Category Archives: holidays

Thoughts on the New Year

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Good evening good friends!

I’m breaking the radio silence this evening to bring you greetings from sunny Orlando.  I have a great deal to say about what’s been going on down here, but frankly the much-needed break has been so good for my semester-addled brain that I’m having trouble convincing myself that breaking the sanctity of “vacation” is worth the amusing blogal anecdotes.  Don’t worry, I’ll get around to describing my antics at some point, but for now, I’m going to rest up, spend some time with my family, and forget that I’m an educated person.

I’ve read four books since the end of the semester, all of my own choosing, and I started on a fifth this morning.  None of them have anything to do with theatre, Shakespeare, or my comps list.  This, if anything, means “vacation” to me.

I wanted to take a moment at the dawning of a new year to reflect on how far the past 365 days have taken me.  Last year at this time I was just finishing up my PhD applications, struggling to steel myself for the final semester of my MA, teaching ballroom dance in New Jersey, karaoking several times a week for lack of anything else to do with my time, and in utter and complete life limbo as I couldn’t plan anything until I heard back from my programs.  Though I knew my life was about to change drastically, there was no way I could have any inkling as to how and where those changes might lead me.

This next year, I have a much better idea of the trajectory of the next twelve months.  That being said, the past year has been a reminder that even when one has plans, one still needs to allot for drastic change in them.  As much as has happened in the past year (and more!) could happen in the next year.  The illusion of consistency (the hobgoblin of little minds) is limiting at best and devastatingly crippling at worst.

I do have some plans for the next year.  I have at least one conference lined up, my first ever academic publication forthcoming, and another year of coursework ahead of me.  I will be learning another language over the summer to fulfill degree requirements.  I will be ramping up for Comps.  Next fall, I will be teaching at least one class.

I’ve never taken much stock in New Years’ resolutions.  To me, they mostly wind up being over-rated hype that more quickly turn into empty words than fulfilling promises.  Then, at the turning of 2006 into 2007, I realized my problem.

Start small.  That year, I resolved to finally finish reading Pride and Prejudice.  It worked.

This year, I’m resolving to memorize a better toast for next year.  Inevitably people look at me at midnight and expect something witty or wise or funny or some combination of the above… inevitably I come up short (either because I’ve had a few too many glasses of champagne or because I’m tired).  Somehow people are aghast and agog that the Shakespeare scholar can’t think of a single set of sage words to ring us into the next year.

Next year, I won’t be stuck fumbling around for such things.  For now, though, you’ll have to count yourself satisfied with this:

What is love? ’tis not hereafter;
Present mirth hath present laughter;
What’s to come is still unsure:
In delay there lies no plenty;
Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty,
Youth’s a stuff will not endure.

Have a happy, safe, healthful, fulfilling new year folks!  I’m going to go bury my head in the sand for another week.  I’ll catch you back in Boston!

No Reason to Revel….

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Last night, I saw a traditional Boston Christmas staple; The Christmas Revels.

Unfortunately, “tradition” does not always equate “quality”.

So, I’ll admit to a personal bias.  Over-produced theatre always makes me skeptical.  When I pay over $30 for a ticket (especially when I’m not even paying for the best seats in the house), when I receive a program that has pages upon pages of benefactors listed, when I walk in to a BIG BEAUTIFUL GIGANTIC theatre, I expect a certain level of quality.  What I expect from a piece is in direct proportion to the amount of resources at the piece’s disposal.

Walking in to the Sanders Theatre at Harvard is an experience in itself.  The theatre (so claimeth Harvard) was designed as a lecture and commencement hall, but it feels more

Sanders

like a converted cathedral.  It has lofty arched ceilings, beautiful stained glass, and pulpit seating.  Also, it’s a wooden theatre.

My love for wooden theatres is a love that cannot be paralleled.  Wood brings life to a theatre (and the acoustics which it provides are simply unmatched).  It feels homey, comfortable, a theatre that could give you a hug.

Sanders is a three-quarter round with only one fault that I can tell: the sightlines.  It’s designed in Elizabethan style which means that it has a pit, a mezzanine, and a balcony supported by columns which jet through the mezz.  Of course, the columns are an obvious sight obstruction, but the balcony itself is poorly designed.  It isn’t raked steeply enough to give anyone but those lucky enough to be sitting front and center full viewing of the stage.  Myself and my companion, seated mid-balcony, missed about a third of the performance due to failure to accommodate to these sightlines.

This, granted, is a problem that anyone could have.  And (to be fair) certain seats are marked as “partial viewing”, but our seats were not among those.  One would think that an organization which has performed out of a certain theatre for forty-one years would understand the space constraints of said theatre and make arrangements accordingly.

The performance itself seemed haphazard and lazy.  It was clumsily written (they write a new show every year), jamming together elements that they, as an institution, were required to include due to audience expectations in a graceless mish-mosh of near incomprehensibility.  The performers themselves lacked energy and what talent they had was eclipsed by an apparent need for more rehearsal.  The principle players lacked training to accomplish the demands of their roles (one, an unspeaking clown, often devolving into nonverbal diarrhea rather than anything funny or meaningful).  I doubt I saw a single performer smile for the entire performance.

The dance numbers were a travesty.  The performers had some grace but lacked synchronicity so they became an unpolished mess.

The sets were beautiful, but the costumes were odd.  Some were lovely, others included five-pocket khakis and sneakers (… in a period piece).

