What a difference an ocean makes

Which do you think is the cover for the U.S. edition of Time this week (Apr. 2, 2007), and which is the cover of the edition on sale down the street here?

You are allowed one guess.

Got a hankerin' for Austin?

cek, whom Google is messing with in terms of logging in and returning as a contributor, asks that the following be put up:

If anyone's interested in moving to Austin for a year for a creative writing
teaching gig at Texas State University in San Marcos (twenty minutes outside
of Austin), email me directly (cristina at cristinahenriquez dot com) and I'll give you more info.

war on terror the board game

http://www.waronterrortheboardgame.com



I have yet to play this, though I hear there is a spinner that is spun before the game begins to determine which countries are The Axis of Evil.

Definitely check out the Secret Messages if you have a minute!
Cheers, Fid

YouTube Awards

You can vote for best people-powered videos for a couple more days (till March 23). If you've ever wondered, "What's good on YouTube?" -- this is your one-stop link to see the best of 2006 in various categories. It should go without saying that it's way better than the Academy Awards was. Some really amazing stuff. (And with no TV yet, it's filling a void.)

This one, just as one example, in which this guy takes a picture of himself every day, in the same way, for more than six and a half years, and then flows them all into one long stream. Something very affecting about it. His eyes. His hair looks like it's underwater. The video quality gets better and better (he probably went through a few cameras). You can tell when he hasn't shaved for a few days, when he's moved to a different apartment, when he's on vacation. I felt a real sadness. By the end of not even six minutes I felt like I knew him. Nice work, Noah, whoever you are.

The dike thing

From Time magazine, June 19, 1950.

He looked up and saw a small hole in the dike through which a tiny stream was flowing. Any child in Holland will shudder at the thought of a leak in the dike! . . . That little hole, if the water were allowed to trickle through, would soon be a large one, and a terrible inundation would be the result. Quick as a flash he saw his duty . . . His chubby little finger was thrust in almost before he knew it. The flowing was stopped! "Ah!" he thought, with a chuckle of boyish delight, "the angry waters must stay back now! Haarlem shall not be drowned while I am here!"

Haarlem was not drowned. The little boy stayed at the dike all night, too cold even to whistle and attract the attention of passersby, until he was found in the morning and the hole was plugged. Thus, in Hans Brinker or, The Silver Skates (1865), Mary Mapes Dodge told the legend of the sluicer's son who became "The Hero of Haarlem." The practical Dutch pointed out that the story was not true and technically quite implausible. But Americans visiting The Netherlands invariably asked to see the place where the little boy had put his finger in the dike.

Haarlem shuffle

The first picture is a side street around here, and the second is Gedempte Raamgracht, our street.

Click here for a live view of the Grote Markt, the big square here in Haarlem. It updates every five seconds, but you have to refresh the page yourself. The big church on the right, St. Bavo's, is awfully impressive. Mozart once played the organ there. At least once a day I walk or bike through that square. You may get lucky and see me! That would make you, as I mentioned, very lucky.

Today is my birthday. I'm 39 -- again.

I'm okay, Eurokay

That's something I tore from yesterday's paper.

I'll try to steer clear of the hassle stuff and focus on the surprisingly fun -- actually too fun -- week I've had, though at the beginning there was a last-minute drama involving vets and certificates and the USDA office, but at the end of the journey the dogs were fine, even though I tipped over Luka's crate at Schiphol airport. Hilariously, customs didn't question any of the paperwork that we had unexpectedly spent the day chasing all over Massachusetts.

From the airport Tuesday morning, Tony, my ride, drove us to the house, where I met the sellers, a tall couple who make hanging cradles for babies, and the two real estate agents again, and I "inspected" the house and signed stuff in Dutch, and then their little girl ceremoniously handed me the key (they had clearly practiced it). That first day, which was the second day because I hadn't slept on the plane, was hell on the dogs and me, and we kind of clung to each other during the afternoon, and went to Poop Hill many times, which is what we call the grassy canal bank at the end of the street that is a "Losloopplaats," a "loose run place," but which functions as a toilet. Angry ducks flap at the dogs from the water. I sure as hell am not ready to let the dogs "loop vrij en spelen" -- "run free and play" -- as the sign urges me to. Buses, bikes, scooters, cars, little old ladies, other dogs are all over the place. Not to mention the canal itself, which looks like a swimming pool to The Real Grendel.

