I need a good rant

I realize that it has been a long time since I blogged. However, I actually do have an excuse for that: I have had no computer for the past week and no time to write for the last ten days. Between college prep and trying to get my "crackbook pro" fixed (apparently, it takes longer than overnight to replace a badly-cracked Macbook Pro screen...WHO THE HELL KNEW?), I haven't had the means to blog. Sorry about that, everyone. But now that I do, I'll provide you with another rant from your friendly neighborhood hipster about...what else?...hipsterism.

Hardly a week has gone by this summer without my dad making a reference, veiled or unveiled, to the hipster qualities that I allegedly possess. And I'm not going to lie--it's annoying. Well, semi-annoying, because he's my dad and I love him and, believe me, on the long list of Crap That Beatnik Belle Has Put Up With Throughout High School, getting called "hipster" by my well-meaning father is waaaay down there along with "listening to Green Day" and "getting teased by editing teacher." But that's not the point. Anyway, I've heard "You're a hipster!" minimum once a week since March, with varying degrees of irritation on my part following this repeated declaration. But the irritation wasn't at my dad. Oh, no. It was at the idiots who have given any poor shmuck who calls himself or herself "hipster" a bad name.

I posted a joke about a hipster in a music store on my blog awhile back and received this lovely tidbit in response:

-THE ACTUAL HIPSTER JOKE-

(A customer walks over to the first aisle of a CD store and apathetically glances at some of the CDs while inwardly lamenting the downward spiral of popular culture while ironically liking Beyonce. It takes him three minutes before he gets bored. He then walks up to the counter.)

Customer: You're cute, wanna come to a secret Wavves show tonight and do some blow with Best Coast?

Salesperson: Whowhat?

Customer: Lamestreamer.

He lights a Native Spirit cigarette even though the sign says "No smoking" but he wants to stick it to the man. He contemplates putting the cigarette out on the cover of a Justin Bieber CD but decides that cigarettes are too expensive despite his neverending trust fund. He exits the store and jumps on his fixie, muttering "I miss you James Murphy bro" while nearly being hit by a Hummer blasting Eminem.

Wait, where's the punch line? IRONY DOESN'T HAVE PUNCH LINES BITCH.

Ooh, fun. Let's play a game called "Spot the Stereotype," shall we?

First of all, this joke is not actually making fun of hipsters. It is making fun of pretentious people who think they are better than everyone else because they have semi-decent taste in music (and even that is debatable). It is making fun of the idiots who actually think that those shutter shades are attractive. (Little hint, guys: 1) they are not attractive in the least, and 2) every emo and their brother owns them, which makes them--LE GASP!--mainstream, does it not?) It is making fun of people who conform to the "indie" standard and insist they are the counterculture. No. No, they are not.

So what is a hipster these days, exactly? Well, according to this joke, it is a rich, obnoxious kid with nothing better to do than make fun of pop culture and blow off anyone who he considers to be "mainstream." It is someone who pretends to rebel just for the sake of rebelling, because suddenly it's "cool" to, as the joke bluntly says, "stick it to the man."

Also, according to this joke, a true hipster ONLY likes things that no one else has heard of, and if he ever admits to liking something that someone else has heard of, it is "ironic." Tell me, how does one "ironically" like Beyonce Knowles? "Oh, man, it's so ironic that I like Beyonce, considering that I'm a straight teenage guy!" How in the flying hell is that remotely ironic? And that's coming from a person who has misused the word "ironic" AT LEAST three times since starting this blog. You know if I spot it, it HAS to be blatant misuse--I wouldn't recognize it otherwise.

So with all that in mind, hipsters are rich, rude, careless, selfish, and--let's just say what everyone is thinking, shall we?--pathetic.

No. Not cool. I refuse to accept that definition.

