George Saunders' gal, Sarah Palin

Excerpt from "My Gal" by George Saunders, one of my favorite funny but twisted authors.

"Explaining how she felt when John McCain offered her the Vice-Presidential spot, my Vice-Presidential candidate, Governor Sarah Palin, said something very profound: “I answered him ‘Yes’ because I have the confidence in that readiness and knowing that you can’t blink, you have to be wired in a way of being so committed to the mission, the mission that we’re on, reform of this country and victory in the war, you can’t blink. So I didn’t blink then even when asked to run as his running mate.”

Isn’t that so true? I know that many times, in my life, while living it, someone would come up and, because of I had good readiness, in terms of how I was wired, when they asked that—whatever they asked—I would just not blink, because, knowing that, if I did blink, or even wink, that is weakness, therefore you can’t, you just don’t. You could, but no—you aren’t."

The article devolves into the usual George Saunders weirdness, but it's worth a few minutes, if for no other reason than to get a taste of Saunders himself!

Read the full article in The New Yorker online.

My reading place

Long creative bursts come from reading. Some of the most clever people are famous authors. When I let my mind go wild, my reading place has to be perfect. I love sitting in my mother's orange chair, as my classical music makes a rhythm for me. I absolutely love reading about all the exciting adventures of Harry Potter. Most people don't have a perfect reading spot. Luckily, I do.
by Ryan Walden, age 10



Curled up in a cozy chair with a warm blanket draped over my legs is the most enjoyable place to read. All I can see are the neatly printed little black letters on my page. The room is quiet except for the raindrops tip-tapping an unrecognized melody on the window and, if you're quiet enough, you can hear the big clock strike every minute. I rest my head on the chair and sink into it. After awhile my eyes flicker until I find myself asleep, with a book in my hands, and my glasses still balanced on my nose.
by Devon Walden, age 10

Lighthouse at the end of the world

While in Ushuaia, I took a boat ride through the Beagle Channel to faro del fin del mundo or, as it is more commonly known in our secret language -- known to almost no Argentinians -- lighthouse at the end of the world. This is the very same lighthouse around which Jules Verne spun his pirate tale The Lighthouse at the End of the World.
 
I imagine that Cape Horn, south of the Beagle Channel, probably boasts a lighthouse or two of its own. But, as with most things he wrote about, Jules was darn close to correct!

What book are you?

Wow. My friend, Sue, posted this challenge on her blog Close to the Sun. Go to the Blue Pyramid and take the book quiz. You need answer only six seemingly random questions and then you'll discover which book you are! Such fun!

I am Prufrock and Other Observations.

Eric is Watership Down.

You're Prufrock and Other Observations!

by T.S. Eliot

Though you are very short and often overshadowed, your voice is poetic and lyrical. Dark and brooding, you see the world as a hopeless effort of people trying to impress other people. Though you make reference to almost everything, you've really heard enough about Michelangelo. You measure out your life with coffee spoons.

You're Watership Down!

by Richard Adams

Though many think of you as a bit young, even childish, you're actually incredibly deep and complex. You show people the need to rethink their assumptions, and confront them on everything from how they think to where they build their houses. You might be one of the greatest people of all time. You'd be recognized as such if you weren't always talking about talking rabbits.


Take the Book Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.

Polly put the kettle on

There is nothing more thrilling than being the wild one on the outer edge of the pack, seeing the horizon more clearly than those safely ensconced in the middle of the herd. It isn't easy being a lonely maverick, relying on animal instinct to find hidden dangers, while other more domesticated souls happily munch nuggets of truth dispensed by politicians and mainstream media. But someone has to lead the way.

I thought I'd found an opportunity to indulge my inner maverick. I had high hopes that the Three Cups of Tea avalanche was hiding lots of neocon propaganda, a pitiful campaign to convince those of us with bleeding hearts that, indeed, our government is engaged in noble warfare against terrorism in Pakistan and Afghanistan, the training ground for Islamic fundamentalists determined to wipe out Western culture. After all, who would know the terrorist's heart better than Greg Mortenson who has spent much of the past fifteen years in remote Himalayan villages developing relationships with local leaders and gaining an understanding of these tribal cultures?

Well, I'm disappointed to admit that, after finishing the book, I am smack in the middle of the Mortenson love fest. Other than forgetfulness, disorganization and a chronic lack of punctuality, I can find no fault with this man (I feel like Pontius Pilate). After the 9/11 attacks, the book gets a whole lot better. The writing, literally painful to read in the first half, begins to flow in such a way that you are not constantly mindful of the fact that you are reading.

Political intrigue, physical danger, unflinching bravery, and an uncanny ability to discern the good guys from the bad guys--always in pursuit of his mission of educating the rural poor--does make Mortenson seem larger than life. So much so that co-author David Oliver Relin stops mentioning his physical stature in every paragraph.

The complexity of tribal societies makes for interesting reading. Puppet governments in big cities have no standing in remote mountain villages. Tribal councils and religious leaders in Iran interpret and enforce the law. Mortenson makes an interesting distinction between warlords who take tariffs from opium smugglers to create private militias and commandhan who plow the profits into the people's welfare. One bad, the other good. He makes few moral judgments of the mountain people and their ways, poppy production included. He saves his scathing indictments for the US government and its minions, and seemingly refuses to cooperate or be used by them in any way.

I hope I can find a front row seat tonight and catch Mortenson's eye. I want to give him the oft-sought-but-ever-elusive Mango wink of approval. Some maverick, she.