In all honesty, I felt like I was watching a big-budget high school production.  Except I was out $45 a seat.

There were a few interesting elements to the show.  Revelshas a sort of audience call and response sing-back tradition; there are several songs included in the show every year which the audience is expected to sing with the performers.  Lyrics are included in your program, and the house lights are brought up to full during these numbers so that one may read the lyrics.  Being in a theatre with 1,165 other audience members singing along with what was going on is a pretty fantastic experience.  In addition, the first act wraps up with a catchy song and a farandol which extends into the lobby.  Everyone rises and

Imagine this lobby filled with people dancing.... truly spectacular.

participates, filling the giant lobby packed full of dancing people.  It’s joyous and spontaneous (and truly wonderful to participate in).  If the rest of the show had been as delightful as that moment, I would be writing an extremely different review.

There is, of course, an easy solution to my giant frustration: lower ticket prices.  Yes, I would have paid $20 for a partial-view of the travesty that occurred onstage.  I might have even been lukewarmly entertained.  When I mentioned these things to my companion, he reminded me that the Revels was something of an institution and thereby could charge whatever they wanted because people would pay it.

Cue rage.  World-leveling rage.  The anger of a thousand torch-bearing French peasants.  So… just because people had been coming to this thing for however many years as part of their personal Christmas traditions meant that they would come next year.  Which meant the cardinal rule of theatre would be obeyed: butts would be put in seats.  Which meant that yes, they could charge whatever they wanted.

….AND STILL PRODUCE AN OBVIOUSLY SUB-PAR PRODUCT?

…AND STILL HAVE AN AUDIENCE THE NEXT YEAR?

I ran a struggling no-budget theatre company.  I know what kind of dedication it takes to making something go with no money or resources.  Having money, backers, a captive audience, that’s a pretty cushy deal in the theatre (and a rare one at that).  How can you let that audience down?  How can you, even for a moment, allow anything to stand between you and a quality production?

…and you know the worst part?  This audience WILL COME BACK NEXT YEAR hoping that it will be better, or hopped up on enough drugs (apparently I missed the distribution of the happy-pills at the entry) to think that they witnessed a passable (or even good) production.

No.  After a show like this, this organization should be condemned to performing in church basements until they produce something worth their audience.  Successful theatre companies need to remember what it’s like to be starving.  That kind of pressure, that kind of intensity, feeds the creative spirit in a way that no amount of donors can.

If you went to dinner at a restaurant, even if it was your favorite restaurant, and the food

You can see the nifty set in the background and some of the more spectacular costumes

came out cold, the service was poor, and nobody was there to help you when you found a bug in your salad, would you go back?  Theatre should be the same way.

I urge you.  I plead with you.  Do not bring your patronage to this establishment (or any who fail to produce something palatable) until they have re-earned it.

…on a completely different note…. I’m off on vacation for two weeks.  I may check in (or I may take a much-needed break), but either way I hope you have a fantastic Holiday (whatever it may be that you celebrate) and a literary new year!  This opportunity also affords me to utilize the following societal hackneye…

“Danielle, you just finished your first semester of your PhD!  What are you going to do now?”

“I’m going to Disney World!”

 

To Liberty, not to Banishment!

Aside

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Today is an historic day my friends.

A day, as they say, that will live in infamy.  A day for the books.  A day to be celebrated.  A day of wonder and joy.

Today, I turn in the last two finals of my first semester.  Turn in.  Done.  Can’t look at them anymore, won’t look at them anymore, goodbye, see you next year, adios, hate to see you leave but love to watch you go.

I can’t say it hasn’t been a bumpy ride.  This semester has had its trials, its tribulations, its joys, its sorrows, its mysteriously unexplainable illnesses which the doctors are still scratching their heads over…

But I did it.  And I’m still standing (though barely due to aforementioned mysterious illness).  As of this afternoon, I will be free to enjoy a few weeks of working on other projects and reading things that I want to read before I dive back into the fray in January.

For now, let’s have a look at the things that I’ve done this semester.  A re-cap, if you will; a sentimental journey into the past three and a half months.

I have seen seven plays (not bad, but not great… will do better next semester).

I have read four leisure books (before you start casting aspersions, remember that this is reading I did when I wasn’t in class, sleeping, reading for class, researching, or writing papers.  Considering these books average about seven hundred pages a pop, I think that’s pretty darn good).

At the peak of my book hoarding, I had forty-seven simultaneously checked out library books.  Every semester, I mean to do a count of total books checked out but this isn’t as easy to manage as you may think.  I have a revolving door for library books and sometimes only keep a book for a single day before returning it… I really have to develop a more sophisticated tracking system.

I can’t even begin to approximate the number of pages I have read.  Again, every semester I mean to develop a system to figure this out (either to scare or impress myself, I’m not certain which).  I’m open to suggestions about either of these systems in hopes that next semester I can have an actual counter… and maybe a progress bar or something.

I have produced eighty-two pages of turn-in-able scholarly writing (if you think about that as a breakdown of pages per day I’m averaging 1.17 pages per semester day; not counting the blog or leisure writing.  That’s pretty darn impressive, if you ask me!).

I have conducted my first bit of research based in interviews with real live people.

I have produced my first bit of turn-in-able scholarly research based solely in archive work.

I have narrowly avoided being eaten by velociraptors.

I have landed my first gig writing something to be published (book review, forthcoming, not a huge thing but it’s definitely a start!)