Sorry for yet another mini-history lesson, guys, but here it is: Back in the 1950s, when truly brilliant writers and musicians stood up and said, "We don't have to do things your way," they were not doing it because it was "cool." They were not rebelling for the sake of rebelling. They were rebelling because it meant something to them. They were doing what they loved because they wanted to, not because it was suddenly "the thing" to be a poet or a musician or a starving artist. Back then, a "starving artist" was not a good thing to be. Artists--particularly women artists--were ridiculed, considered neurotic and crazy and all kinds of other "bad" things.

Back then, you see, there was no "hipster code." You could not tell by the presence of skinny jeans and plaid flannel shirts whether or not one was a member of the counterculture. You could tell by what they did, instead of what they wore. You could hear it in the way they spoke, in the way they wrote. They were the "mad ones" that Jack Kerouac wrote about in On the Road. They did not obsess over who liked what. They did not keep careful tabs on what was "hot" and then make sure that neither they nor anyone they spent time with liked any of it. They were natural misfits, people whose tastes simply ran to things that the majority did not appreciate.

These days, "hipster" comes with a code of conduct. It's not enough to simply have different tastes; you have to have a "look" to be a hipster: tight faded jeans, plaid button-down shirts, long earth-colored skirts, hideous-print scarves, battered sneakers or earth-tone sandals, jewelry made from just about anything that one wouldn't generally use to make jewelry (paper clips, bolts, shells, safety pins, etc), and of course those damn glasses that are so huge and ridiculous they'd make Buddy Holly cringe.

And as if the uniform isn't enough, there has to be a uniform attitude as well, which can only be described as, I am so much better than you because I like things you've never heard of. And if, God forbid, someone happens to like the same thing as a modern "hipster," it is immediately deemed mainstream or sold-out and the "hipster" cannot like it anymore. Period. Regardless of how good it is.

And why? I understand wanting to be unique. Really. I do. I have this thing about obtaining things that no one else will have (and, quite honestly, most of the time no one else would want them anyway). This blog, you understand, is written by a girl who owns rain boots designed to look like Converse hi-tops and shops at the same stores as her mother. I know that most of the mainstream, top-40 music quite frankly sucks, and I frequently raid my dad's music collection or scour YouTube for independent garage bands. And what kind of filmmaker would I be if I didn't spend a fair chunk of my time watching, reviewing, and making independent films?

But here's the catch: If someone, heaven forbid, actually likes the same things that I do, I don't immediately disown the things I like. If there is a rare book that I read, or a rare film that I love, and I meet someone who loves it as much as I do, I welcome that person with open arms. I frequently IM and email my friends, telling them that they have to read this book/hear this band/see this movie/go to this website. I don't take it as a personal insult if someone happens to have heard of some obscure blog that I follow religiously, or if someone excitedly begins to tell me about this "new" band they heard last night that I've been listening to for years.

So, with all that in mind, will my hipster card be revoked? I don't think it should be. I think that what the beatniks of the 1950s wanted above all else was to be comfortable with themselves--not to shout in the faces of everyone who wasn't as "mature" or "independent" as they were. In my opinion, a true nonconformist--whether you want to call it a beatnik, hippie, hipster, or just plain weirdo--loves what they love and doesn't care what anyone else thinks.

Hipsters were not meant to be snobs, everyone. Let's stop treating them like they are, and maybe--just maybe--they won't feel the need to act like that.

So, one of my best friends in the world has begun a new thing called the Cyrano Project. And you should check it out, because it is amazing. I'd do something irrational, like refuse to blog again until at least five people check it out--but I won't be that mean. Instead, I'll provide you with the link (see above) so you really have no excuse to NOT check it out. Trust me. No hopeless romantic should go without at least checking this amazing blog out. (And you really should hire her. Because if I had someone to write love letters to, I would.)

And now, lovelies, I'm going to be extremely cheesy and promote my own movie, called He's A Rockstar, and beg you all to check out the Facebook page. YouTube has decided that it hates me, so unfortunately a trailer/reel is out of the question at the moment...but I'll get it to upload. Soon. I promise.

