Beautiful Ruins By Jess Walter

I don’t get writer-envy often, but Jess Walter’s seemingly effortless efforts make me want to alternately squash him like a cockroach, and kiss him full mouth with lots of tongue!  I fell in lust with Walter’s writing via his 2009 book, The Financial Lives of the Poets, about a guy who quits his job to create a website featuring poetry about finance and money. Check out this NPR excerpt and you’ll see why I'm goofy over this guy.

Beautiful Ruins first drew me in with its cover, featuring an azure seascape and cream-colored cliffs dappled with pastel houses. But when I saw Jess Walter’s name, I sniffed and walked away thinking “I won’t be seduced by some pretty, opportunistic play on my weakness.” Two weeks later I bought it thinking, “This better be damn good.”  It was.

Beautiful Ruins is a story about love and dreams and how reality and chance mold them into our stories. It begins in 1962, with a humble yet illogically optimistic innkeeper, Pasquale, in a remote Mediterranean fishing village, and the young, beautiful actress, Dee, who accidentally lands on his shore. We are then transported to modern-day Hollywood, where an aging Italian man arrives at a movie studio searching for the same beautiful actress. Back and forth we glide, as Walter spins a fascinating tale and cadre of characters and happenings spanning 50 years. One of the most interesting characters, included to great affect, is Richard Burton (yes, the), who is involved with Dee during the making of the movie Cleopatra.

Jess Walter’s (pictured) has a number of writing talents, but my personal favorite is his sense of humor. It's not just that he's funny. You think he's delivered the punch line, then he says something else so clever that you laugh because it is funny and because it is so ridiculously clever. For example, this description of a Hollywood producer:

The first impression one gets of Michael Deane is of a man constructed of wax, or perhaps prematurely embalmed. After all these years it may be impossible to trace the sequence of facials, lifts and staples, collagen implants, tannings, cyst and growth removals, and stem-cell injections that have caused a seventy-two-year-old man to have the face of a nine-year-old Filipino girl.

Beautiful Ruins is a fun romp through the lives of the almost ruined lives of a lively group of beautiful characters, and is also a comfortable and entertaining reminder of how life simultaneously beats us down and makes us our most glorious selves. Read Beautiful Ruins. It is a truly novel novel.

One Hundred Things My Mother Taught Me A Million Times - Chapter 94

#94 - Eating beans is a sign that you are poor.

Photo is of mom and me having Champagne in the hot tub, around 2003. 

Back when I was a kid and mom would say things like #94 above, it just seemed like a simple declaration. Now it seems much more complex. I’m not sure if that’s because life is more complex, or because I am mature or both or neither.

Granted, beans are one of the least expensive things we can eat, but they are also one of the most nutritious. Perhaps the more significant issue is why mom would say that eating beans is a sign that you are poor. I can’t help but wonder if this is one of the many spin-offs of the Great Depression, when apparently many, many people had very little to eat. Perhaps people who ate food other than beans during that time were relatively “wealthy.”

I wonder if my mother experienced hunger. I wonder if my mother experienced poverty.  I wonder why it mattered to mom to not appear to be “poor,” and what, in her day constituted poor. These seem such trivial matters, but they really aren’t because they are the things that shape our lives. And yet I would never think to ask my mom these questions. And I can’t because she is no longer with us.

On a less melancholy level, #94 doesn’t seem that far from some people’s wish to appear wealthier than they are. We buy houses, cars and clothing that are less expensive models of more expensive versions. And some people really seem so driven to homogeny – only eating, doing, wearing, living like the people they want to be.

By the way, did you know that you can leave beans, or any food for that matter, sitting out of the refrigerator for up to 24 hours and they won’t spoil if you do not put an airtight lid on them? Mom said to boil beans (or whatever), or rewarm adequately within 24 hours and the dish will not spoil. I’ve done this for years, without poisoning anyone, and it really works.

Myself, I like beans cooked with bacon and beer and lots of cumin and garlic, and served with cornbread and green onions. And admittedly, when I’m feeling a little financially pinched, I always think of cooking a big pot of beans. So maybe mom was right, eating beans is a sign that you are poor.

Every Love Story Is A Ghost Story by D. T. Max

Every time I read David Foster Wallace’s writing I feel like a hamster on an exercise wheel. The more I read the faster my mind moves until I become intellectually exhausted and have to slam the book shut and go do something mindless. D. T. Max’s biography of David Foster Wallace, Every Love Story Is A Ghost Story, had the same effect.

I suppose I should tell you a little about David Foster Wallace, so here you go, in 25 words (a personal challenge): Born into academia, brilliant, driven, sometimes professor, published, a substance abuser, constantly depressed, suicidal, and horribly insecure about his looks, women, penis size, and writing.

I didn't even know who David Foster Wallace was until shortly after he committed suicide in 2008, and a book club friend recommended Wallace’s book, Consider The Lobster, which is actually one of his lighter tomes. I really loved how Wallace made me think differently about things, so I read David Lipsky's book,  Although of Course You End Up Becoming Yourself, about a road trip he took with Foster Wallace.  Around the same time, I stumbled upon Mary Karr’s fabulous book Lit, and found out that she and Wallace were ill-fated and ill lovers – both brilliant writers and substance abusers. So long story short, I've become a bit of a David Foster Wallace junkie, and had to read Every Love Story Is A Ghost Story. 

