More hoops

First things first. Please, please, please head over to the Open Source page to listen to the John Edgar Wideman interview taped on Friday. It's a terrific accompaniment to the Barack Obama speech on race, as Chris Lydon points out. Wideman is an incredibly talented and challenging writer, who loves to tackle gritty, difficult material. His latest novel, Fanon, continues his trademark style, but hearing him speak may encourage you to check out his work. As one of America's most erudite and articulate writers, if you stick with him, you'll be paid back tenfold. So download the segment, and see if you're tempted to read him. (All you die hard Stanford women's basketball fans may remember him as Jamila's dad!)

Actually, while you're there, take a look at their broadcasts. I stumbled upon the program during its brief stint on KQED-FM at midnight? 1 am? Every night I listened to the most interesting guests on all manner of topics -- and in spite of the ungodly hour I could not turn the show off. Whether it's Helen Vendler "Reading and Riffing on W.B. Yeats," or Randall Kennedy on Race, or What Went Wrong on Our Way to Iraq, or a four-part series on the future of Cuba that catches your interest, you'll want to keep coming back to find out what's new and thought-provoking to Christopher Lydon and his staff.

Now.
If you had told me that Stanford coach Trent Johnson would be ejected on a technical during a game on the way to the Big Dance, I would have told you to get off the crack pipe.

And. Now.
I would have been wrong.

In the first half, in a game away from the Sweet Sixteen, against a gutsy and talented Marquette team, Trent Johnson blew his stack and got. kicked. out. of. the. game. Ejected. Sent to the locker room. Forced to watch the game on the monitor. Trent Johnson. Mr. Subdued. Mr. Cool, Collected and Class Act.

Now it wasn't one of those Bobby Knight eruptions. It was volatile on the Coach J. meter, and for the life of me I couldn't see why he didn't let it go. But he didn't. Unforeseeable. And unbelievable. So the coaching staff had to take over for the rest of the game, and you couldn't watch without that sense of impending doom. If they lost, it would definitely be Coach Johnson's fault and there would be a really ugly conversation with the Athletic Director once he came back to campus. But thanks to the clutch play of Brook and Robin Lopez, the Cardinal squeaked out a one point win in overtime. Let me say it again -- unbelievable. I was a knitting demon during parts of that game, because I. just. couldn't. bear. to. watch. Oh, and I'm still worried about that post-tourney conversation with the A.D.

And though I wouldn't believe that my UCLA love could ever waver, in the second game played at Anaheim's Honda Arena, the Texas A&M Aggies stole my heart. Isn't it always the way? After the favored #3 seed eked out a win, I was ripe for backing the underdog. And the Aggies were all heart out there. All heart. And UCLA looked... underwhelming. Overrated. Entitled. Things I hate my team to be. So even when they came roaring back, I was behind the Aggies. To maybe teach them a lesson. Blow out the bracket. Make someone a fortune. But in the end -- UCLA is UCLA. And that is still bank. With that emphatic dunk to end the game, they roll on to Phoenix on Thursday. But they better bring some of that Aggie grit with them, because I think there's a big a** target on their back.

I did get my underdog fix with the West Virginia win over Duke. Which surprised me because I had never seen them play prior to the tournament, and I was a little iffy about that Pioneer Man mascot. But the way they played within themselves the whole game, and their unbridled excitement coming down the stretch completely won me over. I must say I've been impervious to Duke and the Coach K mystique, and they were under the gun having played tight against Belmont.

There used to be a Stanford basketball t-shirt that read: Food. Shelter. Hoops. Loved that. But to give myself a little balance, I'm off now to fill Easter baskets.

My Obama button

I started wearing my Obama button in January, before the California primary. Mostly it went on my outermost layer (i.e., rain gear), but as the weather improved it moved over to the strap of my purse. As many of you know, I've been a huge fan of the man since his senatorial run in Illinois and I wore the button without thinking about it. But people responded to it, more and more people as January turned into February, and their comments made me aware that a movement was growing. Now in Berkeley, that wasn't much of a surprise. I wasn't even the first house on my block or in my neighborhood with house signs, and I first started spying Obama bumper stickers on Berkeley autos (yes, a fair number of them hybrids or biodiesel-fueled) last fall. It didn't surprise me that my button generated interest at my favorite bakery in Oakland's Temescal district, but I was surprised by the level of positive comments it drew. And the response has been the same wherever I've been around the Bay Area -- in Palo Alto (where I saw my first Hummer) and in Los Altos, where the candidate signs on the median strips were for Clinton, Huckabee and Ron Paul, as well as Obama.

By far, the most heartening, or perhaps heartwarming, Obama conversations I've had have been with kids. The classmates of the BFF's sons at Malcolm X all either ask me if I voted for Obama, or say they're for Obama, or their parents voted for Obama. Mind you, some of these are second-graders! (You've gotta love the Berkeley public schools.) I've been having a slice at Giaoa pizzeria on Hopkins and had a little kid, maybe four years old, come up to me and ask who that man was on my button. I was surprised at how proud I was to say to him "That's Barack Obama and he's running for President." That was probably the first time I said those words aloud. At the same pizzeria, which gets flocks of kids from the neighboring King Middle School and St. Mary's College High School, the button set off a conversation between two of the high school girls. One said she was for Obama, while her friend said she was torn between Obama and McCain. Now that made me wonder if I was in Berkeley!! I joined in their conversation to explain about the party conventions in the summer, since they knew something happened between the primaries and the fall election, but they weren't sure what. (When did they make high school Civics optional?)