He's A Rockstar website

STOLEN DIALOGUE

Person one: 'Feeling up your moles?' That's kind of creepy...

Person two: I know, right?

Person one: A keysmash is worth a thousand words.

Person two: Indeed!

Person one: We'll come in fall and play hide-and-seek with mooning scarecrows. Sound good?

Person two: That is one of the most wonderfully-phrased propositions I've ever heard. I accept.

"You can take the misfits out of Interlochen, but you can't take Interlochen out of the misfits."

Person one: My flight was delayed.

Person two: Shit.

Person one: My sediments exactly.

Person two: Sediments? Please don't leave any 'sediments' on the ground.

"He's a handy-looking guy, isn't he? This guy without a nose..."

"I'm not flying that week. That week is notoriously notorious for being...notorious. It's not as notorious as whatever's on this butter dish, but it's pretty damn close."

"Just give the bastard nine bucks, see what happens."

"I suggested to your dad that we rent a Jeep, and he goes, 'What? A JEEP?!' like he's never heard of one before!"

"I've only gotten forty-nine miles to the gallon this trip...because I've been driving like a lunatic."

"A girl's first cloche is something to be celebrated."

"I'd like to stay in the cabin where we shot my thesis...at least we know there aren't any unidentifiable ecosystems in there."

"I can tell I'm in a bad neighborhood...I just passed a Church of Christ. I better get out of here."

BOOK IT!

I love reading. (Insert "Duh!" here.) I love reading entirely too much for a filmmaker. I should be watching movie after movie. And don't get me wrong, I watch plenty of movies, too. But I learned to read when I was four years old, and ever since then I've been an official Devourer of Books. Why, some people ask, do I love to read so much? Many reasons, most of them sounding more like apple-polishing pleas for adult approval than actual truth. But I assure you, these reasons are the truth.

There's just something so magical about curling up with a book and some chocolate on a stormy day and losing yourself in a magical land--be it Hogwarts, Alagaësia, Never Land, Terabithia, Transylvania, or Narnia--or another time (my personal favorite is 19th-century Europe, but any foreign country or different time has potential). There have been times when I've sworn that my best friend was Eoin Colfer or Beverly Cleary--or, of course, the unbeatable J.K. Rowling. You just can't get that kind of intimacy from a movie. That's not to say you get nothing from movies--I'd be a pretty terrible director if I went around saying things like that--but you get a different kind of intimacy from movies, and that's only good movies. (I have yet to feel any kind of personal bond with anything that Michael Bay has directed. Yes, even though he's used some of my favorite actors. Sorry, Bay-Man, just not feeling the love there.)

Here's the thing: When you read a book, there is some little part of it that becomes inarguably yours. The characters and places look just the way you imagine them to look, regardless of the author's description. There is always that one character who you can't help but identify with, and sometimes you want to identify with them and sometimes you don't, but invariably you do whether you want to or not. You can picture the battle scenes or love scenes just the way you want to, without a pretentious director or MPAA ratings board to get in the way.

Does this still sound like I'm dumping on movies? I'm not. I write and direct movies, for Pete's sake! I want to be a professional filmmaker! Why would I dump on movies? I'm just saying, having grown up as a reader, there will always be some part of me that refuses to accept that it's impossible for books to solve everything...and I will never, ever stop ranting at the inept directors and producers who ruin my favorite books when they make botched attempts to turn them into movies. If you're going to make a book into a movie, for the love of all that's holy, do it right.