I took them home and, although exhausted, to avoid going to bed yet (it was seven) I went and got something to eat and then went to the nearest bar to the house, a typical little cafe on a cobblestone corner, with lit candles on each of the four empty outdoor tables, even though a light rain was falling. Inside I could see seven or eight men, obviously regulars, and one woman, sitting at the bar. I walked in and went up to the bar and ordered a beer.

When they heard my accent, they immediately switched to English. "The bar is new -- Erik made it! He put it in just today!" Erik sat to my right. Erik, after hearing my name, started reciting a poem by La Fontaine, something about "Corbeaux"? "So you are the crow," he said when he was done with his French, "and you have a piece of cheese, and the fox below says, oh crow, you sing so beautifully! Sing me a song! And when you open your mouth to sing, you drop the cheese, and the fox eats it."

"Pretty much."

After two hours he said, "Go get your dogs."

"Yes," I agreed, standing up. I could feel a drop of beer glittering on my bottom lip, which was twisted in sudden determination. "Yes, they need to become citizens, too."

I went home and got the excited dogs. Brought them back to the bar. Let them off leash. They walked around sniffing the Dutch people. Erik praised them. "We made it!" I kept saying to them, and rubbing their heads. Before long, they were looking sleepy, though, and when I wasn't sure I could stand up much longer, I took them home and blew up the inflatable mattress. See, all our furniture is in storage -- not that we brought our bed. But the blow-up mattress worked, and first things first, such as the closing the following morning, which went off without a hitch.

But then began a series of banking, Internet, telephone, mobile phone, customs, city registration, insurance, credit card, and washing machine challenges. Those were three dark days. And rainy.

By Friday night I had kicked jet lag. I finished my business for the day and at dusk went to three of the the four bars, one by one, that were open on a nearby square called the Botermarkt (the Butter Market, where butter was once marketed). I had a small glass of beer at each one. Then I decided to check out the coffeeshop on the corner -- Cafe Easy Going -- for the first time. The sign outside had a picture of a tired turtle. I asked for the "mildest, lightest" thing they had and puffed on it tentatively at one of the two booths, a black leather seat curved around an aluminum table.

It was a small place -- more or less a living room with a non-alcoholic bar where you buy weed. Riddick was playing on a flat TV on the wall, and underneath it four Dutch youths were playing foosball. The "buzztender" was a straight-backed blonde young man. I sat at that aluminum table and watched that movie, which was subtitled in Dutch, and I vowed to really begin learning Dutch all over again. But the volume was too low, so I saw the Dutch but couldn't quite connect the English dialog I couldn't hear. And the foosball table was loud, and the guys were laughing and groaning and saying, "Alsjeblief! Alsjeblief!" (Please! Please!)

I kept reaching for a beer. Which they don't sell. One drug at a time, people!

Random folks came in. Kids, late teens, early twenties, and a couple of older fellas. And it was just freaking wonderful. The movie had these praying mantis aliens, and Riddick's eyes were weird, and I was finally relaxing. But I kept reaching for my beer -- which was not there. How could it not be there? But it wasn't. I tried to ignore my increasing thirst. I could have bothered the buzztender, who was watching Riddick, too, for a water or tea, but darn it, it was Friday night and I had just moved to another continent, so when the flow of people in and out was properly calibrated, I stood and said, "I keep reaching for my beer" and put on my coat.

"You should have one!" the barman said.

"You're right! I believe I will."

It was nine-thirty or so when I went to the one bar I hadn't yet gone to. I sat at a table out on the clear plexiglass-windowed, awninged patio and watched the Botermarkt. Think of a nighttime brick square, with bikes rolling down the middle of it, groups of young people gathered around a parked scooter eating fries with mayonnaise and laughing, people toting home bags and takeout orders, scooters zooming by exactly when it gets too quiet, a closed-up fishmarket cart from earlier in the day. That was the Botermarkt.

So then last night I was at Mulligan's, an Irish bar in Amsterdam, meeting people I hadn't seen in a long time -- Tony and two other guys from Donegal, Liam and Kevin. Tony is married to Dorinde, and Liam is dating her twin sister. They were watching the Ireland-Scotland rugby match. Extended sentences in English were very nice to hear again. I believe I talked their ears off. I believe I talked about philosophy and religion and science and politics. And they did, too! And the pints kept coming.