I have, on the whole, survived, more or less intact.  This, again, is a gigantic feat.  For many days, my mantra was “don’t worry, you’re a first year, you’re only expected to survive.  Keep plugging.  Don’t fret.  Just keep going.”  Hey, look, with the strategic application of that mantra, I did survive!

So now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go turn in my last papers for the semester.  Then I’m going to go read something involving zombies and having no scholarly value whatsoever.  Then I’m going to watch a movie that has nothing to do with my research or area of expertise.

Winter break, she is here at last.

In Which Our Hero Begins to Make Headway on the Deadly Homework Beast (and does so while looking fabulous)

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Annnnnnnddddd we’re back.

I hit the ground running this week as I spent about half of the long weekend working on finals and the other half doing a bit of relaxing.  As a result, I feel refreshed, invigorated, and in a great place to start the final finals crunch.

It’s funny, but in past years Thanksgiving break has never meant being on top of things.  Historically, it’s been a time where (if anything) I feel even further behind the giant homework snowball than usual.  This may be for a variety of reasons…

1)    I’ve never not worked before.  Ever.  This year, my fellowship is generous enough that I didn’t have to face the first-year-hell on top of viable employment and, being nothing but an opportunist, I jumped at that opportunity.  As a result, I actually had five solid days of not needing to be anywhere (except for obligatory family stuff).  As a result, I had time both to get work done and to relax.

 2)    Tufts, bless their bureaucratic institutional soul, allows us to turn in our finals during actual allotted finals week as opposed to on our last class.  The last class is usually around the second week of December.  Allotted finals time bumps right up against Christmas (my last final is due on the 21st).  That is a significant portion of time in which you no longer have class reading, you no longer have to be physically present in class, and you can simply devote to writing your finals.  Rutgers was a “last class final paper” kind of institution which did mean that my semester ended earlier, but also inevitably meant that I was a) working through my birthday and b) panicking at the tail end of Thanksgiving.

 3)    The liberal consumption of pecan pie and martinis.  Not necessarily together.  In past years, the pecan pie has (of course) been a staple of the thanksgiving table, but the appreciation of a good dry dirty vodka martini has eluded me until this very year.  Now I’m not entirely certain how I lived without them.

 4)    Disney movies.  Enough said.

 Oh, yea, and I attended Mostly Waltz (Boston) yesterday.

Let me take a moment to expound upon the wonders of social dancing.  My experience is in ballroom which, while not entirely out of place at Mostly Waltz, is very different styling from the folk/country/general social dance that most of the dancers there were versed in.  What this meant was an afternoon of, while being comfortable and confident on the dance floor, learning something new and exciting.  Social dancing is the essence of communication.  Without words, two people come together and create something.  A lead needs to be clear in his signals and a follow needs to be able to listen to those signals.  Moving together, the dancers need to understand what to give and take from each other so as to not find themselves in a giant mess.

There were fascinating people at this event; experts (of all ages) in Scandinavian dance, English country, Scottish country, contra dance, folk waltz, blues, all kinds of swing… and they were all there just for the sheer love of dancing.

It’s been a while since I’ve been in a ballroom, but I’ve never felt more welcome or excited to be back.  People were gracious and generous with their time and knowledge, and I didn’t (even for a minute) feel judged about my lack of experience with their particular dance style.

Oh and music.  Did I mention live music?  LIVE MUSIC!  Incredible live music!

Waltzing is a bear necessity

I can’t go so far as to say that I’d recommend this event to dancers who have never danced before, but if you’re good at picking this sort of thing up (or brave, or have friends who would be willing to show you), you should definitely give it a whirl.  Unfortunately, they only dance once a month and the next won’t be until January… but it is totally worth the wait.

So my feet are aching like I forgot they would ache (it’s a different ache from general sore feet due to the parts of the foot which you use while dancing.  I’m just really glad that I have a pair of well-broken-in shoes so I’m not suffering dance blisters as well).  I seem to be winning the fight with the homework beast and, while it is not completely vanquished yet, I am definitely making headway in pushing it back into its cave to hibernate for the winter months.

And now for your viewing pleasure….

[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oOWC5zf8YMw]

Happy Monday, folks!!

Exercises in Style

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Today I called my mom, then went to the gym.  When I returned, I made an appointment for my car to have an oil change.  I am now doing copious amounts of laundry.  None of this is apropos to anything I usually talk about on this blog.  Luckily school starts the week after next which should provide plenty of fodder for blogging.  The first hints of nerves have hit.  Also luckily, there is an abundance of shipyard pumpkinhead in my fridge.  Coincidence?  I think not.

A La Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

It had not escaped my attention that my living companion had neglected, for some time now, domestic duties which certainly required due and diligent attendance.  The laundry had piled up, telephone messages accumulated, and vehicles required certain regular maintenance.  She must have gotten in a mood this particular afternoon as once she began to take care of these things, she continued until they were well and truly attended to.  Of course, the usual personal habits of my living companion are not generally fodder for my notes, but in the lack of any cases this week these habits make an appearance due to a gross under-abundance of things to speak about.  I am hoping that should change in the coming weeks, what with new stimulation vis-à-vis the scholarly inclination to speak.  For the moment, she seems to be dousing any dullness in the comforting depths of foaming beauty that is beer.