Did I enjoy it? Well yes, in the way that you enjoy a long, hot, sweaty run. You know it is good for you and you feel magnanimous in your discipline, and even in love with the run once it is completed. The major difference being that unlike running, while reading Every Love Story, I didn’t want to stop. To the point, neither David Foster Wallace nor D. T. Max are casual reads. They delve deeply and use big words.

KEY WEST 2012

One Hundred Things My Mother Taught Me A Million Times - Chapter 93

#93 - "Always wash your mouth out with cool water to freshen your breath."

(pictured l-r, My youngest son Colt, daughter JoLene, the kids' dad Herbie, and eldest son Cuatro)

I recently spent a boatload of money to buy clothes that I wore for 20 minutes at my homecoming football game. Why only 20 minutes? Because for some reason that I don’t truly understand, it was important for me to look good for the 20 minutes that I was there, but it was even more important for me to leave quickly and talk to as few people as possible. 

The basic plan was for me to watch my daughter being presented as her class representative for Exes Homecoming Queen Friday night, and then drive her eldest daughter, Sydney, back to San Antonio for an early Saturday morning volleyball game. I watched the presentation, then slinked back to my car, all the while avoiding eye-contact with anyone who looked vaguely familiar. I did run into and visit with a few friends, best hometown gal-friend, Linda Sue Gage, across-the-street childhood friend, Suzanne Heath, and long-time acquaintances Tommy Joe Holmes and Dwayne Cash, and it was simply delightful to see and visit with them. So why didn't I stay? 

The reason I bring this up in preface to talking about mom’s #93 is because it was during my trip home for homecoming that I recalled this one of one hundred things my mom taught me a million times.  And I needed to vent.

So after the game, Sydney and I drove part way then spent the night in a small town. Next morning I woke up to discover that I didn’t have a toothbrush. I asked Sydney if I could borrow her toothbrush, and she said, “I didn’t bring one. Mom said you’d have one,” and my mom’s #93 came flooding back to me, just as all her lessons eventually do.

I said to Sydney, “Just rinse your mouth out with cool water,” while not truly believing myself that it would do much good.

“Really?” she said, less skeptically then one might expect from a near-teenaged girl.

“Sure!” I said with confidence as I bent over the sink grabbed a mouthful of cool water, sloshed it around enthusiastically, and spit it into the sink. Within seconds, my mouth, which previously tasted as scary as morning breath can, had no taste or smell whatsoever. Seriously!

Of course I can’t leave well enough alone, so I had to Google up “rinse your mouth out with water” just to see what would happen. Sure enough, on the appropriately titled “Healthy Smell” website, I kid you not, it said, “Regularly rinsing your mouth is good for general dental health.”

The Secret Race: Inside the Hidden World of the Tour de France: Doping, Cover-ups, and Winning at All Costs by Tyler Hamilton and Daniel Coyle

It feels strangely personal to be writing a review of Tyler Hamilton and Daniel Coyle’s book The Secret Race: Inside the Hidden World of the Tour de France: Doping, Cover-ups, and Winning at All Costs. 

Years ago, my husband and I fell in love on many 50-mile bike rides, and spent hours, weeks and years enraptured by Lance Armstrong’s seven wins of the Tour de France. If former Armstrong cycling team member Tyler Hamilton's accounts are true, and icons of the sport, including Lance Armstrong, LeMond, Indurain, Landis, Contador, Ullrich are all doping “cheaters,” then I feel cheated of important parts of my history, and that hurts.

Hamilton, who along with many other riders has confessed to the use of performance-enhancing drugs, presents damaging stories about  the UCI (International Cycling Union), and prolific doping at the highest ranks of professional cycling. Hamilton and co-author Coyle portray Armstrong as a particularly arrogant mastermind of deceit who took the unmatched seven Tour wins illegally, and at great cost, by injecting himself with drugs, popping pills, and administering blood transfusions. Hamilton then excuses the entire industry by saying drugs just level the playing field - if you are winning, you are doping (everybody does it).

As you may know, the press has dogged Armstrong for years about performance-enhancing drug use, in spite of the fact that he has never failed a drug test. Armstrong recently relinquished his seven Tour de France titles saying that he just didn’t want to fight anymore. The Secret Race provides Hamilton's version of the backstory that leads up to Armstrong’s decision to give up his seven Tour titles. Regardless of what happens, Lance Armstrong has been such a hero to so many – and will remain a hero for his work through LiveStrong.

I was interested in why Daniel Coyle (pictured left), a highly regarded journalist would partner with Hamilton in writing this book. Of course it could just be about the money for both of them.  I did, however, find Bicycling Magazine’s interview with Coyle interesting, and the below excerpt in particular:

Bicycling: As you mention, it’s a dark book. Some of the things that are described in it are horrible, almost ghoulish. Were you surprised about the depth of the doping and deception?

