How Kaavya Viswanathan got busted

Well, no big surprise: today Opal Mehta was recalled by the publisher. From my email inbox:

IMPORTANT NOTICE
TO BOOKSELLERS
REGARDING
HOW OPAL MEHTA GOT KISSED,
GOT WILD, AND GOT A LIFE
By Kaavya Viswanathan
Little, Brown and Company is requesting that booksellers stop sales
and return copies of
HOW OPAL MEHTA GOT KISSED,
GOT WILD, AND GOT A LIFE
(0-316-05988-9, $21.95)
Returns must be made by June 15, 2006.

Perhaps the charges of plagiarism are correct; perhaps something a little shadier is going on. I don't know if Kaavya Viswanathan was caught red-handed or if her delight in receiving a half-million dollar advance allowed her to turn a blind eye to what some ghostwriter was doing.

I do wonder what it's like to have your writing career destroyed at age 17.

Sad customer request #1

This morning a very elderly gentleman asked me if we carried a biography or autobiography of P.T. Barnum. While I was checking in the computer, he told me that he has been given the chance to promote a young singer; he figures that P.T. Barnum was the best promoter ever, so he'll use Barnum's principles to make this singer a S*T*A*R! I didn't have the heart to point out that Barnum was a liar who today would probably spend most of his time fending off lawsuits.

My favorite P.T. Barnum story is this: Barnum found that, once he got an audience into his sideshow attraction, he had a hard time getting them out. Since he knew that folks are always drawn to the strange and novel, he posted a large sign near the exit that read, "THIS WAY TO THE EGRESS."

Title of the week

I wish I lived in Dildo, Newfoundland.

Nature nurtures

Sean likes to listen to Alan Watts every Sunday morning on KPFK. This morning I took a break from my weeding to check in on him and see if he wanted a cup of coffee. He said he'd just heard a great quote from Alan Watts -- something like, "Oftentimes, people who meditate seem to be engaged in competetive suffering; meditation should be fun." Sean asked me if I thought of my weeding as a sort of meditation. "You seem to enjoy it," he said. I told him that, strangely enough, I do enjoy weeding, and I suppose it could be a sort of meditation for me. I like changing the look of the landscape; I like clearing away the unwanted and leaving more air and light and water for what is wanted. In particular, I enjoy letting my mind wander all over the place while I work in silence.

Weeding, though, I mostly find humbling. If ever anyone needs to be shown an example of how people cannot control nature, lead that person to my backyard after a winter of benign neglect. I have spent the last couple of weeks clearing thigh-high weeds of all kinds from my small backyard, and I have another week or so of work ahead of me... then I can move onto the front yard. Short of dousing the property with commercial weedkiller (which I will never do, as I regard the use of RoundUp to be akin to chemical warfare), the weeds will always have the upper hand. The best I can hope to do is keep them at bay.

I love the fact that there is actual nature in my backyard -- wild, unfettered nature that I can look at and interact with but never command. Right this very moment, I am watching a squirrel try desperately to get at the bird feeder I have hung from the plum tree. It's not enough for him anymore to eat the seeds that the finches knock from the feeder all over the ground below: he wants to get at the source. He's hanging from the branch by his hind feet, his front paws grasping the long wire from which the feeder is suspended. The feeder is too small to provide a safe landing place if he decides to let go his hind feet, and he knows it. And so he alternates between hanging upside down, reaching, contemplating, and doing gymnastic flips on the branch when he heaves himself back up, defeated and probably dizzy. Meanwhile, the finches flutter about nervously, waiting to get back to their meal. Over and over again it happens, and I get to watch it. I love being able to sit in my suburban L.A. kitchen and see this tiny drama play out. It pretty much makes having a yard full of weeds worth it.

I don't know if Alan Watts would call my quiet enjoyment of this sort of stuff "meditation," but I feel it's good for my soul.

Book-of-the-week #3

I'd like to make some crack about the kitschiness, the white-trashiness, the very horror that is this book... but have you seen my recipe for spaghetti casserole?

Book-of-the-week #2

Well, that didn't take long.

Book-of-the-week

Main Entry: coulrophobia
Part of Speech: noun
Definition: an extreme fear of clowns

Can you hear me now?

As I was finishing up in the restroom on my morning break, the cellphone of the woman in the stall next to me started ringing. I was a little grossed out when she answered it, so I made sure to flush -- twice -- to let the person on the other end know that this woman would take his or her call any time, any place.

The great uneaten cake tragedy of 2006

After dinner last night, Sean gathered together all the uneaten pieces of cake I'd served. I don't think anybody finished dessert -- we were all too bloated from our steaks and blue cheese salad and cheese bread and cheese-topped potatoes. (After all the work I put into baking and decorating that cake, I literally ate only two bites.) I think Sean wanted to save these leftovers, but I took one look at that plate and made him dump everything. Today he took the half of the cake we hadn't touched to work and his co-workers happily disposed of it for us.

Now, of course, I wish I had some cake.

It takes one to know one

It takes one to know one


I had a wonderful dinner out with friends and family last night -- we ate at the North Woods Inn, where the thirteen of us consumed enough food to feed a small village for a month.

At the end of the meal, when the waiter brought the check, Susan said to him, "I was told that I could get a separate check for me and those two." She waved at Mary and Cameron, sitting several people away.

"Which two?" he asked.

"Them. The little girl and the blonde." The waiter nodded and went off to rework the check.

"'Little girl'?" said six-year-old Cameron scornfully.