A La James Joyce

Riverun past phone call past mother past gym.  Returning to the sound of a necessary

L. Moholy-Nagy's graphic organizer of Finnegan's Wake... yea... not even people who claim to understand this book understand this book

beep requiring attention in the vehicular department.  Thumping suds and clean sheet pave the way towards an afternoon of adjustment, broaching topics previously abandoned.  Pools of disinterest.  Chug Chug Chug down the way towards more open pastures.  Butterflies flutter lightly.  Rivers of beer slide slippingly, trippingly, dippingly.  There are no coincidences.

A La Kurt Vonnegut

A mundane phone call followed by the mundane motions of exercise ensued followed by the even more mundane task of laundry.  She didn’t like doing laundry, but she liked having clean sheets.  None of this is really very interesting.  To her, it was simply the facts of living as she did.  She hoped life would be more interesting in the following weeks, but for the meantime had a cold beer.  She liked beer.

A La J.R.R. Tolkein

 Danielle daughter of Jennifer daughter of Sulamith stood speaking fervently to her matriarchal ancestor, planning the upcoming excursion to the land of York.  She set down her telephone, bidding the messenger farewell as she did so.  She then proceeded to step outside her door for her semi-daily constitutional (humans are well known for such tendencies, though those from her homeland of York were perhaps best renown for it).  When the constitutional had met its end, she returned home through the summer air.  The pavement was gray as a goosehawk’s back and the leaves at their greenest.  The temperature was moderate, and the week’s weather patterns had proven reliable for such things.  As she returned to her abode, she set about the mundane tasks which demanded her attention and hardly need mentioning here.  They are the same sort which her ancestors performed, and their ancestors before them, and which perhaps would have caught the attention of a scholar or wizard only in their quirky deviations from the mundane.  With luck, the coming weeks would provide activity which would merit mentioning (of course, provided the weather held).  These activities provide a certain level of anxiety for Danielle daughter of Jennifer daughter of Sulamith, but she quelled the feeling with the liberal application of fine ales.

A La Eugene Ionesco

everyone, however, understand Rhinoceros.

What started as a normal day devolves into chaos as a rhinoceros rips through the scene.  Danielle enters chewing on several blades of grass.

A Whale of a Tale

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In Maine, lobster is cheap.

Dani trivia fact number seventy-two: a Dani in any state of uneasiness or upset can be appeased with the simple offering of a boiled lobster and a bowl of melted butter.

I love lobster.  Love them.  I don’t care that they’re sea cockroaches, I would eat them in just about any form until doomsday.  If the news were to come down that an asteroid was going to hit the earth and we all had a week to live, among other choice activities I would spend that week hunting and eating nothing but lobster.

Naturally, the lobster dinner was an important Mainea that myself and my travel companion were eager to participate in.

Oh Sweet Sweet Sea Cockroaches

The cheapest place to find lobster in Maine is at a lobster pound.  Lobster pounds vary in size and degrees of presented professionalism, but for the most part to find a lobster pound all you really have to do is drive down a main street and look for signs that say “lobster”.  Our first evening here, eager to partake of the succulent sea bug, we set out searching for just such a sign.

Of course, it is simply our luck that we chose the one stretch of road with no lobster signs on it for miles.  I began to wonder if we had left Maine and entered Kansas.  A stretch of road, miles long, with NO LOBSTER SIGNS?  What was this world coming to?

Perhaps we were approaching things the wrong way.  Perhaps we were caught in a Murphean universe in which the lobster pounds only appeared to those individuals who weren’t particularly needing or wanting lobster at the given time.  Surely it wouldn’t hurt us to put into place certain pretensions that would fool such a universe; trick it into revealing its lobster goodness for us.  We began to declare, loudly in case the universe was listening, that no, lobster wasn’t what we wanted.  Nobody in his right mind eats lobster.  Sea cockroaches.  SEA COCKROACHES.

We did this for a time until we realized that no, this tactic wasn’t working either.  Perhaps we were just doomed to a lobsterless evening.  Destined to wander the roads of backwoods Maine hungry for the crustacean that existentially may not actually exist.  We were caught in an eternal loop of Schrödinger’s lobster; wanting to know if they were but doomed to never determine their actuality ourselves.

Then, magic.  On the side of the road, hand-painted in a child’s lettering,

CLAMS! Road sign number one

we saw a sign.  “Rat’s Clams” it read, black letters on white planks that may have otherwise declared “yard sale” or “bake sale”.  We looked to each other, wondering silently whether somewhere that had clams would also have lobsters.  Then, perhaps .2 miles further down the road, a larger sign (similarly styled) stacked atop itself read “Rat’s, clams, quahogs, mussels, steamers, LOBSTERS”.

That was enough for us.  We banked the Subaru hard to make the turn down a dirt path through the trees.  It took us a moment to wonder to each other; was this really a prudent plan?  Would a reputable businessman have such simple homemade signs?  As the trees grew thicker (and the road more bumpy) we wondered if we hadn’t driven into a not-so-elaborate trap.  The people equivalent of cheese and a wire cage.  The Maine foliage grew thicker as we voiced concerns about how much this was akin to the beginning (or middle) of an axe-murdering-horror-movie.

second stacked road sign and dirt road turn-off

Further signs with the same whitewash and the same almost-crayon lettering guided us (“CLAMS!” they proclaimed with arrows pointing down the path).  The trees grew thicker and thicker around us as we got closer and closer to the golden destination, the promised land of seafood.

