure everyone goes through that stage in life. But it’s definitely something that I identify with. In fact, I would say I feel like that most of the time. Just trying to figure things out.

Two thumbs up. And great soundtrack.

It really has nothing to do with the heads on the poles, the animal burnings, the fratricide or the maggots.

And astonishingly, no, I’m not giving anything away there.

As debut novels go, perhaps it’s not written so badly. Certainly I’ve read worse — far worse — but something about Iain Banks’ The Wasp Factory — actually, a lot of things about The Wasp Factory — leave behind a very, very unpleasant aftertaste.

Lord of the Flies, but with wasps. And many other far more gruesome things. Think of it that way.

Narrated by Frank Cauldhame — far too, and mystifyingly close to Caulfield — this black take on the coming of age novel is set on an island in (I believe) northern Scotland, owned by the Cauldhame family. Perhaps it’s a river island, although I’m not entirely sure and to be honest, I don’t feel like returning to the novel to double check.

Notice I didn’t say black humor, or dark comedy. Although parts of it could make you giggle, if perhaps to relieve a bit of the anxiety caused by the novel’s gory details. Sort of like the laughing hysterics one hears on a roller coaster.

I had many problems with the novel, not the least of which were the endless, but not quite coherent descriptions of the geography. There seemed to be quite a few sand dunes, but I never really knew where they were in relation to the Cauldhame house (you’ll notice I shy from calling it a home), the bridge to the “mainland,” or the various landmarks around which much of the narrative is structured — places like the Sacrifice Poles, the Bunker and (of course) the Wasp Factory.

Frank also engages in a lot of running and jogging, ritualized behavior using icky fluids, quite a bit of tedious island reconnaissance, and it would have been helpful to have a better picture of his surroundings. This novel would have been served by a map in the front matter.

Although perhaps in the scheme of things it doesn’t really matter. As is the risk with any novel told using a strict first person narrative, it’s important for the reader to like, or enjoy NOT liking, the narrator. But I certainly never liked Frank, and at times hated him in an unenjoyable way. I found nothing to admire in his actions, and by the end of the novel, when everything there is to learn has been learned, I found my opinion never changing. A map can’t solve problems like that.

YMMV.

I can’t recommend this novel. It’s a manipulative, disingenuous, not-so-deep book that I can’t imagine would reward repeated readings. While there are dark themes here, and the novel went places quite imaginative in description and plotting (I can’t deny there ARE moments I will likely recall years from now, if only for their shock value), it’s just not very deep. I don’t feel as though I learned anything reading this novel. And that’s a deal breaker for me.

While it may not have been the case in 1984, the year of publication, in 2009, the novel is predictable and contrived for the savvy reader, much like TV movies seen a decade or so later often fail to age well for the savvy viewer.

But if you’re in the mood for a twisted, gory read that Freud would have a field day with, then go for it. Just don’t be mad when you realize, by this relatively short novel’s final page, that it was nothing but empty calories.

Title: Crossing California

Author: Adam Langer

Call #: LAN

California Avenue serves as a dividing line between the prosperous and the struggling in West Rogers Park, a neighborhood in the midst of transition during the late seventies and early eighties.  Taking place over the 444 days of the Iran Hostage Situation, this coming-of-age story respects its realistic characters even while showing their many flaws and also manages to be funny, sweet and chock full of    pop culture references.

Recommended by: Kathy

This is an extremely colorful sociorealistic drama about 15 young boys, none of them professional actors, who are diving for metal scraps in the dirty waters of the Manila harbor. The title also means “Children metal divers”. The powerful colors doesn´t show completely in the movie trailer below, but are together with a beautiful soundtrack the main landmarks of this film. The story in itself about a missing friend to one of the boys is not the most important issue here, with the focus being more on the boys´hard life in general. However, the story is not bad either though a bit sad. The film is new from 2009, but has already been appreciated at several film festivals. The director is Ralston Jover, who also attended the cinema where the film was shown tonight.  I found this film very nice to watch, and especially interesting is that the children are not professional actors, and are yet acting so well, or perhaps they are mostly being themselves? I really would like to recommend this film and I will try to get a copy of the DVD as soon as it´s available on the market!

