sex and violence (for young people)

Why is sex so very, very scary? Why is it that, when a parent is considering which books (or movies, or television shows, etc.) they want to give their children, sex is a corrosive and dangerous bogeyman, but violence is a clean thrill? Violence is exciting, an adventure. It goes: bam!, zoooom, pow!, and makes the sound of pages being turned. Sex, on the other hand, is insidious. It will grow shadows in young people's eyes; leave burn marks on their imaginations.

There is something wrong with this.

There's something wrong when a mother tells me that her 14-year old son could not possibly read Cory Doctorow's Little Brother because the main character loses his virginity to a girl he's fallen in love with, but a minute later tells me how GREAT Suzanne Collins's The Hunger Games is for him. Would you like to know what happens in The Hunger Games? Boys and girls fight to the death. They kill each other in an arena. It (and its sequel) is one of the most popular young adult books in the store.

Parents look uncomfortable when the word is mentioned. Say, "sex," and their eyes go sideways, for just a moment. Say, "murder" or "fight scenes" or "guns" or "slashing swords," and they might get a hopeful look on their faces and say, well maybe that will be exciting. Maybe they'll like it.

I shouldn't ignore my own complicity. I never recommend Melvin Burgess's Doing It, which is a novel of enormous heart and empathy, because it is drenched in sex. I feel no guilt in championing The Knife of Never Letting Go, which has moments of shocking and personal violence. I adore action movies, admire the elegant splatter of Tarantino and the absurd slaughter of Shoot 'Em Up. Lucky Number Slevin is one of my favourite movies, and a clever, stylish film that ends with two old men being suffocated in plastic bags and duct tape. And, yet, the sex scenes are what make me feel sheepish. If I'm watching it with someone, I can feel myself very carefully not turning in their direction.

The only excuse I can make for myself (and maybe for those parents too) is that, in my world, sex is more commonplace than violence. It's more real. It exists, with all its pleasure and pain and inevitable awkwardness, more often than stabbings and fights to the death. Think of it that way, and I'm lucky to live in a world where sex is sometimes more dangerous than violence.

Except that it shouldn't be.

for H. Whitney

Because, wherever you end up, you'll be amazing:

the world = your oyster

bedmates

All of these are for fun, though some of them are for work too. Two of them are to keep my friends company (Fight Club with Carson; Catch-22 with Joy). The Keret is blowing my mind (you've got to taste him: "Fatso" was on This American Life). Just read a mad-fabulous story by Roddy Doyle that edges alongside werewolf territory in Stories. The science book is the perfect thing to read in bed because it makes me happy, except for when it makes me too excited and I have to haul myself out of the blankets to look up something on the internet because it's just too awesome to wait (though I can't love them all: D'Arcy Thompson with his dreadful spirals and profuse footnotes bored me so much I dropped the book on my face when I fell asleep reading him).

volcano missives, part 1

For H., since your voyage across the Atlantic has been postponed on account of a volcano.

stories

My friend, the very lovely Kat Howard, has a story in this book, which is edited (in part) by the equally lovely Neil Gaiman. Stories comes out in June and is chock-a-block with authors who will make you swoon with their ability to grab you by the throat and make you say, "what happens next?" Through the magical generosity of Frank (head buyer at our bookstore), I now have an ARC to fill me with early delight.

(haven't you ever loved a book enough to kiss it?)

I immediately flipped to Kat's "A Life in Fictions," and it is as wonderful as it was the first time I read it. It's brief, but it trails behind it a deep shadow full of art, desire, and the fragile confidence that makes up identity. You are going to love this.

this is my brain on bric and brac

There are very few things that make me feel as silly and immature as car trouble. Today, I managed to require both a AAA roadside assistance man and a tow-truck. Triple A guy was very nice. He explained to me, quite patiently and incomprehensibly, about batteries and fuel pumps. At one point, he lay down on the street and banged on something underneath the car with his fist while I attempted to start the engine. This seemed so absurd that I began to wonder if he was having me on. (Why yes, miss, this is a time-honored technique for curing automotive ailments. You just punch the car in the correct place, and away you go!)

Revelations acquired while walking the three miles between the repair shop and home:

1. These shoes are more comfortable than I gave them credit for.

2. There are multiple instances where someone thought it was a good idea to build an old-folks' home and a funeral parlor next door to each other.

3. There is something automatically mortifying about sitting in a car and waiting for someone outside the office of a psychic. The man was wearing dark glasses and had slouched so far down into his seat that I thought his shoulders were going to swallow his head.

4. I am a suspicious looking character. This poor guy thought I was following him and kept trying to look at me out of the corner of his eye, so he walked into a pole. I thought this was terribly funny, but I don't think he was amused.

eat me

I really like Greek salad. The summer I spent in Prague, having been rather not thrilled by the Czech cuisine (which is hearty meatiness done to perfection), I practically lived on Greek salad, yogurt, and stracciatella gelato. And beer. Because in Prague, they are really proud of their beer (I just read that... it made me laugh) and the waiters always looked terribly put out if I asked for water.

The combination of flavors -- grassy cucumbers, briny olives, onions, tomatoes, and the pungent creaminess of feta -- is genius. Still, I've never liked how a bad Greek salad arrives at the table: a bowl of massive vegetable chunks, soaked in a pool of bad vinaigrette. What's the point of making a salad when all the components are almost too big to fit in your mouth? You get assaulted by singular explosions of flavor. I AM A TOMATO! I AM AN OLIVE! I AM A PIECE OF ONION SO VAST THAT I WILL POLLUTE YOUR BREATH FOR THE NEXT FIVE HOURS!

Which is why I am obsessed with and addicted to the following recipe. Everything is on a smaller scale and the addition of fresh herbs and lemon cut through the loud flavors with zing and sparkle.

Greek Salad With Orzo
(adapted freely from a recipe in the now sadly deceased Gourmet magazine.)

3/4 cup orzo
1 (15-oz.) can garbanzo beans
1 basket cherry tomatoes (or several normal tomatoes, whatever floats your boat.)
2 tablespoons chopped parsley (or more. I like a huge amount of parsley.)
1 tablespoon chopped oregano (or more.)
1 cucumber, halved lengthwise and chopped
1/2 red onion, minced
1/2 cup pitted Kalamata olives, slivered
2 tablespoons olive oil
2 tablespoons red wine vinegar
2 tablespoons lemon juice
zest of 1 lemon
1/2 lb. feta
salt
pepper
romaine lettuce

Cook orzo according to package directions. Drain in a sieve and rinse under cold water. Drain well.

Chuck garbanzo beans, vegetables, herbs, and olives into a large bowl. Drizzle over the oil and vinegar. Throw in the lemon juice and zest. Add about 1/2 a teaspoon of salt and loads of pepper. Toss everything together. Add the orzo and crumble over the feta. Give everything a good toss and season to taste.

Chop up the lettuce and put it in bowls. Spoon the pasta/vegetable mix over and serve.

Improvise at will. As you can see, I forgot to buy tomatoes.