Then, finally, we turned into a driveway.  The trees opened back away from a large, circular, gravel-paved drive.  We faced a quaint house with a Silverado parked out front and a beautiful tabby Maine coon dozing on its hood.  A green garage stood open, arrayed with buoys and nets and all manner of fishing accoutrements.  We left the vehicle (charmed by the cat, of course, this was the next step of the trap) and poked our heads into the garage.

There, before us, was a table with a price list for the market value of lobster that day, and a large tank filled with lively-looking little delectables.

We were thoroughly relieved that we hadn’t traveled to some sort of strange alternative universe in which the concept of lobster exists only to torment the hungry.  We began to call for someone, though the place seemed deserted except for our shelly friends.  That is when we saw the sign; “Sound horn!  We are here.”

Obligingly, I hit the “lock” button on my remote and the horn beeped several times.  It was at this moment that the man who I can only describe as a good fairy of the ocean came harrumphing down his front steps towards us.

He was in his seventies with white hair and a weight to his step.  He spoke in a classic Maine accent, the kind that is dieing out and you don’t hear much of anymore.  He looked at us slightly askance as though expecting something completely different from the two twenty-somethings in jeans.  “We’d like to buy some lobster”.

“Well, what kind of lobster?”

“There are different kinds of lobster?”

“Oh sure, you’ve got your hard-shells, your soft-shells, your new-shells…” this

Garage from which lobsters were obtained

began the most interesting and informative discussion I have ever in my life had about my soon-to-be food.  The man, obviously a seamen for the majority of his earthly existence, knew more about the little guys than anyone I had ever met.  He reached into the tank with a rake declaring “My wife just sticks her hand in there, but they do still have the smaller pinchers and those hurt when they get a hold of you”.  He showed us how to tell the difference between a hard-shell and a soft-shell.  When we commented on how lively the lobsters were, he added “Oh, ya, my son just pulled these out of the ocean today.”  He showed us his prized lobster; a giant three-pound guy who was none-too-happy to have been caught.

Purchasing Steamers from aforementioned Good Fairy of the Sea

Then he started talking about steamers and mussels.  He threw a handful into our order because he  wanted to make sure we tasted them with our lobster.  As we turned to leave, he said “Thank goodness you’re not a pair of rich little old ladies from Philadelphia.”  We laughed, assuring him that we were from Boston (well, New York and Texas via Boston… but either was certainly better than Philadelphia).  As we got in the car, his wife came out to us with the biggest handful of basil I have ever seen.  She pressed it upon us, telling us that she had just trimmed her basil plant and had more than she knew what to do with.

The lobsters were delicious.

And nobody got axe-murdered but a couple of crustaceans… though I guess technically being boiled alive then dismembered to be eaten isn’t the same as being axe-murdered.  And we wouldn’t have done it if they weren’t so gosh darn delicious.  They were asking for it.  Look at how they were dressed.

A Vacation

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I am in Maine.  Smack dead in the middle of Acadia National Park.  There is hiking and sailing and eagles and seals and porpoise.

…and the longer I am here…

…the more I am convinced…

…that if some higher power were to chose to send me to heaven (a dubious prospect at best given my choice of vocations… actors are no better than professional liars and scholars, well, just ask Samuel Johnson about how well they tend to do)…

…it would look something like this.

Summer Readin’ (Had Me a Blast)

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If you’re like me, summertime is an excuse to catch up on some much-needed sanity.

There are no papers to write, no required reading for the week, no classes to attend, and the long days are filled with what seems like hours upon hours of free time because even if you have to work a real job, by cutting out the demands of the rest of your life (i.e.: school) at least you have several more hours in the week with which to play.  And your brain isn’t chewing on the most recent class discussion or assignment, so you’ve got plenty of free processing space.  This can only mean one thing: time for some summer reading.

I recognize that the vast majority of the world isn’t like me.  Despite that, there is something wonderfully nostalgic about summer reading.  As a culture, we are brought up to associate summertime with semi-assigned reading time that at least gives the illusion of choice.  However, once freed from the clutches of primary school, we find ourselves adrift in a sea of choices.  Too many, in fact.  Do we read what Oprah tells us to, the New York Times tells us to, our friends, the local bookstore, amazon.com?

As a regular person (and not a super geek), often times there are things that we know we should get around to reading but simply have not done so.  Classics, conversation pieces, bits of literati that we feel should have a place in our lives but for some reason don’t.

Based upon the precepts that you are a regular person, you like to read, but you don’t like ridiculously thick prose or buzz words the size of my forearm, today I am compiling a list of summer reading for you.  Obviously this is biased by my own personal tastes, but I have tried to include as broad a spectrum as possible.  The only rule which I strictly adhered to is Novels Only.  A novella or two snuck in, but there are no plays or pieces of poetry here.  My reasoning is that summer reading should be easy.  It shouldn’t take mental exertion to get through (though perhaps it does provide some food for thought).  Plays and poetry are different beasts from novels and thereby would require mindsets which definitely deviate from the sentiment of summer reading.

This is in no particular order of importance, though I tried to make it have some sense of progression wherever possible.

Book reports will be expected the second week in September (though I may not get around to grading them until winter break).

Enjoy!

1)     Slaughterhouse Five by Kurt Vonnegut; Every.  Human.  Being.  Should.  Read.  This.  Book.  Period.  It has a broad smattering of topics: World War Two, Vietnam, Time Travel, Aliens, and heart-wrenching statements about humanity.  It’s a quick read, an engaging novel, and an interesting story.  It’s also one of Vonnegut’s most easy to digest pieces (his writing style can be a bit disorienting at times, but that works for this book).  Vonnegut is one of the great novel-writers of the twentieth century and I sincerely believe that reading a piece of his is pivotal to the modern American mind.  And there are several quotable catch-phrases from this book that you can whip out to impress your literary friends once you’re through.