When I finally said I needed to go back to the train station, to get back to Haarlem and the dogs, they said they had to go to the station, too, and surely we could just drop by a coffeeshop on the way. We went outside, and they got on their bikes.

"You're riding with me," said Liam.

And then, dang it, I was on the back of a bike being piloted by a drunk Irishman through the streets of Amsterdam. At night. "Who are you?" Liam kept screaming back at me, pedaling faster. "Get the fuck off my bike!" I had no idea where we were headed. I couldn't see around him. There was nowhere to put my feet, so I just held them up. For a minute I was shrieking with laughter, then I was I grasping the bones of his hips with my eyes closed. When he stopped, I staggered off, stiff, sore, stimulated, lucky to be alive. I looked around -- we were right in front of a coffeeshop and right across the street from the train station.

"I can't believe you just drove me to the station on your bike!"

"I can't either!"

We went inside. They indulged, but I did not. Loud techno sounded. Finally, we went across to the station and said goodbye. I found my train and waited on the platform. Late at night the trains are less frequent. I was lucky and got one quickly. I sat down in my seat and leaned my head against the window and closed my eyes. Louis Armstrong's "What a Wonderful World" popped up on my mental iPod. I forgot that I had my real iPod in my coat pocket.

Next thing I knew, I jerked awake. The train was in some station. It looked like Haarlem's. I jumped onto the platform as the doors were closing. It was Haarlem's.

Today, the dogs let me sleep in till eight. We went to Poop Hill. And then I took a train to Zandfoort, the nearest beach town, and had a strong, tiny coffee and reread "The Diamond as Big as the Ritz" on an outdoor patio. All I'm missing is traca (pronounced "trassa") de broon, who is off to San Francisco and still more than a week away from arriving here. Thank God for Skype.

You are all welcome to come and stay. Not at the same time.

New Blogger issues

Because I finally decided that I would rather switch than fight, I finally switched this to the new Blogger Beta. As you can see, some of the Contributors are gone. That's because Google, which owns Blogger, is now forcing people to sign in with their Google account. Contributors will come back, supposedly, as they sign in with Google accounts.

If you can't sign in to post or comment, or are just confused, try going here and signing in with your Google account (a Gmail account is actually a Google account, so that works). If you don't have one, the page should prompt you to create one.

If you just don't want to get a Google account for whatever reason, you can still log in, for now, using your old Blogger account by going here. I think this will also prompt you to convert to a Google account on your way. You should do it -- maybe. Give it the old once over.

I'm sorry for the hassle. I put this off as long as possible so that the first wave of bugs would be worked out before switching this blog. Progress -- it eventually swallows us all.

AWP+NYC+2008=AWESOME?

Anyone interested in putting together an AWP panel once more? The proposals are due by May 1 -- and yes, the conference is in NYC, which is excellent. Jan 30-Feb 2. Should be a good time.

See ya, guys!

Have fun doing the Double Dutch.

Keep Holland real.

For the life of me, I can't figure out how to post an MP3 -- so here's a version I can post -- although it involves visuals.

Just close your eyes, I suppose.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vbpURBJA4uA

Icebergs named a Hemingway Foundation/PEN Award finalist

The lovely Rebecca Johns and her debut novel, Icebergs, have been named a finalist for the 2007 Hemingway Foundation/PEN Award. She joins fellow Goat Daniel Alarcon as a PEN/Hemingway finalist.

The PEN New England site hasn't officially posted the news, but former Dallas Morning News book critic Jerome Weeks announced it on his blog, BookDaddy. So I'm breaking the news here.

Unconfessed by Yvette Christianse was the other finalist, and Brief Encounters with Che Guevara by Ben Fountain took home the prize.

Last post from America

Tomorrow, due to an ill-timed mandatory California business trip on the part of traca de broon's employer, the two dogs and I are embarking on our move to Haarlem, The Netherlands -- alone, to be followed by Ms. de broon two weeks later.

Our bare house is there, ready to move in, though it will be "several weeks" before our furniture, etc. is released from Customs. The money for the mortgage has been transferred, I think (have not heard back from the bank). The dogs have had certain shots and have certain certificates filled out. I am mostly packed, I think. Nearly a year of stress and uncertainty is finally lurching toward a spectacular, frothing crescendo. What could possibly go wrong?