That little rant now being officially over, I have a new summer reading guide for anyone who reads this blog. Don't freak out, it's not for a grade. (Sorry, couldn't resist.) These are some books I've read (and, in some cases, re-read) this summer, in varying moods and conditions, and if you can read even just one or two of these before you head back to school or off to college, you should. I've even broken them down by occasion! Check it out:

If you're looking for adventure, read... The Peter and the Starcatchers series by Dave Barry and Ridley Pearson

Why: Why NOT should be the question! Read as a stand-alone or as a prequel to Peter Pan, these books--Peter and the Starcatchers, Peter and the Shadow Thieves, Peter and the Secret of Rundoon, and Peter and the Sword of Mercy--are nothing short of absolutely amazing. I don't care if you're twelve (the age I was when I first started reading these epic books) or eighteen (guess how old I am now?) or, hell, even forty (*coughPARENTScoughcough*), you will fall in love with Peter, Molly, Leonard, Fighting Prawn (yes, that IS the character's actual name), Ammm, and even the villainous Black Stache, First Officer Slank, and would-be evil assistants Mr. Smee and Little Richard. Oh, and P.S.--if Mr. Grin and Lord Ombra don't scare you half to death, you are either comatose or inhuman. (Or you are Lord Ombra yourself, in which case I must ask you, why in the hell are you reading a human girl's blog?)

If you're feeling nostalgic, read... Sisterhood Everlasting by Ann Brashares

Why: If The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants was among your first set of young adult books (and yes, I do belong in that camp of young women), and you fell in love with Tibby, Carmen, Lena, and Bridget from the first page, this book will not disappoint...unless your favorite character is Tibby, in which case be prepared to cry your eyes out (mainly because she has literally no dialogue in the entire novel, and we only hear about her through flashbacks). But seeing the Sisterhood at thirty is every bit as captivating as seeing them at fifteen, and I tell you this much, it was worth the wait (and the terrible fan fiction in the interim) to see our girls all grown up.

If you're feeling frustrated, read... The Airman by Eoin Colfer

Why: Eoin Colfer is a genius. We know this. But here's why Airman is literally the best thing that he has ever written (excluding the first Artemis Fowl book, because we all know that saying ANYTHING is better than that pretty much amounts to blasphemy). Airman is a classic story of ambition, treachery, and mistaken identity...with a twist. The villain of this book is a master mindf**ker. Honestly, you do not want to mess with this guy, or he will make you think that your son is dead or that your father considers you a traitor. You will cry (if you're a girl), throw the book (if you're a boy), root for Conor (if you're human), and laugh your ass off (if you appreciate Colfer's sense of humor).

If you love a good mystery, read... The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo by Stieg Larsson

Why: Chances are, by this time you're shaking your head, because really, what Colfer-loving girl would recommend something as dark as The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo? But it's amazing, it really is. This is a murder mystery to beat all murder mysteries. The twist ending alone is worth the entire book--but thankfully, that's not the only attribute. Anyone who reads this book will envy, pity, and admire Lisbeth Salander in equal amounts. I know I did...and that was just after seeing the film. The book is even better. Trust me.

If you love Shakespeare, read... Something Rotten by Alan Gratz

Why: I know most modernizations of Shakespeare end up making everyone involved look ridiculous. (Yes, Stephanie Meyer, I'm looking at you as you shamelessly rip off The Merchant of Venice and Romeo and Juliet.) But Something Rotten does not belittle the Bard or make the author look like a fool working on a high-school English project. It makes Hamlet perfectly believable as a modern story. And, yes, the ending IS slightly changed--but you really can't have every single character die in a first-person novel, can you? Someone has to be alive to tell you how the story ends...and I'd better shut up before I give the whole thing away.

If you're looking for a good romance, read... Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë

Why: Because it's classic and beautiful. End of story.

...

Oh, fine. I'll explain further. I'll explain how one night, I stayed up until four AM reading this book even though I already knew how it ended, because it was just that freaking good. I'll explain that my best friend and her lover resemble Rochester and Jane so much that it's actually quite unnerving. I'll explain that I was fed up with Gothic literature until I read this book. There. Is that enough to entice you to read it, or will I have to go into my long analysis of how it would be better for everyone if Rochester had just told Jane his secret from the start?