I'm still wearing my button 24/7 and I'm still heartened to see the cross-section of people that respond to it. I'm so grateful that these candidates have generated so much interest in our political process; especially compared to the Kerry/Edwards candidacy of '04. I still have that bumper sticker on my car and it hasn't generated one comment, positive or negative, yet.

I'm a little punchy tonight due to the second day of my full basketball immersion. Can I tell you how much I love March Madness? I'm totally pissed that you have to get cable to experience women's hoops-mania, but the way the men's games deliver keeps me glued to CBS every year. I'm a bit nervous about tomorrow's Stanford-Marquette matchup, and ambivalent about UCLA's probable coast into the Sweet Sixteen. That's due in part to my rooting on the University of San Diego Toreros (don't ask me what that is or if I've spelled it correctly.) I'm backing them because they were coached by former UCLA Bruin guard Brad Holland, and I spent many blissful nights my junior and senior years of high school watching he, David Greenwood, Roy Hamilton, and Kiki Vandeweghe tear up the floor on KTLA broadcasts. Unfortunately (unbeknownst to me) USD bought out his contract last year and hired Bill Grier, a former assistant coach at Gonzaga, to replace him. Well today, the Toreros knocked off UConn, in overtime, at the buzzer, with a class recruited and well-coached in previous years by Holland. As any sports commentator will tell you, a good team grows out of a solid foundation, and though Grier coached them to victory it came out of the core that Holland built. So props to you, Brad, and may you get another college coaching gig soon.

The BFF's oldest and I have picked our winners for the Sweet Sixteen, and though I'm committed on paper my heartstrings are not tugged equally. So along with USD and my obvious Pac-10 picks, I'll be rooting hard for Villanova, Xavier and Arkansas. Oh, and I'm hoping that Washington St. can carry some water for the Pac-10's rep in the East bracket. Check in after the weekend to see if I've changed my stripes.

It's heeeere!!!

Shakespeare fans and history lovers hail the Ides of March, but the few days afterwards are even more important. This year, the Big Day was today. It's the unveiling of March Madness, which reminds me every year how much I. love. hoops. The draw was revealed -- all 64 teams -- with many anticipated match-ups and great potential for upsets.

I'm a Pac-10 baby (okay, to show my age, I'll admit I grew up a Pac-8 baby), and always ready to defend the honor of MY conference with its perennial second class status compared to the Eastern/Southeastern conferences. It's that terminal East Coast Sportswriters bias for sure, coupled with not wanting to stay up late to watch West Coast games, plus an unacknowledged resentment that we get to enjoy mild winters AND excellent college basketball.

So here are the teams I'll be watching:

1. Stanford, clearly, and I foresee a lot of nail-biting while spectating. I love Coach Trent Johnson, but always feel that no matter how much we're ahead, our lead gets swallowed up at the end of the game. But the team is fired up this year, as well as hyper-aware how many eyes are upon them. Including those of a kazillion NBA scouts, salivating over Brook Lopez and hoping he'll be the first Stanford player to leave for the pro ranks after his sophomore year. (For the record, I hope he and his twin Robin stay another year. But I'm like that.) : )
   
2. I always root for UCLA (how could you not -- for their epic history, those cute powder blue and gold uniforms, and my boy Lorenzo Mata-Real closing out his senior year) because they are incredible ambassadors for the league.
   
3. And this year, I'll have my eye on the University of San Diego, because they're coached by Brad Holland -- a former Bruin and Laker from the old days (a.k.a, my youth.)

Other than that, I'm wide open -- available to be swept up by whatever Cinderella team(s) emerge(s), with no allegiances to any other conference. I will be finalizing my bracket selections along with the BFF's oldest. We are of contrasting styles -- he's the pragmatist, picks quickly, loves the big names. I'm more emotional -- can't back Siena since they knocked Stanford out in the first round back in '89, indifferent to Duke, neutral on Georgetown, willing to go with Xavier since the BFF's sibs went there. And Gonzaga's always good in the mix. The fun starts Tuesday morning -- and I'll have to leave the TV for the BFF's son's last league basketball game. Start out the day with collegiate hoops, end it watching the 8-12 year olds. Do I love basketball, or what?