2)      Pride and Prejudice … with or without zombies  by Jane Austen or Seth Grahame-Smith;  No, watching the Colin Firth movie does not count (though

Lizzy Bennet kicks some serious undead hiney

could get you bonus points if you read the book first).  Come on, you haven’t read this book?  You’ve sat through a Julia Roberts movie and you haven’t read this book?  Man up and take it like a champ.  You may just wind up being entertained.  The zombie version is a really cute bit of Austen-mania and totally worth the read once you’ve read the original.  Yes, you’ll get the humor if you haven’t read Austen’s version first, but it’ll make you feel morally superior to read them in sequence.  Trust me, a sure-fire way to make yourself feel smarter.

3)      Anything by Toni Morrison.  It may be worth having a look back at my thoughts on this most talented of American writers before you set out on this endeavor.  No, her books aren’t pretty.  They’re not pleasant.  They’re not polite, and they make you feel uncomfortable.  But they are literature at its best, folks.  Of the published authors alive today, Toni Morrison is (in my opinion) the greatest.

4)      Gulliver’s Travels by Jonathon Swift;  This is particularly prime summer reading since it is a travelogue of its own sort.  Swift’s sense of humor is generally shocking to a modern audience, so be forewarned about the immense amount of fart and poop jokes that you are about to encounter.  To me, they’re the highlight of the novel (YES!  Eighteenth century fart and poop jokes!).  This one also comes with a snob-rating since the story is so frequently re-told in our culture.  Wouldn’t you like to know what really happened to poor old Lemuel Gulliver rather than rely upon Jack Black to tell you?  If you’re in a Swift mood, you may also want to look up his essay “A Modest Proposal” and give it a whirl.  It’s easily one of my favorite short bits of literature…

5)     Dracula by Bram Stoker;  Since we’re talking Irish authors, let’s give good ol’ Bram a shout-out.  Another fantasy-travel-novel, Dracula is perhaps most famous for its portrayal of Christopher Lee… or perhaps the other way

eat your heart out, Robert Pattinson

around.  This novel’s epistolary form marks it as a piece of a definite literary movement (epistolary was immensely popular in the eighteenth century, so it marks this piece as having a definite “vintage” feel even for a reader contemporary to its publishing).  Best perk to reading this book: it makes you measurably superior to a Twilight fan.

6)      Frankenstein by Mary Shelley;  While we’re talking about epistolary Gothic novels, let’s throw this one in there.  Abandon all thoughts of Boris Karloff (and even Kenneth Branagh).  Film adaptations of this cultural phenomenon hit NOWHERE NEAR the actual thing.  Consider them utterly unimaginative bits of fanfic.  You don’t know Frankenstein until you’ve Shelley’s novel.  Extra literary factoid: there are two editions of this text which vary enough that literati have constant debates about them.  The 1818 edition (near and dear to my heart) is an edition which some say was heavily edited by Mary’s husband Percy Shelley.  Its introduction is written by him pretending to be her.  We do know that he looked over the manuscript, but the exact degree of his red-penning is difficult to determine.  The 1831 edition was published after Percy’s death and includes a preface from Mary herself (available at the back of most critical texts).  Mary claims that this edition is closer to what she first meant to write, but since the 1818 text received so much criticism when it was released it is hard to say whether Mary was simply bowing to that criticism or genuine in her sentiments.  Either way, do get your hands on a copy and read it!

7)      The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho; This is an especially good book to read if you are in a time of transition.  It’s a novel-length allegory and is full of beautiful, inspiring thoughts.  Personally, I was resistant at first to a novel which (as I perceived it) tried to preach to me about what I should and should not do, but boy was I missing out on some lovely and wonderful new ways to perceive things.  It’s not a how-to guide, it’s a road map.  Think of it that way and it’ll make the entire experience more enjoyable.

8)      A Study in Scarlet by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle; The first Sherlock Holmes novel both sequentially in the timeline, and that Conan Doyle wrote.  If you never read another of the stories (and I highly recommend that you do), you must at least read this one.  Otherwise, you are banned from ever saying “elementary!”, smoking a pipe, or even thinking about deer-stalker caps (which incidentally appeared nowhere in any of the books but rather were introduced to the Holmes mythos by artist Sidney Page in his illustration which accompanied  “The Boscombe Valley Mystery”  in 1891, a good four years after Holmes’ introduction as a literary character).

Page's sketch of Holmes and Watson

9)      The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams; If you like quirky British humor (and really, who doesn’t?), MUST MUST MUST read this!  I will forgive you if you don’t get through the entire series (I’ll admit that I have not), but at least give this first one a good read.  It’s funny, it’s engaging, and it’s a classic!  Okay, maybe you’ll never discuss it in an English lit class, but you’ll definitely be discussing it with your nerd friends.  ALL THE TIME.

10)   On the Road by Jack Kerouac; Yet another travel narrative, but this time American and beatified!  Kerouac is perhaps the most poetic novelist I’ve ever read (and that I can stomach to read… I’m not a huge fan of poetic novelists).  It’s a slim book, but I wouldn’t call it a quick read simply because his style demands a bit more attention than your average bear.  Still, well worth the extra effort.