Fourth Of July

Short Story by Samovar Lightfoot

Fourth of July, 1961, Chicago Loop.

Harry was behind the bullet-proof glass. Only two cars had

pulled into the parking lot since he’d started his shift at eight in the morning, relieving Willy Blackman. Willy’d been asleep when Harry knocked on the window, startling him awake. Willy went for his gun, a .38 snubnose special he kept in his belt. When he saw Harry he took his hand off the gun. Willy didn’t smile much. A smirk was the best Harry ever got.

After Willy had turned over the change and cash Harry’d need for his shift, Willy’d gone to his canary-yellow Cadillac, and driven out of the lot. Harry’d put the 12-inch portable GE television on the counter, ready to watch the baseball games later in the day. He had a twelve-hour shift to kill.

Harry worked Sundays and holidays. Usually there was no business until later in the afternoon when families came down to the Loop for dinner. The lot had a contract with the Blackhawk Restaurant providing free-parking for the dinner guests, if they returned with a stamped ticket.

A short list of typed names was taped to the wall near the cash register. Most of the names were Chicago big-wigs who parked for free. Some of the names were Mafia dons. When they pulled in they were usually followed by a non-descript sedan occupied by stern-faced men in suits who Harry assumed were the FBI.

Getting up for work wasn’t easy. He’d been out on a date until three in the morning. When the alarm went off at seven he thought he’d been shot.

The two cars had come in together, a Plymouth and a Chevrolet; two families heading somewhere, dragging little chldren who protested all the way down the driveway and out towards Randolph Avenue.

Harry’d been working in the parking lot for two years, since he was 15. It was owned by his cousin, part of a chain of about fifty lots. During the summer and on holidays Harry parked cars alongside the men, all black, who treated him kindly.

Cars were part of Harry’s life then. Parking them, admiring them in magazines, going to races. He and his buddies, the other four Jewish guys, would sit around and listen to records of the sounds of car races trying to identify the cars.

“That’s a Ferrari,” Al would say. Al was the genius, a homely Judo champ who was always skipping grades. “Nah, it’s a Lotus,” Gabe would say. Gabe was the muscular dunce who was always flunking. If tests knew what ADD was then he’d have been on Ritalin and given more time at exams. David wouldn’t say anything. He never did. In later years he became a well-respected radiologist, but that too is a solitary profession. David and Harry and Gabe had been on the football team together until Gabe been expelled for misbehavior and wound up in a private and expensive Military school. The last in the group was Earl, a smart, pudgy non-athletic kid who was usually asleep. He was a decade younger than his next sibling, and the spoiled baby of the family.

Gabe and Al had their own car. They were partners. They’d been given the little Morris Minor as a gift by a shady character who’d caught their attention one morning when he’d flown down the street in his red-Ferrari, a car as rare as the abominable snowman in their north-side brown brick apartment building neighboorhod where Chevy’s and Fords were the mainstays and a Buick was already a move up.

His name was Dick, and he was some minor hoodlum, hiding out in the neighborhood in a third-floor walk-up. The Ferrari kept in a wooden garage in the alley behind the apartment building. Gabe and Al worshiped the guy, who was handsome, trim, and claimed to race sports cars. He even deposited the Morris Minor on the street, complete with black rollbar and numbers painted on the doors.

The engine block had frozen up. He gave Al and Gabe the car. They rented a wooden garage in an alley a few blocks away and worked feverishly trying to rebulid it. They had dreams for the car, cutting off the old body and replacing it with a fiberglass Devlin, bought from a magazine.

The hauled out the engine, took it apart and rebuilt it, dropped it back in the Morris Minor, and were impatient to test it. The car didn’t have any doors or a front bumper. The hood was standing on it’s side near the door of the garage. When they tried the key, the engine wouldn’t turn over. So they thought of a push to start it.