Today's other high point was finishing up Ann Packer's latest novel, Song Without Words. I've been a fan of Packer's since the early 90's with her short story collection, Mendocino, and novel, The Dive from Clausen's Pier. I'd attended her reading from the new novel last fall and decided to put my name on the library hold list rather than buying the hardback on the spot. I'd formed an opinion, or maybe a snap judgement, based on the passage she'd read, and expected the novel to be somewhat flat and formulaic. Local setting, suburban family crisis, examination of lifelong friendship between two women. Well yes, the book included all that, but Packer transformed the material into something moving and individual, pushing past all the cliches. I'm really glad I read it and am happy to recommend it to friends -- it's not the easiest subject matter, but you'll be swept up in the story quickly and effortlessly. This is another reason that I read -- to be shown how many shades there are to any plot, to universal stories; and to surprise myself. Despite what expectations I may have set, or a review has set for me, I can still be taken aback by what a skilled writer can do -- which may mean changing my mind completely.

Who's still working

I am savoring Season 5 of The Wire. For the next week or so, I have access to HBO On Demand which allows me to watch every one of the season's episodes as many times as I want, and I .am .loving .it. In case you haven't heard, The Wire has been hailed for years as the best show on television (despite a total lack of Emmys). Tim Goodman, the San Francisco Chronicle's brilliant TV critic (blog connection to the right) is one of the most devoted fans and can bring you up to speed on its brilliance. I view it as the contemporary heir to the sprawling, epic works of literature. It holds its own, easily, in the pantheon of the Greek tradition, and the nineteenth century novels produced by the best British, French and Russian writers. But you can hear all of these arguments in any national or local magazine (Time, Newsweek, etc.) or newspaper, as well as Internet publications (Slate, Salon, et.al.)

The finale aired Sunday night, but I'm still steeped in the magic and scope of the multiple storylines coming together and moving towards resolution. And I'm preparing myself to say goodbye to all of my favorite characters -- Omar, the show's unlikely moral center; Bunk, the consummate Baltimore po-lice; Daniels, who's finally reached the inner sanctum of the police hierarchy, only to find he can't support the fundamentally important, necessary work of his colleagues because of budget constraints; and of course, Bubbles, the junkie who finally seems to be clean and sober. And the city of Baltimore, which I now feel I know intimately. And then there's the love for all the great new characters in the newsroom, and the deep love and appreciation for all the casting directors, the other actors, the writers, the directors, the cinematographers, and everyone else who's contributed to the authentic look and feel of the show. At all levels, this has been such an excellent production over 60 episodes -- which is why I think it qualifies as epic literature.

What will I do when all the familiar faces are gone? Well, I can take heart because some of them are showing up on other shows. There was Chief Daniels in what looks to be a recurring role on Lost, and Mr. Prezbo and Commissioner Rawls on recent episodes of Law and Order. Perhaps most surprising was coming across Lester Freamon on Waking the Dead, a British import that airs on KTEH's Friday night British mystery/suspense line-up. Hey, did McNulty get him work across the pond? Kima was on an episode of Cold Case, in a role that looked like it might turn into a semi-regular gig, but I haven't seen her lately. And I saw Carver on another cop-like show -- Criminal Minds? CSI Miami? And one of the best .surprises . ever. was Bunk as Don's shrink on Numbers! (Though nothing could rival those great Bunk/McNulty drinking scenes!) And there's Frank Sabotka playing a mechanical engineering professor on Numbers.

Well now you know too much about my indiscriminate TV watching. Hey, I need to watch something while I'm knitting. I can't read! I hope that all of these amazing actors will continue to get work, especially in fully-developed, challenging material where they can show their chops. I'm really bummed to see Paulie Walnuts from The Sopranos hawking a chain restaurant in a commercial. Paulie f***ing Walnuts!! Who did amazing work through every season of The Sopranos. Someone give that man a real job!!

On a completely different note, I got to visit the BFF's eldest son's classroom today on DEAR (Drop Everything and Read) Day. This annual program in the Berkeley public schools, has adults from throughout the community visit a classroom with a book and read aloud for half an hour. I signed up too late last year, and was thrilled to get my dream assignment this year. I chose to read from one of my childhood favorites -- Jennifer, Hecate, Macbeth, William McKinley, and Me, Elizabeth, by E. L. Konigsburg. Do you know how satisfying it is to see a classroom (in this case of 4th graders) enthralled with a story? Even the boys liked it. And what a great treat to see that a 40 year old story can still hold its own in this age of Wii, iPods and YouTube.

Who still reads? Maybe more people than we think.

Are you a Badass?

I am not. At least I don't consider myself one. But I know a few, and am impressed by them. Badass is a quality of fearlessness, and I'm too tentative and self-questioning to qualify.

It's a characteristic that displays itself dramatically in the BFF's sons, though in different activities -- it's not automatic in their interests across the board. Her oldest is an an amazingly gifted athlete, and naturally, deeply competitive. I don't see it so much in his baseball games -- aside from his hating to lose, and expecting a perfect performance from himself. But in basketball, it's naked and raw. He will throw up shots that make me cringe, and they fall in. He is fast and everywhere -- which allows him to steal the ball at will, to cut to the inside and put up a layup while everyone else is in a scrum looking for the ball. And he's his free throws -- are . consistently. solid. His play doesn't falter, it's just that the law of averages and the human inability to produce a perfect performance on every occasion means all his shots can't connect. But he expects them to -- it's more than just wanting them to. And he leaves it all on the court. The down side of this passion is his belief that he can carry the team when they aren't matching his performance (i.e., falling behind.) Going to one of his games (and he's only 10) is intense because to the crowd, he's a known quantity, the go-to player. When I'm in the stands, I'm always surprised that I'm not the only one rooting on his performance. It's the other parents that are shouting encouragement to him, that are praising his play. At 10!! I'm a little worried about what it will be like when he's in high school.