Stay tuned.

Lecture on Sunday

Passing along a note from T-Bone, who, having switched her account to Google, is unable to post here anymore. This is Google's way of "nudging" us toward the New Beta of Blogger. Anyway, she says, and I quote:

If any of you are lucky enough to be in the I.C. on Sunday, you can check out my boss (aka KPC), at his Presidential Lecture. - T-Bone

Enter the Barrelhouse Power Ballad Contest

Details are here. You have till April 1. If you win, they're gonna record it and post it on the site, dude!

Daniel Alarcon reading tonight

Our illustrious compadre will be reading from his new novel Lost City Radio, 7pm, Prairie Lights. It would be cool if an IC resident could post a summary of how it went for those of us who can't go...

How many Bush administration officials does it take to change a lightbulb?

Ten.

1. One to initially deny that the light bulb needs to be changed.

2. One to attack the patriotism of anyone who says the light bulb needs to be changed.

3. One to blame Clinton for burning out the old light bulb.

4. One to explain how the administration has actually had a strong light bulb-changing policy all along.

5. One to tell the nations of the world that they are either for changing the light bulb or they are for darkness.

6. One to give a billion-dollar no-bid contract to Halliburton for the new light bulb.

7. One to arrange a photograph of Bush, dressed as a janitor, standing on a stepladder under the banner "Light Bulb Change Accomplished."

8. One to resign and write a book about how Bush was literally "in the dark."

9. One to smear #7 on FoxNews.

10. One to change the wrong light bulb.

Author unknown - found on the Internets

Youthful scribblings

I discovered the following piece while sorting through my files in preparation for our impending move. It is not dated, but the handwriting style suggests my late teens, placing this somewhere in the mid 80s -- probably 1986, when The Fly came out. I was struck, on rereading it, by certain themes that have stayed with me and was helpless to resist indulging in a bit of Freudian self-analysis. The pre-Saunders Saundersesque style, which I figure must have been the Vonnegut at work in my lizard brain, is also notable and recalls a whole absurdist period in my writing which I had nearly forgotten about. It is a cliche-ridden waste product of a flabby mind blasted to ruin from tens of thousands of hours of television and, probably, a multi-drug hangover. But I decided to type it out and post it in the hopes that others may be inspired to come forward with their own early writing efforts. The more glib, awkward, juvenile, or ridiculous, the better!

Mrs. Mason's Animalizer

One day George stormed into his parents' bedroom. "I've decided I want to become an animal," he told them.

Mrs. and Mrs. Small were performing the experiment again. His father detached the nozzle, pulled off his safety goggles, and looked at his son with rare curiosity. "Interesting. You'll need an Animalizer."

Mrs. Small popped her cherubic face out of the hatch and said, "Old Mrs. Mason down the street has one."

So the three of them marched down to Mrs. Mason's house.

"Yes, but which animal?" inquired Mrs. Mason. "It's important."

George hadn't spent much time thinking about this part. He scratched his head. "Oh, I don't care," he said finally. "A moose maybe. Or a cricket."

Mrs. Small spoke up. "Are crickets animals?"

Mr. Small cleared his throat and announced firmly: "They are insects."

Old Mrs. Mason led them along a long dark narrow hallway. George noticed a peculiar odor.

"If you notice a peculiar odor," Mrs. Mason called over her shoulder, "that is my husband's decaying corpse. Five days now. Haven't had a free moment to bury him. Everybody wants the Animalizer these days."

They continued in silence for another few hundred feet. The path seemed to follow no predictable course, but George felt that they were gradually descending into the earth. The air was getting colder.

"How did the old boy go?" asked Mrs. Small.

"Natural causes. Ah, here we are."

Old Mrs. Mason flipped on a light. They were in a large room with green walls. In the middle of the room stood a contraption which resembled a refigerator covered with an intimidating snarl of pipes and wiring. Reverently, Mrs. Mason said, "Behold the Animalizer. Young man, I believe you selected the noble cricket?"

George nodded.

The old woman pulled a lever and adjusted some knobs. The Animalizer began to emit a low electric hum. Then she opened the door. "There isn't much time," said said. "Bid farewell to your parents and step into the machine."

"Is it safe?" inquired Mrs. Small.