Gabe and Al pushed he car out of the garage, out to the alley. Al thought if Gabe pushed it, got it going fast enough, Al would pop the clutch and the engine would catch. They tried it until Gabe was covered in sweat and gave up. They couldn’t get the car going fast enough.

By then they’d reached the end of the alley, and were near the street. A young guy driving by in an old Oldsmobile saw them, and offered to help. They man handled the Morris out into the street. Gabe and Al sat side by side, and the other guy started pushing. Up to speed, pop the clutch, zip. No luck.

Then Al thought the problem was the carburator. He had Gabe stand on the metal struts that usually held the bumper, lean over into the engine, and play with the choke and carburator while he released the clutch. Again the push, the speed, pop the clutch. Zip.

Okay, Al said, I’ll do it. So he switched places with Gabe. Got on the struts, the car behind pushed, the car came up to speed, Gabe popped the clutch, the engine coughed once, twice, backfiring and sending out a plume of black smoke, then the engine froze up, the tires bit hard into the asphalt as if Gabe hit the brakes. Al was thrown twenty feet from the car in a graceful arch landing with a thump as his head hit the cement curb.

By the time Gabe reached him blood was pouring from his ears. By the time the ambulance arrived Al had been dead for ten minutes.

Harry heard the news on the radio. “A freak traffic accident is the only fatality on this July Forth. Seventeen year old Aly Feldman was killed….”

Harry’s knees went out from under him. He called his boss for relief, and then rushed to Al’s house. Al was an only child. His parents were inconsolable. Al’s grandmother kept calling Gabe a murderer.

Two days later Harry was a pallbearer at his friend’s funeral.

There would be no more horse-play. No more games. Wearing dark

suits and white gloves, the four friends were no long kids. Death had ended their childhood.

A coroner’s inquiry cleared Gabe of any criminal charges.

But Gabe never forgave himself, nor forgot. Some say you never really get past being seventeen. Al never did. The rest of us ran from it as fast as we could.

This film was the first one for me this year at the Stockholm Film Festival, and I therefore was a bit thrilled when I watched this yesterday in Stockholm. I usually go to this film festival every year and it´s everytime very fun to try choosing what films to see. It´s a bit tricky because you hardly know anything about the films and you have to pick the ones you want to see from a short description and usually with few or no screenshots to look at. However I was not disappointed with this first one. It´s an American film from 2009 dealing with the difficult subject of parenting as a single father. In the film you´ll follow Lenny, 34, who after the divorce has custody of his two kids for two weeks every year. The film starts when Lenny picks the two brothers Sage,9, and Frey,7, up from school and immediately starts an argument with the principal. Throughout the film we will realise that Lenny is not the perfect father, though actually acting very irresponsible and putting the kids in dangerous situations several times. The story is very authentic and well balanced with the acting performances, which were generally excellent. Lenny is so well played that I still get upset when I see a screenshot of him. The two brothes are also excellent performers. The camera work is the ”shaky handy camera”-type, at first you get a bit car-sick, but after a while you adjust and this technique makes a film more realistic sometimes.  The colors are delibaretaly (?) not very strong, reflecting the socioeconomic environment in which the story takes place. I liked this film very much and can recommend it!

Lenny : Ronald Bronstein

Sage : Sage Ranaldo

Frey : Frey Ranaldo

What do you get when you get when you shake together a little Harry Potter, a little Chronicles of Narnia, and all the sex and drugs that Rowling and Lewis didn’t want to believe young adults were capable of? If you’re Lev Grossman—a senior writer and book critic for Time magazine and author of the well-received literary thriller Codex—then you get The Magicians, his latest novel. (In a fascinating twist, I am reviewing a book written by a book reviewer.) And yes, this is the same book I mentioned in the Martin review last week!