Now find yourself a sunbeam, pour some lemonade, and get busy!  If you finish all these before the summer is out, I’ll be more than happy to provide more suggestions!

BOOM!

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The fourth of July always makes me think of Gandalf.

This is probably the direct response to several things in my life:

1)    My family has never ever been anything even remotely resembling patriotic.  As such, the Fourth of July was never celebrated in any regard in my household.  It was just another day except for…

2)    The fact that my father is a pyromaniac.  The sale and use of fireworks is illegal in New York without a professional license, but the house I grew up in was very close to the Connecticut border (where the sale and use of amateur fireworks is quite legal) and in a lake community.  You do the math.

3)    It was my father who first introduced me to the wonderful world of J.R.R. Tolkien and, thereby, fantasy literature (thanks, dad!).  He read me The Hobbit as a bedtime story when I was a kid, then we worked our way through The Lord of the Rings.

4)    My dad loves wizards.

Today, my father is a professional pyrotechnician (though not a full-time one).  He may never make flying, fire-breathing dragons come out of mortar and cannon-fuse, but he

Shot of my Dad's show from last year

does put on one hell of a show.  As you can imagine, July fourth and its surrounding environs tend to be busy season for the hobbyist pyro.

So, in honor of blow-stuff-up-for-your-country-day, let’s talk about Gandalf.

Tolkein’s inclusion of fireworks as one of Gandalf’s many talents was meant to hint at the well-roundedness which made Gandalf the Gray unique amongst the other wizards within Tolkein’s universe.  Remember how Sarumon and the White Council were continually perplexed at Gandalf’s interest in Hobbits?  I always had the impression that Gandalf’s talent with fireworks was another of his dirty little secrets that the Council would have frowned upon.  Despite that, Gandalf continued to innovate with fireworks and always brought at least one new trick to his shows in the Shire.

What this all boils down to is that Gandalf was one hip wizard.  He knew, even though no one else did, that Hobbits were more resilient than perhaps any other sentient race in Middle Earth.  His knowledge of the arcane was something which he mingled with gunpowder, an advanced bit of technology in the sword-swinging Middle Earth (yes, technically China was making fireworks and gun powder since the seventh century here in the real world, but this knowledge would not migrate to Western Europe until the thirteenth century which is a good long time after Lord of the Rings was supposedly set… remember that Tolkein wrote it as a series of pre-European-history myths and thereby it would have pre-dated Arthur in the late fifth century).  This makes Gandalf not only a wizard, but also a scientist (and probably an alchemist, though we could debate the extension of that meaning until next Tuesday).

Gandalf and his fireworks (and, of course, Sir Ian McKellen)

This is an interesting move on Tolkein’s part.  Though writing from deep inside the Modernist movement, Tolkein’s work harkens back to Romanticism.  The motifs on display within Lord of the Rings (i.e. the fading of an old world, anxiety created by technology (see especially the scourging of the shire), and lengthy/idealized portraits of the natural world) are themes directly out of Wordsworth.  The Romantic rejection of modern technology as a device which leads to an ugly, impersonal world (see: “The World is too Much With us”) seems to be one which Tolkein would have upheld (at least within Rings).

And yet, here we find one of the book’s most powerful, influential, and sympathetic characters as a proprietor of this modern technology.  At this juncture, we must again recall that Gandalf did everything he could to keep the War away from the Shire.  It was because of his efforts that the Shire was able to remain so pristine and innocent through the vast majority of an otherwise middle-earth-shaking cataclysm.  The Shire, the ultimate site of the novel’s pastoral, was also the primary enjoyer of Gandalf’s technological deviancy.  So it wasn’t that Gandalf was working to keep technology entirely away from the Shire (if he was, he wouldn’t have brought fireworks), but it also wasn’t that he wanted technology to be a way of life amongst the Hobbits either.

If this isn’t a mixed message, then I’m not certain what is.

Despite the complications of this analysis, the literary function of the fireworks is very simple.  Tolkein very clearly set forth to create a visually stunning world (as made abundantly clear by Peter Jackson’s breathtaking films).  This is no small feat for a novel-writer (though perhaps was made slightly easier by the not-so-film-centric WWII era which spawned Tolkein’s most famous work).  Gandalf’s fireworks, like the white horses he creates at the Ford of Rivendell, are an aspect to this world; a writer’s flourish which adds character and depth to an already imagery-laden universe.

Happy July fourth, everyone.  Now go find yourself some wizardly technology to ogle!

