Cakes and Ale

One of the better openings in modern lit, don't you think? So well observed! (Click on the photo, it gets bigger.) I get you, William. People are predictable and annoying.

Cheers.

Portland III: The Blue Hour

Are you sick of my Portland photo posts yet? Because I have so many more photos! It was very pretty in Portland. I mean-- that window up there in the first photo? (Click on it, you can make it bigger!) I didn't tweak those colors or that lighting a bit. It's not fair, really. Brooklyn doesn't often look like that.

Anyway. I've been reading a lot of Hemingway recently as I'm sure I've mentioned. I'm halfway through The Sun Also Rises, a story about expat writers and artists and thinkers living in Paris in the 20s. (Related: Have you all seen Woody Allen's Midnight in Paris yet? I adored it, and am pretty sure it was based partially on this book. All the dancing and drinking and brooding you can handle.) Much of the story's conversations took place in the summertime around 9pm. That sizzly time of day after work has ended but before night has really begun-- that's the blue hour.

The blue hour, or in French- l'heure bleue, refers to the period of twilight each morning and evening where there is neither full daylight nor complete darkness. Everything looks a little... blue. See Jen up there, stepping outside? That was the blue hour, and we were on our way to get gelato. Jen had composed a Caprese salad for dinner that night, and I poured the two of us bountiful glasses of a dark, earthy red.

We had crazy discussions over such glasses all weekend-- just like Hemingway's Jake and Cohn and Brett did. We talked about LIFE and about love and about grief. Her father, Rex, was dying, and we found ourselves quite suddenly acting as real live grown ups. There weren't as many tears as I imagined there would be, but reader, we shifted the world with our words and thoughts and feelings. It was hard. But you know that already.

Rex passed away on Monday. The funeral was today, and I hear that Jen gave a stunning, articulate, and heartfelt eulogy. I also hear that there's a party tonight-- a big white tent, bowls of bright flowers, stacks of sweets, multiple kegs, and of course there will be wine. It's a celebration, in the end, and no one throws a party like Jennifer Pasko does. And pretty soon Jen will be back in Portland, saving lives with her talents and trademarked determination. (For real. She's a surgeon.) Our little worlds will go on spinning, three thousand miles apart.

Rex would have been 63 on Monday. Yes, he was born on the 4th of July, just like my grandfather. And America. Let's all celebrate, shall we? I love this sizzly time of year and we're just getting started.

Sunnyside Wedding

The men wore kilts, toasted with cider, and spoke in limericks. The groom serenaded Kim with The Magnetic Fields, and my cheeks hurt from smiling. We ate tacos from a truck, the ceremony lasted a brief two and a half minutes and I could not. stop. dancing.

Congrats Kimlet and Martinini!

Portland: II

Portland: I

Related: THIS is my favorite song about Portland.

Also related: Chris Thile is playing at Prospect Park on Thursday with the Punch Brothers. (Please don't rain.)

James Stevenson, “Belmont Stakes,” June 22, 1981

This little article from the New Yorker online archives is so random, but totally cracked me up:

I have little knowledge of, or affection for, horses (I have been kicked by them, bitten by them, stepped on by them, and thrown from the tops of them), and I would just as soon see the one hundred and thirteenth swimming of the Dugong Derby as see the Belmont, but I do like events, and I have to take what is available or stay home. (The events offered in this area on Saturday were a crafts expo, an energy fair, and a skate-a-thon.) What I learned from Larousse [“Encyclopedia of Animal Life”] was: “Horses, asses, zebras … are monodactyl, the functional digit being the middle one…. The different parts of a horse’s limbs must be clearly understood. The upper parts … down to the elbow or knee, are enclosed within the outline of the body…. The visible parts of the legs begin with what correspond to our forearms and shins. Thus, what is commonly called the knee in a horse is really the wrist, and the equivalent posterior joint, the hock, is really an ankle.”…

This means, I realized, that if a man were to race against a horse—in a fair race—he would have to “race” lying down, balanced on one knuckle of each hand and foot; that is, “running” with his wrists, forearms, shins, and ankles only. (Illustration A.) The horse would have a clear advantage in such a contest, but you have got to give the horse a lot of respect for running like that in the first place.

—James Stevenson, “Belmont Stakes,” June 22, 1981

Read more http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/backissues/2011/06/takes-thirty-years-ago-at-the-belmont.html#ixzz1OtnVTplP

Hahahhaaa, right!? I am just tired or is it actually that funny?!? Anyway, good stuff, NYer.

The New Yorker Summer Fiction Issue

The best New Yorker of the year should be in all of your mailboxes by now, with that awesome cover of what looks to be a Miami interior. Makes my mouth water.

I've only read one story so far (busted) and-- turns out-- it wasn't even fiction. It sounds like Lahiri and read the same books as kids though:

I learned what my fictional companions ate and wore, learned how they spoke, learned about the toys scattered in their rooms, how they sat by the fire on a cold day drinking hot chocolate. I learned about the vacations they took, the blueberries they picked, the jams their mothers stirred on the stove. For me, the act of reading was one of discovery in the most basic sense.

Also in this issue:

• George Saunders: “Home”
• Jhumpa Lahiri: “Trading Stories”
• Jeffrey Eugenides: “Asleep in the Lord”
• Lauren Groff: “Above and Below”
• Aleksandar Hemon: “The Aquarium”