This is a book that contains many elements of both the Harry Potter series, and the Chronicles of Narnia series—which is done on purpose to make a point, and therefore it’s okay by me. Quentin Coldwater, the story’s main character, grew up reading a book series about English school children who travel to another world and have adventures in which good triumphs over evil. These books had a great deal of influence on Quentin, and he has always longed to be one of the Chatwins, and be selected to travel to the land of Fillory to partake in its wonders. Needless to say, Quentin is a little disappointed when he finds himself on the cusp of adulthood, walking to an interview for an Ivy League school instead of going on an adventure in Fillory.

Quentin is a fascinating character, in that he embodies so many things and somehow manages to be a real person on top of it. He is the consummate dissatisfied rich kid with more brains than common sense and more attitude than personality. At least at first. Quentin will get deep under your skin, and your understanding of him takes root quickly. He is everyone who has ever thought they were meant for something else in this world, or maybe meant for another world, and embodies that yearning perfectly. At least at first. (I’m going to keep saying that, in case you’re wondering.)

Quentin’s world is turned upside down almost immediately, when through an interesting series of events, he finds himself transported from his Brooklyn neighborhood to the grounds of Brakebills, a college for magicians. I know what you’re thinking, and you’re thinking the same thing I was thinking: “Oh, God, it’s Hogwarts. What a rip-off.” It is not, in fact, Hogwarts, as evidenced by the fact that the first person Quentin meets is a student who has hidden from the faculty so he can smoke and threatens (quite seriously) to banish Quentin to hell. Quentin’s first question, heart-breakingly, is whether he is in Fillory (heart-breaking because by now, you want him to be). He is not, but Brakebills is the best consolation prize someone could ask for. At least at—well, you know. Then it’s the hardest curriculum imaginable, and it’s students who are difficult to get along with, and it’s an entire semester in a bunker in Antarctica with the power of speech removed. But it’s better than Yale and being just like your rich, uncaring parents.

It doesn’t take long to realize that Quentin is no squeaky-clean Harry Potter. This is the book for everyone who finished that series and scratched their heads and wondered if J.K. Rowling had ever actually met a teenager. These kids get in fistfights and get drunk. Quentin does not chastely hold hands with his girlfriend. Without spoiling the context, I’ll just say that their first time is rather memorable. One of the other major characters got basically disowned by his family because he’s gay, so he consequently hates everyone and is a functional alcoholic by the time he reaches the legal drinking age. Quentin’s girlfriend had a brother die in his heartbreak over a girl who got involved with a teacher. Quentin himself (keep in mind that this is the main character) gets into a threesome and some casual drug use.

This is, at heart, a coming-of-age story. Quentin goes home sometimes, and he no longer knows his old friends, or his parents. He graduates, and is left wondering what is next in his life. This point in the story is seriously depressing, especially for those of us who have graduated from college and experienced this complete let-down that Quentin goes through. He got what he wanted. He got magic. He got the most exciting education possible. So, now what?

I won’t spoil the details of the plot, except to say that Quentin then gets everything he could have possibly wanted after he’d already got Brakebills. Quentin is elated, he knows it’s going to be perfect. At least at . . . erm, he starts out excited, yeah? Suffice it to say, what transpires is not childlike wonderment and good triumphing over evil. It’s not happy for anyone, really. Not everyone survives. Like Quentin’s girlfriend Alice, you wonder if this man is capable of being happy at all. (You’re starting to wonder if you are capable of happiness, by this point, because Grossman is writing your story, now.) Things reach rock bottom. Hope, when it is found, is found right where Quentin (and you) should have been looking all along. . . when it’s too late for it to be untainted.

The Magicians is more than a coming-of-age story—it’s about the struggle to accept what the world is and how to cope when it isn’t what you wanted. Grossman wrote the story of becoming an adult in a world that doesn’t make sense, and he did it well. It’s a wild ride, and there’s a lot of bitterness that makes the moments of sweetness explode in your senses. It is (preposterous, I know) a lot like real life. Even the magic is not magical, and the life lessons are hard to learn. It’s a very real look at what people in their early twenties are facing right now in the real world. Grossman is a wonderful writer, following a cynical young man through a confusing period with just the right balance of sobriety and wickedly understated moments of humor.