His younger brother takes daredevil to a wholly different level. He spends hours doing flips and all other gymnastic moves -- just for fun. The same with skateboarding -- he flies up and down the hills at the skateboard park. And his batizado last weekend, (the annual capoeira exhibition where you receive a new belt) had a week's lead up that included a visit to a circus arts gym. While his lesson was on the trampoline, and he loved it, he really wanted to be in a harness working with the trapeze performers. Swinging across and catching someone else's hands while doing a flip in the middle!! That's crazy badass. It's the same with his dancing -- he's able, at 8, to control and move his body in imitation of the choreographed routines you see in movies, a la Stomp the Yard, and music videos. (Replete with the shaking and gyrations that cause us all some exasperation.)

Observing how natural this is in two so young leads me to believe this intensity is self-generated. It's awe-inspiring to me that some people come into the world with that programmed into their DNA, while others have to work ceaselessly to acquire that quality, which is so integral to being an exceptional athlete. When I played tennis obsessively (lo, those many decades ago), I always found it easier to hit for hours in pursuit of consistently perfect shots than to play matches. I liked competing, but sometimes faltered in the clutch because I lacked the killer instinct, the ability to hit out under pressure, to seek out and exploit any weakness in my opponent's game.

I also know a badass knitter -- and while you might assume that's a strange combo, there are more of them out there than you'd imagine. Helen, the one I know, hasn't been knitting for more than a few years but she'll try anything. Any idea, working without a pattern, pushing the limitations of a yarn. She's basically unafraid to play with, and even break, the charter rules of knitting. Sometimes it works out, sometimes it doesn't, but she knits on undaunted. She is prodigious -- one of those folks whose projects go out into the wider world, rather than stacking up in her drawers. (Which means she knits for everybody, and you'll see her product on neighbors, friends, her daughters.)

I am a cautious knitter -- sticking to the pattern, the recommended yarn, the tried and true methods. And my projects are mainly for me, and stay at home. (Which means an awful lot of them are hanging out in plastic bags, in varied states of completion.)

All of which puts me in mind of Barack Obama. Up until now, he's been cool and unflappable -- another personality trait I think is hard-wired, though it too can be acquired. I think we've reached the stage where he has to go badass to win. It's been a perpetual dog fight and he's stayed above the fray, but now I think he's got to assert he's the only person for the job, and in a forceful way. I'm not sure what the best forceful tactic would be -- it definitely shouldn't be returning ad hominem attacks of Hillary. But somehow he's got to translate what I (and others) find effective answers to the "inexperienced" argument (his work as a community organizer who was then elected to the state legislature to represent those he'd organized for years is pretty concrete experience) in an aggressive way. And he is going to have to be more pointed in pointing out Hillary's flaws and relatively short stint as an elected representative. Can he do it? I hope so. Because I don't think I could live through the months long rehash of Whitewater, Monica, Bill's impeachment and that "vast right-wing conspiracy" comment the Republicans are going to run 24/7 if she's the Democratic candidate.

Old Reliable

There are some things that you can always count on -- in my case, yarn and books -- and their constancy can often keep the nasty, disappointing world at bay. I'm thinking about that comfort at the moment because I'm swatching up some yarn I bought at Stitches, and my fingers are dancing with joy knitting this yarn. It's Malabrigo, in worsted weight, and all the praise it's received still didn't prepare me for how obsessed I'd become. The color -- pollen -- is one of those soft, unwimpy yellows and because it's kettle-dyed new color variations appear as you knit. And it feels like b*u*t*t*a*h. Seriously. I don't know if I can wait to finish the swatch, I'm so eager to cast on the Petrol vest I've settled on.

Falling under the spell of a great yarn is just like falling under the spell of a good book. Or browsing in a great bookstore for a good book. That experience feels more and more precious to me, as drastic changes have struck so many of my favorite Bay Area independent bookstores. Cody's, which has had just a wretched year, is about to undergo another sea change -- giving up its perfect Fourth Street store because of a soaring rent increase. It's relocating to Shattuck St. at Addison, where an Eddie Bauer used to be. Less space, more parking hassles -- it feels like another body blow to a reeling fighter. I can't even get excited about possible sales to reduce stock for the new store because it will be such a big change.

I'm an old-fashioned girl in this respect -- no need to change what ain't broken. Which is a fine sentiment, until the real world intrudes. That's why my current computer woes are so discouraging. Once upon a time, I had a Mac semi-guru, but I'm so completely off his radar screen that I'm facing this system emergency on my own. And the news is that great business strategy of planned obsolescence. I've got so much going on inside my ancient Mac that I get an ominous instruction "your startup disk is almost full" every time I sync my iPod. So downloading photos onto my blog is out of the question, as well as any number of other projects I was figuring on.