If you're sad about the end of the Harry Potter books, read... The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins

Why: You will fall in love with Katniss Everdeen right from the start. Yes, I know this book has been compared to Twilight. I know it has been endorsed by Stephanie Meyer. But I'm telling you, Katniss would eat Bella Swan for breakfast, have Edward for dessert, and then tell Jacob to stop whining, man up, and help her hunt. You have to admire her courage, her tenacity, and her undying loyalty to her family and friends. To quote the single decent line from the otherwise-crappy Eragon movie: "That's the spirit...one part brave, three parts fool."

If you're a chick-lit fan and proud of it, read... The Season by Sarah MacLean

Why: Yes, it's straight-up historical chick-lit. But it's good. If you're looking for a good, old-fashioned romance mixed with a good old-fashioned murder mystery, this is the book for you. If you're looking for a guilty pleasure that doesn't smack of Twilight, look no further. The Season is the perfect book to hide behind your math textbook in class (do people even still do that, or do we all just text under the desk nowadays?).

If you're bored, read... A Cold Day in Paradise by Steve Hamilton

Why: This is the book that started it all. And by "all," I mean the brilliant-beyond-brilliant Alex McKnight mystery series. (Yes, I know I'm a murder-mystery whore...we'll get to that later.) Alex McKnight is so rough-and-tumble you can't help but picture Denis Leary (or Hugh Laurie as Dr. House, whichever you prefer) when you read his character description, with a heart of gold and a tendency to royally screw things up with the slightest misstep. He's the anti-hero you can't help but root for, and Steve Hamilton is a kick-ass writer with one hell of a knack for suspense. If you're bored, you won't be after you read this. It's a win-win.

If you love sci-fi, read... Future Eden by Colin Thompson

Why: I read this book six years ago and have never, ever gotten tired of it since. The heroine is a TALKING CHICKEN, for Pete's sake. How is that NOT awesome? I mean, come on...a TALKING CHICKEN has to SAVE HUMANITY. You can't beat that. And just so you have no excuse NOT to read this in-freaking-credible book...

Future Eden e-book

Have fun, my lovelies! ;)

Also...on a parting note...does the fact that I want to walk into my first day of McDaniel orientation wearing this outfit mean that there's something wrong with me? Just wondering...

Summertime and the living is...EPIC

Hello hello! So, I'm certain you're all wondering why the freakin' hell I haven't blogged in--what is it now--eleven days? Shame on me...or not, when I recap what's been going down since July 13th.

For starters: Harry Potter. Yes. I won't bore everyone with my analysis on what they could've done better or where the special effects felt unrealistic or how I would've cast someone with BLUE EYES THANKYOUVERYMUCH as the younger Lily Potter--but what I will say is that I cried. Hard.

~SPOILERS~

I cried at all the usual parts, of course--Fred Weasley, Snape, Tonks and Lupin, Harry's walk into the forest--but somehow it was so much different from reading the seventh book, because none of the deaths--no, not even Snape's--made me cry when I read it. Somehow, I think, there's just something about seeing it. Seeing Fred and George take one last moment before the battle, saying "I'm all right, are you all right?" and ready to die defending their school and their friends. Seeing Tonks and Lupin stretching their hands towards one another, going in for the kill together, ready to protect each other. Seeing Voldemort's total lack of regret for killing who he thinks to be his best servant, unaware that he is killing a man who spent most of his life working against him.

I remember reading Deathly Hallows and crying when Harry walks into the forest, ready to face Voldemort alone. In the movie--forget it. I was drying my eyes on my cloak the entire damn time. (Yes, of course I dressed up...I'll explain that later.) Seeing it--seeing his determination, his willingness--seeing that he will do absolutely anything to protect those he loves--made me love Harry Potter more than ever. Remember what I said in the last blog post, about how these people seem real to me? In the movie this is so much more pronounced; everyone doesn't just seem real, they are real.

