Falling For Fall

If we lived two months at a time, I’d agree with my dad that autumn is the best season. The air is crisp, the leaves are changing and the sky is blue. But since we don’t live two months at a time, all these things just remind me that winter is coming, and that’s no one’s favorite season.

But forget about the upcoming cold and dark nights and go to Prospect Park in the afternoon. You’ll see high school kids running like there’s no math test tomorrow. I ran cross country my senior of high school, and while I was terrible, I find something marvelous about seeing kids train. They’re unafraid of running until they vomit and they’re not trying to get back to their pre-pregnancy weight. Running isn’t a hobby that gives their lives definition, they just run because they’re young and they can. And if that doesn’t make a fall believer out of you, I don’t know what will.

Busy People Get Things Done

I run and I write. That’s all I do. Some days, accounting to a weak ankle, I don’t even run. But adding anything to my already jammed schedule throws off my whole day. Yesterday, I went to the Met with my mom, and as a result, I was only able to write for two hours, I had a late dinner and I was busy all day. I don’t know how either.

Despite not getting anything done, I had an “anyone living in another city is kidding themselves” moment at the Met, which is essential to continuing to live in New York. Even though the African Art wing always gives me a memory headache from second grade field trips, the rest of the Met is incredible. Sometimes I can’t believe all that natural light and famous art is collected in one place for the price of whatever you want to donate. If I only had twenty minutes to live in New York, I’d go to the roof of the Met.

In other Raronauer’ed news, I’ve been losing a lot of stuff lately: a digital watch, an ipod, $28. But I have been finding is a lot of hair bands and dust bunnies, so I guess it evens out.

I Hear It Helps To Talk About Your Problems

Since I became serious about Raronauer’ed, The Novel (working title), I’ve been having trouble reading. I can’t look at anything mediocre; I have no patience for it. In the past three weeks, I’ve started and stopped Special Topics in Calamity Physics, The Yiddish Policeman’s Union and Pilgrim at Tinker Creek. (Arguments about whether these books are in fact mediocre can be held elsewhere.) After every failed reading, I turn back to Jhumpa Lahiri. JL, if you have a google alert on yourself, good job on Unaccustomed Earth!

So Raronauer’ed, The Blog fans please recommend some expertly crafted fiction. Or even expertly crafted non-fiction. Great writing on any topic will do.

P.S. Once I announce things on the internet, I feel like they have to become true. So here’s something I’d like to be true. I will be going to a writers colony this winter, and my goal for the month is not to lose my mind and finish Raronauer’ed, The Novel. If you see me in the spring, ask me if it’s done. Avoiding awkward conversation is the only motivator I know.

More About A Movie I Hated Eight Years Ago

Since female Vice Presidents are so hot right now, remember The Contender? In case you don’t, President Jeff Bridges is all about making fictional political history by having Joan Allen become his VP. But there’s a scandal! Her character may have been involved in an orgy in college. There’s even an incriminating photo. But having a vag doesn’t mean her personal life is any business of the American people, and as a good feminist, Joan Allen won’t address the issue at all. Like all fantasy presidents, Jeff Bridges won’t be pushed around by Washington fat cats, and he nominates her anyway. Great—youthful threeways doesn’t preclude a woman from the second highest office in this country.

Except it does: even in fictional Washington, a female Vice President can’t be open to opening up multiple orifices. In the last scene of the movie, Joan Allen tells Jeff Bridges that she didn’t participate in the orgy and has a birthmark to prove it. So even if American voters don’t have a right to know that Joan Allen isn’t into multiples, American filmgoers do. And thank God, the truth is family values friendly.

Faux-feminism is worse than straight up misogyny.

Raronauer Stalker: Here and Away

Even when I’m unexpected neighborhoods, in fact, especially when I’m in unexpected neighborhoods, I see people I know.

Last Friday it was Joel Bunski in Meatpacking.I met Joel through high school debate and his best friend dated one of my friends in college. Joel grew up in the town next to mine, and we have a long history of running into each other. In fact, we became friends when we ran into each other at the movies for a screening of The Object of My Affection. No judgment, it was the 90s.

Since then, I can’t take MetroNorth without seeing this guy. I once crashed a Clap Your Hands Say Yeah show at Sarah Lawrence and Joel was there. And while I don’t even have Joel’s number, I have no doubt I’ll see him again soon.

In local news, I ran into my roommate on Seventh Avenue last night and today, I saw Jonathan Safran Foer at the Brooklyn Library. My roommate bought me ice cream; JSF refused eye contact.

You Know That Book Everyone Was Talking About Two Years Ago? I Just Read It

So, I just finished Emperor’s Children, to which I have to say: Wow. Most writers settle for rich characters or worthwhile plot. Claire Messud goes for both and adds real dialog. She even fabricates the writing style of her characters. And unlike Jonathan Franzen in The Corrections, Messud maintains sympathy for her flawed characters, which makes reading about them worthwhile.

Every book needs a setting, but the best ones transcend the specifics to reveal larger truths about human nature. Even though the books of Philip Roth, Jhumpa Lahiri and Junot Diaz are about a particular culture, you need not be a minority to enjoy them. I can’t say the same about Emperor’s Children. It’s about the New York intellectual scene and for the people in it.

But I’m not even sure if this qualifies as a problem. Most modern fiction readers are Upper West Side types. So does it matter if only they could enjoy Emperor’s Children?