A new Mac is not in the forecast, so I just keep plugging along, holding my breath as I type.

Alright, bore me later. I'm going to retreat into the Malabrigo and Jane Austen solution on this stormy night. And tomorrow night I'm attending the annual Oscar part on Ada St., where an added bit of entertainment is waiting for our elegantly sneaky canine friend Lucy to snag Paolina's cheeseburger. Old reliables -- you can bank on them!

Yarn . . . makes me happy

Have you missed me? I've missed you. I've written, but not posted because I'm getting ominous warnings from my computer. But today, I've decided to ignore my fears. Because today, I went to Stitches West.

I've skipped the event the last few years, and haven't missed it much. In part, due to an inevitable outcome of attending -- bringing home lots of yarn that I'll never knit. This year, I came with a plan. My confrere Nona devised an effective strategy in her blog last year -- set a dollar limit and bring cash. Only cash. No credit cards. When you run out of money, you're done. That worked for me . . . with a teeny modification. I brought a card, but only for an emergency.

Those of you familiar with the Stitches vendors, know about the Webs booth. Well, mega-booth actually. And you know that booth is a Noro emergency, waiting to happen. I succumbed. Who wouldn't, when faced with Silk Garden Lite at $5.50 a ball, and a bag lying there, whispering, "I'm a sweater, I'm the sweater in Last Minute Knitted Gifts you've been meaning to knit..."

And then my friends at Article Pract were having a market special on Malabrigo worsted in a luscious yellow... So, there was credit card damage but it was under $100. That's not soooo bad.
And the Malabrigo feels so good when you pet it.

With the cash, I planned on indulging my recent love for sock yarn. I've discovered a few patterns for sport weight sock yarn so *BAM*, there I was at the Socks that Rock booth. Iolite is the color I selected and it is a beautiful blue/green/purple colorway that should knit up into something special. I also popped for some Smooshy sock yarn in a light blue colorway that reminds me of the shades of ocean in the Caribbean. And to break my blue habit, I picked up a Pagewood Farm rust/toast/brown colorway called Mardi Gras. How could I resist a sock yarn "hand dyed in small batches in the USA?" Especially one from San Pedro in Southern California. Do you know San Pedro? Being the home of a cool sock yarn definitely enhances its reputation.

With all of those delightful treats, I haven't mentioned my best deal of the day. (Bet you thought it was the Noro!) I picked up three pair of rosewood needles for a song -- 75% off. Size 0, 1 and 1 1/2 -- sum total $11.71. My shopping was done.

And, as an added treat, I caught up with my friend Darlene and heard about some new yarns she'll be introducing. And I got to meet (and thank effusively!!) the folks at ravelry.com. They truly rock!! I got a little button -- "where my stitches at?"

Okay, all you yarn fiends in the Bay Area this weekend, get your arses down to the Santa Clara Convention Center!! The temptations are not to be missed.

And for those who are immune to the charms of yarn, let me tell you about two authors who make me very, very happy. I discovered them both in the mid-1980's, when their debut short story collections came out. Lorrie Moore, who I heard read from her novel due out in 2009, is gifted, a genius, a national treasure (and way more talented than Tobias Woolf, who introduced her.) I don't know how I'll wait until next year, after the tantalizing piece she regaled us with. And she got off an amazing line about "our governor" to close the reading. And Peter Cameron, whose last two novels disappointed me, has returned to his brilliant, acerbic stride with Someday This Pain Will Be Useful to You. Both are masterful writers who communicate so much, so well, so compellingly.

Enjoy.

What a fevered imagination you must have...

Any idea who uttered that line?

If you, like the rest of the gang from my LYS, are enjoying the Jane Austen mega-marathon that Masterpiece! (nee Masterpiece Theater) is putting on every Sunday, and you were listening closely tonight, you probably know the answer.

That was kind of an Austen-like sentence there. But nowhere near as delicate.

Each time I re-read or re-watch one of her works, I'm awed by her prowess. She elegantly, but pointedly, shows how precarious a single woman's position was in the early 19th century -- how easily a slip of the tongue, or a misjudgment, or familial bad behavior could jeopardize an entire future. And she's ruthless on families, defining dysfunction centuries before it comes into common usage. Who can't sympathize with Mr. Bennett, with all those daughters to marry off and that wife? Wouldn't you withdraw to your library and hope for the best? And those horrid Elliot sisters, and father, who take for granted all of Anne's contributions and sacrifices. And Mrs. Dashwood, forcing Elinor and Marianne to find a way to keep a roof over their heads, thanks to the actions of that selfish brother.

I'm also amused at the list of "rules" that a femme fatale has to remember (and juggle) to stay in the game in her novels:

• Try not to fall in love with a second son. It's always doomed.
• Be a skilled horsewoman.
• Look attractive when you're caught in a sudden downpour, and don't contract any serious illnesses after your bout with showers. (A sprained ankle, yes. Tuberculosis, bronchitis, penumonia, no.)
  