Mary, who by this time was pretty sick of Cameron's whining and shenanigans, snapped, "Look around. Do you see any other little girls at this table?"

Cameron started to laugh and pointed across the table. "Howard!"

*****

Later, hopped up on sleep deprivation and sugar, Cameron forced Curtis to perform an interspecies wedding between her stuffed squirrel and lemur.

On this day in history, not much happened

April 11 has got to be one of the dullest days EVER. Really. Take a look at some of the less-than-fascinating events that have taken place on this day:

1830: Robert Schumann attends a piano concerto by Paganini
1895: Anaheim completes its new electric light system
1921: Iowa imposes the first state cigarette tax
1967: Rosencrantz & Guildenstern Are Dead premieres (OK, that's sorta interesting)
1981: Valerie Bertinelli marries Eddie Van Halen

You know which celebrities celebrate birthdays today? Joel Grey and Louise Lasser. (As my much-younger coworkers ask, "Who are they?") Nothing wrong with these award-winning actors, but definitely not A-list celebs. It's also Peter Riegert's birthday; he was delightful as the pickle salesman in Crossing Delancey, but he's not exactly a household name, either.

Perhaps, you think, someone interesting died on this date. You would be wrong. As far as I can tell, the only noteworthy person to die on April 11 was horticulturalist Luther Burbank. He was outstanding in his field, but a guy who cross-breeds plants to create superior potato hybrids is not the stuff of cocktail party conversations. Even his last words were B-O-R-I-N-G: "I don't feel good."

About 15 years ago I learned about someone who almost died on April 11, 1966, the very day I was born. It was Joe Valachi of The Valachi Papers, the stoolpigeon who sang to the congressional committee on organized crime about all the inner workings of the mafia. On that date he tried to hang himself from an overhead pipe with an electrical cord... but the cord broke and Valachi proved himself to be a loser yet again. So close, and yet so very far.

At least my birthday isn't as awful as some people's.

Currently:
54.7 degrees F
cloudy with little chance of rain
62.5 lbs above goal weight
40 years old

He knows what he wants

I admire a man who's upfront about what he wants. I passed this guy on the freeway the other day, and my hat's off to you, sir, in appreciation of your honesty. Can you make it out? "BTW" is stenciled on his door, and it's spelled out for us on his back window: BIG TITTY WOMEN. The mag wheels and camo paint job are just icing on the cake.

Who could resist?

Grandma of the year

Yesterday Sean and I drove up to Santa Barbara. It was a gorgeous, slightly overcast, cool day. We walked around on State Street and made a large purchase at one of my favorite stores, Sur La Table. We came back to his grandmother's house, where we had dinner and spent the night.

This morning, Grandma made breakfast for us: Coffee, fried eggs, and hash browns with onions and bacon. Just as we were finishing this magnificent repast, she appeared with two more plates and said, "Here, have some cake."

No guns, no gangs, no PB&J

A school in South Pasadena has banned peanut butter and jelly sandwiches from the premises. It seems that so many students have developed peanut allergies that childhood's favorite sandwich is now a health hazard. That's tragic, because peanut butter is a Food Of The Gods.

PEANUT BUTTER KRISPY BARS

1 cup light corn syrup
1 cup granulated sugar
1/2 cup butter
1 cup smooth peanut butter
7 cups Rice Krispies

Combine corn syrup, sugar and butter in a medium saucepan and bring to a boil over medium-high heat. Reduce heat to low and add peanut butter, stirring until melted. Pour the Rice Krispies into a large bowl, then pour the peanut butter mixture over the cereal. Stir until mixed well. Spread in a greased 9x13-inch pan and press down lightly. Cool completely before cutting into bars.

Currently:
52.7 degrees F
a brief respite between spring storms
hoping to catch a catnap before tonight's Lost

Not-so-bad girls

Of all the pleasures my friendship with Howard has given me, perhaps the most unexpected is a growing appreciation of vintage girlie art and photography. I like looking at the models' saucy, "you know you want me" expressions; I admire the ease with which they display their sexiness. It's not that I find such art a turn-on. Rather, it's the notion of power and confidence behind the art that I find thrilling: I wish I had the self-assurance to present myself in such a manner. Not that I ever would, probably -- I just wish I felt brave enough to do so.

There's a sort of innocence, too, in vintage girlie art that is lacking in most modern pin-ups and advertising. Contemporary stuff uses models who are heroin-thin and surgically enhanced and look hardened, as if they've seen (and done) it all in their decade-and-a-half on earth; their come-hither stares seem more threatening than alluring. But even the most daring period pieces I've seen, such as the fetishistic photos Bettie Page shot in the 1950s, have a sort of "What fun!" spirit to them that looks inviting, even as a warning bell goes off. Howard perfectly described the appeal of this sort of "naughty" entertainment: It's both squeaky clean and mildly dirty, and it's that combination of wholesomeness with the threat of a precipitous fall that he finds so enjoyable. I like it, too; I guess at heart I'm a good girl with a few bad girl aspirations.

All of which brings us to The Notorious Bettie Page, the next movie on my must-see list. There are whips and lingerie involved, and I'm sure it has earned an R rating -- yet I have the impression (or perhaps it's merely hope) that the film is also, in a way, old-fashioned and optimistic. Check out Howard's take on Gretchen Mol as Bettie (and an appreciation of other "fearless" actresses), and see some great vintage shots of Bettie herself here. (I find it endearing that as fabulous and sexy as Bettie looks, she is clearly sucking in her stomach in almost every shot.)