Coyle: Frankly, not really. Semi-surprised would be a good term. To me it’s a larger human story. Look at Wall Street. After deregulation those guys made terrible greedy decisions because they were part of a bad culture. It’s like what (Jonathan) Vaughters said: This is what happens when there’s no auditing. It’s a larger fabric of the way people behave in a corrupt culture. We know people are capable of astonishing things, if there’s a cheat-or-be-cheated mentality. You have the UCI in a position of promoting the sport and regulating it. There’s no way they’d have done a good job. And then along comes a guy like Armstrong who’s a great story and is going to drive all this interest in the sport. There are some situations where people manage to restrain themselves from those natural urges to cut corners, but for a lot of people the attitude is, “Why kill the golden goose?”

When I watched this year’s Tour Armstrong was conspicuously missing. It wasn’t a surprise that he didn’t ride, but what was shocking was that neither his photo nor his name were present. Armstrong and the US Postal and Discovery teams are legendary and a huge part of the history of the Tour, and their performance in the Tour brought a huge audience to the sport and tons of money. Without any mention of their and Lance Armstrong's winning Tour history, this year’s broadcast felt very strange and very wrong. Without a doubt, the doping scandals have cast a pall of sadness over the sport.

Book Review Marathon

Since I’m very behind in my book reviews, the following “quickies” are provided to catch me up!

Ghost In the Wires by Kevin Mitnick and William S. Simon

Famous hacker tells how he manipulated people, phones and computers, just for fun. Read if computers and technology fascinate you.

The Odds: A Love Story by Stewart O’Nan

Burned out couple on the verge of financial collapse take a trip to Niagara Falls. The wimp husband thinks the trip is to rekindle the marriage and win a bucket load of cash to pay off their debts. The whinny wife just wants to get it over with. Don’t bother.

Manhunt by James L. Swanson

This is the story about the 12-day hunt for John Wilkes Booth, Lincoln’s slayer. The different perspective makes an over-told story interesting. Read if you are a Lincolnphile.

Quiet by Susan Cain

This book is about research and observations on introversion. Fascinating. Read it if you like non fiction and learning new things.

Wolf Hall: A Novel by Hilary Mantel

Beautifully written story told many times before about Henry VIII and Ann Boleyn, but with a cast of thousands. Mantel is a very clever writer. Read if you like period pieces and/or are a Henry VIII-phile.

Wild by Cheryl Strayed

Slightly crazy woman raised in communes, home-schooled, etc. provides interesting insights into life, in the context of her very unprepared hike of the Pacific Coast Trail. Fun interesting read.

The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian 

by Sherman Alexie

Kid raised on a Seattle Indian reservation decides 

to go to school off the reservation. Entertaining writer 

and an interesting look into the life of the kid’s tribe
and their lifestyles and customs.

One Hundred Things My Mother Taught Me A Million Times - Chapter 92

#92 -  “Save bacon fat.  It adds a lot more flavor to food than anything you get at the store.”

Pictured left is our beautiful daughter Normandy JoLene Moore, with her and husband James' handsome and very sweet son, William James (Will).

There are plenty of studies out there confirming that bacon is good for you. Like from Pig Growers United, The American Bacon Coalition and the National Association of Nitrate Producers, but the only source I really trust is mom. Her theory, based upon 99 years of continuous testing, is that bacon fat, when applied in moderation, will not kill you. Or at least not until you’re 99 anyway!

We always had a large de-labeled and cleaned Del Monte peach can sitting on the stove into which mom drained bacon grease. This accomplished several things. One, it took some of the fat off, and two, it provided a tasty and inexpensive source of oil (grease) with which mom could flavor, fry, sauté, brown and fricassee other food items. Never mind that these two cancel each other out. I remember her dropping teaspoon-sized dollops of bacon grease into her pots of beans, and her potatoes and onions, fried up in a very small amount of bacon grease, were to die for!

I’m not sure why I measured wealth by the number of kitchen utensils in a home when I was a kid, but I remember staring starry-eyed in the hardware store at the audaciously named “Grease” container (pictured). You know, the one that had the strainer that kept the little meat pieces out of the golden liquid that strained into the bottom. I yearned for one of those for years, and after we finally acquired one, watched for signs of jealousy in my friends. I remember thinking that people who had bottles of that beautiful, yellow, grocery store purchased oil must be just ridiculously rich.

I don’t remember having butter. It was always Blue Bonnet Margarine, which we called “butter.” It was wrapped in luxurious foil and kept in the refrigerator, solid as a brick, doled out like gold in tiny slivers! Mom didn’t cook with it. It was too precious for that. She could stretch a stick of “butter” like nobody’s business.  

I think I would feel embarrassingly un-PC to have one of these little grease canisters in my kitchen today, but on the other hand, I rarely let bacon grease go to waste – even if it means just pouring a little over the dogs food – feeling extremely guilty at that.

Mom always impressed upon me that it isn’t what we do that gets us into trouble, it’s how much. So she was right, save your bacon fat (just a little) to add favor to your food.