• There are more cads out there than you think. And they're all remarkably charming. And who you'd least suspect.
• Your sister is your greatest fan, and your dearest friend. Unless she's an ungrateful wretch with poor taste in men. Prepare accordingly.

Funny, wasn't it, to hear Catherine Morland called Cathy within her family. And then there's Cathy in Wuthering Heights. Do you think that nickname was popular for 50 years in the 19th century and then came into favor again a hundred years later in America?

The "fevered imagination" line was delivered to Miss Morland by the lovely Mr. Tilney earlier this evening. It was during the crucial quarrel that's a mainstay in Austen's work, in which the heroine realizes her personal folly and admits her love for the hero. In Austen, differences are overcome and the resolution is a happy union between partners. Another concept that didn't come to pass in great numbers until the late 20th century. How prescient was she? And how amazing that she envisioned this model, given how different it was from her own experience as a spinster, scribbling away in her family drawing room. And from the marriages most women endured in her time, where money was the most important factor and a union was rarely based on equality. But that's her genius, isn't it? To transcend the actual, and create an ideal that feels natural, real and achievable.

Mr. Tilney followed up the imagination line to Catherine by stating, "Perhaps it is possible after all to read too many novels." I say, not if they're written by Jane Austen!!

The magical Internet

I've waxed ecstatic to my knitting friends about ravelry.com, a phenomenal new Internet site. Its ingenious design will meet any and all organizational needs for knitting projects, stash and supplies, and more! You also get access to scads of patterns and insights from other knitters!! There's inspiration, solace and a supportive community -- whether you've hit a snag, or want to browse through patterns. And lots of fellow knitters who have posted their projects online, allowing you to see their choices of colors and yarns, check out their WIPs (works in progress) and completed work. The site has been a godsend for me -- I've been trying out different ways of organizing my knitting kingdom for years, without landing on a satisfactory working system. On Ravelry, it's like a skilled, smart, practical cadre of knitters caucused, mapped out all possible challenges and wish lists, and then came up with an easy to use, comprehensive system that adjusts to be as low-key or detailed as you want.

As someone who loves books even more than yarn, I've been yearning for a similar site to catalogue my library. The last version I used for my 1,000+ volumes was on a 1990's version of Filemaker and, while all the necessary fields were there, it just felt like a big ole list. Well, wouldn't you know, Ravelry handed me the solution to this dilemma as well. It's called LibraryThing and it is a work of art. And genius. It is the book database with pixie dust, anticipating your every need and displaying your book covers in beautiful, living color. Of course you can display them by spine -- but really, that's so 20th century. It's been fantastic and revelatory to be entering (gulp!) 30 years of books, and to find out what a touchstone they are. I've always been able to create a compelling reason to buy any book, anytime, anywhere -- and buy I did, all through my 20's and 30's. My frequent visits to Manhattan always included a tour of bookstores -- Upper East Side, the Village, midtown, Upper West Side, used bookstores near Columbia, the Strand outlet on the edge of Central Park -- and I have many, many volumes that accompanied me on the return trip to San Francisco. The two years I lived in Northampton, I scoured the town bookstores every weekend, and those purchases too, take up many shelves. After living in the Bay Area for decades, I've amassed loads of books -- bought in Marin, the City, Berkeley, Menlo Park and Palo Alto. All these have been in vertical stacks or on horizontal shelves, so I've known in a disconnected way that I owned them. But entering them -- and seeing their familiar, memory-laden covers -- now they've come to life. The novels and literary criticism I purchased in midtown NYC the summer before my senior year, to prepare for my honors thesis. The Iris Murdoch novel I bought one Thanksgiving in Nantucket, while hanging with Victoria and Jeff. Buying Night and Day, the one Virginia Woolf novel I didn't have, while lazing the day away in Berkeley, with the boyfriend Susie Q. dubbed "the cowboy."

Paging through these books, these dear, but forgotten friends, also reminds me of all the departed bookstores where I've shopped -- the iconic and beautiful Scribner's on Fifth Avenue; the Classic Bookshop on 48th and Avenue of the Americas, around the corner from my dad's office; Coliseum Books on Columbus Circle, one subway stop away from my dad's office on the local; the women's bookstores in San Francisco's Mission District and Manhattan's Upper West Side; the original Browser Books on upper Fillmore, where Becky and I lingered for hours in the upstairs used book section. I think I bought all my Barbara Pym novels there, and my Amanda Cross mysteries. The Rizzoli on Sutter Street, West Coast cousin to the still intact 57th St. store in Manhattan, which was where I bought Natalia Ginzburg for Betta. The musty bookshelves, chock full of finds, at the two used book stores in the Upper Haight. And A Clean Well-Lighted Place for Books in Opera Plaza, where I always bought my guidebooks before a vacation. Equally beloved are the London bookshops that yielded the prized Virago and Penguin editions I brought home in the 80's, when a Penguin paperback could be had for the ridiculous price of 95p. And the dollar was strong!!