>Holiday FAQ

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Ah the holidays.  I love the holidays.  Lots of good food, good smells, everyone’s in a better mood, pretty shiny decorations go up, and things begin to wind down for the winter here in academia-land.
There’s only one problem.  Holidays inevitably mean family, and big parties, and otherwise excuses to see people who you don’t generally talk to the rest of the year.  Normally, this is a welcome (if drama-filled) change from the humdrum.  However.  This year, things are… slightly different.  I’m a little bit stressed out due to everything going on in my life, and I’d rather not have to explain the reasons behind this to every single person who doesn’t usually talk to me more than once every few months.  It’s not that I don’t love you, it’s not that you’re not important to me, it’s just that I’d rather not think about the progression of my life right now.  It’s exciting, yes, but also terrifying and having to dredge that up in front of an audience ad noseum brings me back to my conservatory days.  I’m not afraid to cry hysterically in a roomful of strangers, they beat that out of me at Shakespeare & Company, I’m just trying to slip into a happy numbness for a few months before I really start worrying about my life.
So, loved ones, in lieu of explaining all of this over Christmas Ham and Chanukah Latkes (yes, we do both, don’t ask), I’m writing a list of Frequently Asked Questions right here on the blog that you can read, enjoy, then (if I’ve failed to cover anything to your satisfaction), go ahead and ask me specific things.  That way we can all have a happier holiday season.  You don’t have to awkwardly stand around while I’m falling to bits about potential near-future crises due to “poor life decisions”, and I don’t have to fall to bits about it until rejection/acceptance letters come sometime this Spring. 
Thank you, in advance, for your understanding.
Q: So, what are you up to these days, Danielle?
A: Oh man, I’m super busy.  Work at the studio isn’t slowing down, we’re coming up to grading the last set of papers, my own finals are due, and I have PhD aps that I’m trying desperately to get off my desk.  Also starting to really worry about the Common Reading Exam in March, but that’s only a small percolation because everything else on this list comes before that.
Q: Oh?  Where are you applying?
A: Brown, Tufts, and Columbia. 
Q: Only three programs?  Wow.  What are you applying for?
A: Yea, only three.  There’s only three in the Northeast that really work for me, four in the country if I want to apply to Stanford but I don’t really want to move out to California.  I’m applying for a PhD in Drama (some schools call it “Theatre Studies”), but it basically means the intersection between scholarship and theatre, which is what I study anyway.  I mean, if I don’t get in this round, I could try to find an open-minded English department, but I’d rather be amongst theatre people, you know?  The English-iesh don’t really know what to do with me…
Q: What do you plan on doing with that?
A:  Well, I want to open my own theatre someday and I figure that people will be more willing to give me money to do that if I have letters after my name.  I have some pretty revolutionary ideas about American Shakespeare performance; I want to start a real classical repertory company and link it to a University’s theatre department.  That way, young actors will learn the old-fashioned way; they’ll learn everything about the stage, all facets, and they’ll get a chance to work with more experienced actors which I really think is golden for them.  It’s important to understand the theatre in all its aspects, and I really want to create a generation of “Renaissance Actors”.
I also envision it as a place where scholarship and practicum meet; a sort of Shakespeare Mecca.  We kind of have that here in the states down at the Folger in Washington, but for the most part Shakespeare scholars and Shakespeare actors/directors don’t really talk.  I think there’s a lot to be learned from both sides, and I would like to see it performed that way.  I want to have an open dialogue across this scholarship/practicum rift, see if we can’t heal it up some.  I’m wondering what kind of theatre that will make…
Also, I firmly believe in experimental Shakespeare.  And I don’t mean like “Hamlet on the moon”.  I’m thinking of something pure and classical, yet hip and contemporary.  I’m still working on how all these ideas mesh together though… but I’ll have some time.  It’ll take me six years for the PhD anyway.
Oh, and I want to be a professor.  Because really, it’s the coolest job title ever.  And can you think of anything more fulfilling?  I get to instill a new generation with my ideas about literature and theatre?  Count me IN!
Q: Oh… uhm… you know that’s not really very practical.  Your back-up idea is being a professor?  Do you know what the unemployment rate…
A: For newly-minted PhDs?  Yes, yes I do.  But I can’t shoot for the moon just because I’m frightened of where I’ll land.  It would be stupid to compromise out of fear.  I know I love theatre, I know I love academia, I know a lot of things that I hate doing.  I’m not going back to working in a cube just because someone tells me “no”.
Q: Well… what if you don’t get in?
A: I spend a year conferencing, trying to get published, up my hours at the studio, and try to find a couple sections of something to teach somewhere.  Make my application better, then try again next year.  I mean, really, these programs take two to four people a year.  When you’re talking about the top ten applicants to Columbia or Brown, you’re talking about people who all have 4.0s, who all have perfect GREs, who are all amazing writers.  They don’t reject you because you suck, they reject you because you’re not what they’re looking for that year.  I could get ousted from being offered a spot just because they have another Shakespearean currently working through the program, or someone on the selection committee really wants to work with another applicant.  I mean, for all intents and purposes, they may as well take the top ten applications, pin them to a wall, have a couple beers, and throw darts to see who gets in.  I understand that, and I’m prepared to accept whatever comes.  But if you don’t try, you’ll never know, right?
Q: I guess that makes sense… but won’t you have a ton of debt when this is all through?
A: Not any more than I have now.  These programs are all fully funded.  They would pay me to read books for six years!
Q: Hey, didn’t you want to go study in England?
A: That’s the best part!  You get two fellowship years for these things.  You are required to take one your first year just to acclimate.  Usually, people take the second in their sixth year to write their dissertation, but there’s nothing saying you couldn’t take it in your fourth or fifth.  I could take a fellowship year, then go research in Stratford or at the Bodleian if I needed to… all on the school’s buck.  How awesome is that?
Q: Pretty neat!  When are your due dates?
A: December 15th, January 3rd and January 15th, but I hope to have them all in by January 1st.  Once my finals are in, I can really concentrate on getting the last two banged out.
Q: And when do you find out?

A: They aim to tell you the second week of February, but it’s not like undergrad when there’s a certain day that you get the letter in the mail.  They do expect to hear back from you about your decision by April, so sometime before then.
Q: So what are we drinking to celebrate/commiserate?
A: B. Nektar Vanilla Cinnamon Mead.  And thanks.  I have a feeling that I will need all the calming vibes I can get for a few months…