I have two complaints, and one is petty. My biggest problem is the self-awareness that Grossman has about the similarities to Harry Potter and Narnia. He actually drops Hermione’s name at one point. You can argue that it makes sense that Quentin, a book lover as a child, would have read Harry Potter. But it felt to me like Grossman was being a little too tongue-in-cheek about it. It was obvious that in places he was “fixing” things about the other books, and it would have been more comfortable if he just did it without pointing it out. As it was, those moments pulled me out of the story, because it felt like Grossman was sitting there next to me giving me a nudge in the ribs and a wink as if to say, “See what I did there?” The second complaint is exactly the one I had with Martin’s Fevre Dream and the phrase “the pale king.” I felt like if I encountered the teeth-grindingly over-educated word “matriculate” just once more in The Magicians, I was going to go postal. If Mr. Grossman would like a thesaurus, I would gladly allow him to borrow mine.

Conclusion: You’re too old for the kid stuff, and this is exactly what you were hoping the kid stuff would be (strangely fitting, isn’t it?). A book for anyone who doesn’t know what they want or had to give up on a dream. Depending on your reading list, put this at number three.

The Perks of Being a Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky

Something is wrong with Charlie, the sixteen year old boy who narrates this story through letters written to an unspecified “friend.” He is subject to dramatic mood swings, has trouble with the art of truthtelling, and lacks social grace. The suspense that drives the story is the uncertainty over whether Charlie’s fragility will survive the onslaught of over-the-top adolescent hazards. Nothing is spared; there is drinking, violence, drugs, smoking, abuse, homosexuality, fast-driving, and explicit sex. Ironically, it is the realization of his dream of the tenderness of true love that pushes him over the brink, forcing him to finally come to terms with events in his early childhood that damaged him.

This novel has been compared to Catcher in the Rye. It is similar in that it too is a book that belongs to young people, in that it expresses the drive for a generational truth in still forming young minds. But Charlie is not as angry as Holden Caulfield. Charlie has more reason to complain and be vengeful but he is too devoted to the principal of love. And this is why he is able to face his demons and come to the conclusion that he cannot change his past, but he can make a better future for himself.

The explicit content in this book has made this a controversial book. It has been banned by adults, and teenagers have named it as the best book they have read–a book that has changed their lives and made them interested in reading. As an adult who finds books for kids, I found the content almost relentlessy disturbing–did they have to smoke too?–but I realize the content represents the minefield that a broken Charlie must navigate, and thus highlights both his strengths and his undeserved baggage. Teenagers brought this book into my classroom. Most of my students seem to know about this book, and some chose not to read it. That seems appropriate. It is their book, let them choose.

Gaby

Tegami Bachi (Letter Bee) is yet another example of an anime` that starts off well but can’t keep it going. Just when you think you can trust the show, perviness shows up and deflates your enthusiasm. And what’s worse is that the show has every ingredient to be great — emotions, a killer setting, a steampunk vibe, cool technology, and even a bit of Christian symbolism in the mix. I managed to hold out for eight episodes, mostly because I kept hoping that they’d pull it out of the gutter, but they never did.

1. Good. Starts series off well. Cool world. Somewhat emotional, but it looks like it will be a slow burn on the emotions instead of pyrotechnics.
2. Eh, sophomore slump. Maudlin and a few seconds of ribald mockery. It’s mostly a setup for the rest of the series. The ending theme is good though.
3. Geez, what is it with this series? It has all the facets necessary to be great but instead they introduce perviness to dilute what could be good into something lame. Seriously, a chick that never wears underwear?
4. It’s ok. The beginning theme is above average. Fairly predictable. The whole thing with the chick is cleared up — she’s a wild legendary creature that has been living as a creature.
5 A little better than 4.
6 Ok, but a bit maudlin.
* 7 Good. A diversity of emotions.
8 Trash. They can’t keep the pervy references out, and they deflate any unity between animation and emotion; you feel dirty. This is the end of the road for me.

Welcome to the graveyard, Tegami Bachi.