Memories, all vivid, now. All these books I've surrounded myself with, over all these years, are a record of where I've been, what I've thought and valued. I'm not one who's big on taking photographs to record experiences. But Library Thing, with all its tricks and treats, has brought me back to my books in a way that is both vibrant and tangible.

The beginning of the year

Did the Australian Open start a week earlier this year? It's here already, coming to the end of the first week, and I could have sworn it ran for the last two weeks in January. Everybody's playing, with Serena dominating per usual. Hopefully, Federer is over his stomach ailment. Another Federer-Nadal final is only fitting to start the year off. Check out the tournament's amazingly comprehensive website.

In spite of? because of? my little rant over the contingent of established, American, male writers, I checked out Philip Roth's, Exit Ghost at the library today. The first paragraph drew me in, so I thought I'd give it a go. I'm in a reading funk again, unable to get into anything and not leaving enough time before sleep to get my usual half-hour in. We'll see if this novel will help revitalize my reading mojo.

But books have been on my mind. I've been thinking about rereading some of the novels from my English major days. My Norton edition of Jane Eyre has fallen apart, so I'll have to settle for a library copy. That opening page, where Jane is hiding behind the velvet curtains with a book of Audubon drawings, is still one of the most.arresting. introductions.ever. After going to Ilana Simons' reading from her work on Virginia Woolf, A Life of One's Own, I've been trying to select something of Woolf's to reread. Simons' favorite novel is To The Lighthouse, and I'm torn between Mrs. Dalloway and The Voyage Out. But I think I'm going with one of her later works -- maybe The Years or The Waves. And all you Anglophiles or Austenophiles no doubt are spending your Sunday evenings enjoying the brilliant BBC programming, a compilation of new and old television versions of all of Austen's work. You can never show Colin Firth striding out of his pond in Pride and Prejudice too many times! I think I'll go with Sense and Sensibility for my Austen fix. We can also look forward to new productions of Elizabeth Gaskell's works, starring Judi Dench. I want to tackle Cranford before it's broadcast, inspired by a query from Ms. Bananie who's considering it for vacation reading on her spring journey across the pond.

I finally settled on my calendar for this year! After mulling over English Gardens and Impressionist Paintings of the Sea, I chose The Reading Woman. Apt, don't you think?

Do the math

That phrase became a nice bit of shorthand between me and my friend Susan, whom I met in a magazine writing class. We used it as a signal, more discreet than rolling our eyes, when the topic of gender came up. As in: there are no barriers to women being published these days, or women are the new men in terms of representative voices, blah blah blah.

Oh puh-leeze. Do the math. Check out the masthead and contributors list at the New Yorker. Oooh! Predominantly male! Try the Atlantic. Look! Straight white males! Newsweek, Time, the New Republic, Slate. All the same. Check out any publication of note. Or bestseller list. Or collection of A-list critics. It's raining men. Even though "women have all the opportunities these days."

Now, I can hear the responses -- angry b****, ungrateful b****, sniping b****.

How about truthful b****? Or just, methodically doing the math b****?

This is up for me, at the moment, because of the glut of end of the year "best book" lists. Do I begrudge any of the great men their press, their adulation, their contracts? No -- Philip Roth and John Updike and Richard Ford and Michael Chabon and all the rest of them have done the grueling work of writing and editing and rewriting novels. Noteworthy novels. Critically acclaimed novels. In 2007, they wrapped up the sagas that have encompassed decades. They completed the arc of their iconic protagonists -- examining the dark corners of their souls, in midlife, getting older, losing their erections, facing their mortality. And this year, those novels all received great acclaim. They were lauded as works representative of the universal experience, meditations on the modern human condition. They were not classified as limited stories, self-absorbed books, or internal, interior novels. No, those terms are used generally for the contemporary novels written by women.

What a grossly overblown statement, you grumble. Then check out last fall's City Arts and Lecture program featuring Richard Ford, interviewed by Daniel Handler, aka Lemony Snicket. (Hey, two white guys sitting around talking!) Handler asks Ford whether he considers any of the Frank Bascombe chronicles to be interior works, focused as they are on the protagonist's life, choices, regrets... Oh, no. No, no, responds Ford. Subtly inferring that his works are bigger than that. More expansive, more universal. Which reminded me of going to hear Martin Amis read here at Black Oak Books, during his London Fields book tour. An audience member asked the question all authors hear at these events. And who are you reading these days? After rattling off a list of American and British male authors, he was asked (I swear not by me) are you reading any women authors? Oh, no was his unabashed reply. I mean they don't write material I'm interested in. I loved London Fields, loved Nicola Six, but I was completely blown away by his response. I mean, I'm able to read Julian Barnes and Penelope Lively and admire both their works. And I've slogged through packs of novels by men that haven't been about characters or interests that I've particularly enjoyed, all in pursuit of being well read. Is it too much to expect men to do the same?

Here's what I mind about the status quo. It's the guys that get all the oxygen in the room. Aah, you say, but Doris Lessing won the Nobel this year. Yes, and check out my earlier blog entry to read Harold Bloom's response. Or better still, do the math. What's the tally of men Nobel Fiction winners to women? Really?? That overwhelming?