"Of course it's safe!" snapped Mr. Small.

George addressed his parents. "Mother, Father, I thank you for taking care of me during my youth. I thank you for nurturing in me those attributes that I have so admired in you: steadfastness, an ardent sense of adventure, and a respect for God and country. I hereby pledge to maintain those high standards in my new life as a cricket."

Mrs. Small burst into tears. Mr. Small gently gripped George's shoulder. "Son," he said gravely, "Godspeed to you!"

"It is time," declared Mrs. Mason.

George stepped into the Animalizer, and Mrs. Mason closed the door. She quickly began working upon the console, snapping circuits closed, manipulating sensitive antennae, and fine tuning slide controls.

Mr. Small was visibly impressed and became extremely excited. His eyes darted over the apparatus, settling at last on a large red knob near his hand. "What does this one do?" he asked, turning the knob sharply to the right.

"Fool!" cried Mrs. Mason, lunging at him. The low hum rose steadily in pitch. Mrs. Small quivered and threw her hands up to cover her face. The noise of the Animalizer grew into a deafening buzz. The machine was wobbling. There was a burning smell. Mr. Small, panicking, spun the red knob frantically in the opposite direction.

Old Mrs. Mason regained herself and hobbled swiftly to the main power switch and threw it. The Animalizer shut down with a whine. The door swung open, and smoke poured out. A gruesome figure emerged. It was a hideous six-foot cricket with George's head fastened atop the black hard shelled insect body. Mrs. Small screamed.

The George-cricket sprang forward, tore off his father's arm, and began to gnaw on it.

"I deserve this, I deserve this," George's father repeated over and over as he died.

Incredibly Evocative Lines

Right now, I have a favorite Hold Steady line I bellow on my way to work every morning -- namely, "she was a really cool kisser and she wasn't all that strict of a Christian" -- I adore this line -- it takes me back to all sorts of events in my life, and whatever weird, scary, or wonderful feelings I was having at the time.

A few nights ago, Lump and I were talking about other great, evocative lines that are in some ways inherently meaningless, but are ultimately so meaningful they almost knock you over. Although I'm sure there are plenty from poetry, as is our wont, we were talking about music and how much we like "I feel like a stray from your cannonball days" by Ryan Adams and "I've got a hurricane in my pocket, but no one will believe me" by Drivin' n Cryin' -- two lines that immediately shoot us back to our late teens/early twenties, when life was scary, brutish, chemically altered, and completely about possibility. "Cannonball days" -- is that not a perfect description of those times?

So, oh sage writers of the Internet, what are some of your favorite lines?

"Good People" by David Foster Wallace

New Yorker fiction -- February 5, 2007 issue


I'm going to try and get back into reviewing stories, and this'n here will be a baby step. I feel like I'm getting rusty -- all I read are novels now. Anyway, this'n here is a baby step because this this'n here isn't much of a story. Nothing happens in the action -- literally nothing. What we get are the thoughts of Lane A. Dean, Jr., a student at a junior college, as he sits with his girlfriend on a park bench. She is pregnant and they have scheduled an abortion. They are devout Christians. They are torn. He has an imaginary conversation with her in his head. He doesn't love her -- or does he?

A certain member of our class was once told dismissively in workshop by Frank Conroy: "That's not a story -- that's a dilemma." Ding ding ding ding ding! This particular dilemma, of course, was covered many years ago in "Hills Like White Elephants." One difference is: Hemingway made it into a story. One thing that helped make that a story was that the woman got to say stuff -- out loud. Her character got to be developed in the action, producing dramatized conflict. Still, the writing here is excellent, as you would expect. DFW gets way, way into his character's head, and the piece can be sucked profitably for that kind of juice, but that's the sole reason this doesn't get a red light.

Is this very short piece an excerpt from a forthcoming novel? Would it be published if the author's name were Delbert Fawcett Walcott? These are questions that sprang to this rusty story-reader's mind.

Prairie Lights cancels reading after threat

Last night, a scheduled "Live From Prairie Lights" reading in Iowa City was canceled because of security threats. The book was Abortion Under Attack: Women on the Challenges Facing Choice, and the reading was to have been done by Krista Jacobs. How much more "pro-life" can you get than threatening the lives of innocent people? Good job, wingnuts.

I've never heard of a reading there being canceled, for any reason. This is depressing.