In Five Years Time …

I’m 25. Ok, twenty-five and a half. When I’m thirty (and a half), I imagine I’ll be … Well, I have some fantasies that involve pets, brownstones and published works. I’m a little concerned that none of that will happen, and if I write out all that stuff here, I’ll have internet proof that I’m a total failure and Inconvenience Day XXX will be spent crying, which really would be inconvenient. Instead of talking about goals, let’s enjoy this lovely song.

“Five Years Time,” Noah and the Whale [via Queerty, Wham!]

Running High

Sad news: I didn’t like What I Talk About When I Talk About Running. If you’ve ever gone running stoned, you’ve already read this book. And in case that isn’t part of your fitness regime, this essay in the New Yorker had all the good parts. Maybe a better translation would have helped. There are two translators of Murakami, and I prefer the other guy. That said, I never quite like Murakami while I’m reading him, only afterward. His style can be a little overbearing and sometimes I’d prefer to read about someone other than a divorced 35 year-old who subsists on pasta and beer and is dealing with a talking cat or charming teenager or mysterious phone calls. But I keep going back to Murakami because he always leaves me with insightful nuggets. Here’s one to think about before you fall asleep:

Most runners run not because they want to live longer, but because they want to live life to the fullest. If you’re going to while away the years, it’s far better to live them with clear goals and fully alive than in a fog, and I believe running helps you do that. Exerting yourself to the fullest within your individual limits: that’s the essence of running, and a metaphor for life—and for me, writing as well.

Not Untrue

I’m guessing that the potential readership for “What I Talk About When I Talk About Running” is 70 percent Murakami nuts, 10 percent running enthusiasts and an overlapping 20 percent who will be on the brink of orgasm before they’ve even sprinted to the cash register.
-NYTBR More on this topic later.

Introducing Raronauer Stalker

I grew up in Westchester, went to school in Manhattan and live in Brooklyn. Most of my relationships were cultivated within New York State lines. As such, I have a tendency to run into people. A lot.

Last week, I had four run-ins. One of them was with Michael Hessler, who just the day before had mocked my ability to be in the same place at the same time as someone I vaguely know. It usually happens that I’m in midst of a kankedort when I spot these people.

So I present to you Raronauer Stalker: a documentation of these chance, sometimes awkward encounters. Names have been vaguely concealed to protect the innocent from Googling employers and lovers.

My last run in was on Saturday with Jo Feidor, a friend from college, at the Brooklyn Library. I was there because I had misplaced my phone. I was certain it was somewhere in my apartment, but I couldn’t find it there after an extensive search so I went to the library to make sure I hadn’t left it there. I was annoyed at myself for possibly losing my phone and was in a rush to get to the library before it closed. As such, I was wearing my house clothes and was thinking about what my life would be like without a phone. (Answer: Inconvenient.) Jo was wearing a Barnard t-shirt, which was fitting because that’s how I know her, is studying for the LSATs and is moving to my neighborhood. See you around, Jo!

PS My phone was under a couch cushion.

I Reread Books So You Don't Have To Read At All

I’ve doing a lot of rereading for Raronauered, The Novel. I’m looking at Middlesex again to better understand framing devices. But for those who aren’t working on a novel, the passage below is the only reason to read the book once:

Is there anything as incredible as the love story of your own parents? Anything as hard to grasp as the fact that those two over-the-hill players, permanently on the disabled list, were once in the starting lineup?

Being Young: Nothing To It

I didn’t like Rabbit, Run, but this sentence has been bouncing around my head lately:

He wants to tell them there’s nothing to getting old, it takes nothing.
Of course, the same is true about being young. Even though I’m old enough to rent a car at a discounted rate, practically every time I see my grandmother, she touches my face and says enviously, “so young!” Like I had anything to do with it. But she has a point: in thirty years, I’ll probably be using expensive lotions to keep some semblance of youth, while now I can barely remember to put on suntan lotion. Aging is one of those existential disappointments – I know I won’t look as good at 80 as I did at 8. But there are small rewards to sticking around past the young and beautiful years. The other day, I saw a gaggle of wrinkleless teenagers get on the subway, and I was happy I wasn’t with them.

Imperalism!

From the Erotic Domain, an Aerobic Trend in China [NYT, today]
Pole Dancing Parties Catch On in Book Club Country [

Morality Calls

Being mean to telemarketers is easy. They deserve it and they have no recourse. The thing is, they hate themselves and their lives as much as you do. Being a jerk won’t get you a free month of CableVision. So just hang up. They’ve heard this Seinfeld joke before.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aefOah-5AGM

Raronauer’ed, The Novel, The DVD Extras

Here’s what I’ve learned from writing a book over the past year: It’s hard. And along with being hard, there are a lot of bits that can’t make into the final product for various uninteresting reasons. After talking to my professor, I’ve decided to change the narrator’s age. As a result, there’s a passage I can’t use anymore, but I still like. For my own ego, I’ve published it after the jump.

Whenever I spend time with a couple, I always feel like I’m missing the main attraction. And I am. We can all have a great time, chatting about the latest New Yorker article or judging mutual friends. And then after dessert, we’ll all do the dishes together. Maybe the boyfriend and I will flirt a little bit, but in an innocuous way that feels like chatting up your cousin. Or the girlfriend and I will have a conversation about our childhood pets that feels special as we clear the table. But then, once I leave them alone, I can see that I was just a preamble to their night together. It’s simplistic to think the rest of their night just involves sex. It involves conversations about their lives in a language that I don’t understand. From the outside, it’s impossible to tell what individuals love about each other, or what they love about being a couple together. That’s why seeing your parents, the ultimate couple, fight or have sex is so awful. You get a glimpse of their secrets, and you realize that you’d rather not know them.