I know, I know, I can hear the rumblings. Again my response -- do the math. Tally up the numbers of published novels by men, the number of books by men on the fiction and non-fiction recommended lists, the number of lead critics who are men. (And Michiko Kakutani, though she reviews daily, and is as powerful as they come, is only one gal. How many Jonathan Yardleys are there overseeing the book review sections across the country?) Listen to Michael Krasny's December Forum program with Oscar Villalon, the Chronicle's book editor. The list of the year's best books -- overwhelmingly male. Or check out All Things Considered book reviewer Alan Cheuse's year-end list. Lotta guys. Even Fresh Air's Maureen Corrigan has a list that doesn't reach a 50/50 split for male and female authors (though her list is my favorite).

Wait, wait -- I'm not advocating quotas! I'm not saying there have to be spots reserved for women authors to get a representative sample. I'm saying that there were plenty of wonderful novels published last year, and the year before that, and the year before that, written by women. I'm just wondering what can be done to encourage the men, the overwhelming number of men who set the opinions, to read and value them.

Just saying.

The Wild Kingdom of Berkeley

It's an urban jungle out here, what with the raccoons, the feral cats, and now that the rains have visited, the ants. The f**king ants. I think every house in Berkeley sits atop an ant hill, after the South American exodus a few years back. But my house covers an ant metropolis, and they're carrying out their annual explosion. They come through the floor heating vents and the spout in the bathtub. They surge up the side of the kitchen cabinet and over the stovetop. Where do they come from? Cracks in the grout? The sliver where the baseboards don't adhere to the wall? Is there a safe way to seal up my house and keep them out?

Each year, I shy away from using the really bad chemicals in the Ortho aerosol cans sold at all the hardware stores. Currently, I've put my faith in Orange Guard, a water-based spray with a super-duper dose of orange peel extract. But it's not curbing the masses, only extinguishing them once they've invaded. I'm at the end of my patience though, and plan on mixing up the lethal boric acid/peanut butter spread that the varmints actually take back to their kingdom. Since more rainstorms are due this week, drastic measures are warranted.

###

In more important news, I'm riveted by the political battle that's unfolding. Quite a different landscape than that outlined in the way.too.long lead-up, in which the press sang their one-note tune endlessly and unimaginatively. Which wasn't really news, if you think about it, just an extended round of inside baseball. Doh!!! Nothing really happens until the actual race begins!

And what a different and unexpected race it's already turning out to be. Which is the beauty of letting the people speak, isn't it?

I've had one recurring thought about Hillary Clinton and her campaign since the lackluster showing in Iowa. Okay, maybe two. The first, and to me the most striking, is how clear it is that she may be a capable candidate, maybe even a great one, but she is the wrong girl, running at the wrong time, with the wrong message and way too much baggage. It is one of those bad hands that fate sometimes gives the undeserving, one impossible to shake or defeat. And, of course, it's inextricably tied to the albatross of her husband. Because of all the controversies that have swirled around their political partnership, she can never be evaluated without him. And because she is so identified through her choice of him, her choice to stay with him, her choice time and again to support his political career, it's a demon she can't outrace.

I say this as a longtime, fierce Hillary admirer. It's painfully ironic that someone so smart, so skilled, who embodies the strengths and strides that now define the American woman, who was at the forefront of all the battles it took to expand what the possibilities were for modern women, is unable to benefit from that hard work and those hard earned achievements.

My second thought is, how plagued she is by bad choices. The quickness to compromise and go for the safe middle ground, the political calculations to offend the fewest at the cost of weakening your integrity, the inability to relax and be yourself. You can't blame her for keeping her guard up. Anyone who's been scrutinized so closely and judged so harshly in her public life would be wary. Now, all the bad judgments and missteps have united to form an insurmountable barrier to her chances for President.

What if team Clinton decided to put her forth as the political rising star rather than Bill, after Yale Law School? Would she have been elected governor of Arkansas? (Or Illinois, her home state and a far better ideological fit.) As a sitting governor, could she have been a viable candidate for President in '92? Somehow, I don't think so and not because of her "difficult" likableness. I don't think this country, then, was ready to put a woman, even a credible, capable one into the White House. And now that we may be ready to, it can't be her.

Anyway, that's my two cents worth, two days before New Hampshire.

How tough is it being Chelsea Clinton?

On the upside, you're brilliant, focused, high-achieving and well-travelled. On the downside, you've been the subject of media scrutiny your whole life (much of it unkind and invasive) and you've had to witness the whole country analyze and judge the ups and downs, the ins and outs of your parents' cipher-like marriage. And then every so often, you have to take a leave of absence from your life to go out on the campaign trail as they run for national office.

What does this woman have to do to catch a break?

She is her parents' daughter, and therefore unflappable in public, a political animal. But as she's smiling and greeting crowds and freezing her tush off in Iowa and New Hampshire, don't you bet she's daydreaming about an isolated beach on the North Shore of Kauai?

However this endless campaign turns out, whatever reams of news/gossip must be endured, no matter which dirty little secrets are unveiled, I hope she gets that beach time once it's over. She's earned it.