You can't possibly understand the intense fervor surrounding the release of this movie unless you are a Harry Potter fan. I don't care how many fans you know--you will only understand this if you are a fan; just knowing one simply will not cut it.

Rewind the clock about nine and a half years, back to December 2001.

Picture a shrimp of a girl (or perhaps "leprechaun" would be more appropriate in describing her size) with the wildest, curliest dark-blonde hair you've ever seen, clinging to her parents for all she's worth. She has never seen the inside of a movie theater. She has only just finished reading Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone. In one hand she clutches a Hermione Granger action figure; her father is holding her other hand. She has never been this excited in her whole life. Not when she had her first dance recital. Not when she went to an ice show for the first time. Not even when she unwrapped that Hermione Granger action figure on the morning of her ninth birthday. Never, ever, ever.

She loves Hermione Granger more than she loves the Harry Potter series itself. She sees herself in this frizzy-haired bookworm, the girl who covers up her insecurities by being smart, the girl who has isolated herself (for different reasons, of course; while Hermione has chosen not to "run with the crowd," her real-life counterpart has been kept out of the loop by others, protected from the dangers of a conventional school). Now she is going to see her new heroine on-screen for the first time--and she can't wait.

She covers her eyes during the scariest parts--the troll on Halloween, the first appearance of Fluffy, the moment with the dead unicorn in the Forbidden Forest--and even has to briefly leave the theater when Voldemort shows himself for the first time. But when the movie is over she is still so, so excited, absolutely ecstatic, because of her new favorite movie characters--Harry, Ron, and most of all, Hermione.

(And I think it goes without saying that she is, at this point, part of the small, naive group who really thought that Hermione and Harry would make a good couple.)

Fast-forward to July 14th, 2011.

That same girl is now eighteen years old and has sat through movies much, much more frightening than Harry Potter. But she still holds her father's hand as they get in line at ten-thirty PM, waiting for the midnight showing of the very last film.

She has dressed up, too--one of the few who bothered--as, who else, Hermione Granger, wearing her Interlochen uniform, a wizard's cape, and her father's red-and-gold tie. The Hermione action figure is long gone, but the enthusiasm is still there.

Along with Hermione, there is Severus Snape, a handful of generic Gryffindors, multiple Harry Potters, one brave Dobby doppelganger, quite a few generic "wizards" or "Hogwarts teachers" and a few hipster Slytherins...and, for some strange reason, Transformers. Well over a hundred people are in line for the midnight premiere. These people are for real, and you don't want to mess with them--and yes, that does include saying, "You know Harry Potter isn't a REAL PERSON, right?" These fans are impatient--they can't wait to see if the movie is true to their beloved books--but at the same time they relish the experience of waiting in line. It is, after all, the very last time they will get to see a midnight premiere of a Harry Potter movie.

But when it's time to go in, and everyone--costumed, uncostumed, or just wearing their Harry Potter t-shirt--finally takes their seats, the girl dressed as Hermione almost begins to cry. Not yet, she tells herself; there is, after all, still two hours of movie that she has to get through. But it's a little like the feeling she had on her graduation day--that sense that she is moving on, that she is about to leave childhood behind forever.

And she watches her favorite scenes as intensely as she watches those she hates, cheering when Molly Weasley makes toast out of Bellatrix Lestrange, whistling when Ron FINALLY kisses Hermione (needless to say, she has switched to the legions of fans supporting Ron and Hermione as a couple now), roaring in approval when Neville beheads Nagini, crying her eyes out when Snape dies. These people are not just actors. They are her heroes. They are not just characters. They are her friends.

And when the final shot rolls around, and the score from the very first movie is playing, she cannot help but cry one final time. Again she begins to feel the way she did on graduation day--bittersweet but satisfied, sad but so proud, so happy that everything is wrapped up, knowing that while she and her (oh, all right, fictional) friends are finally grown up, they will never leave each other behind.

--------

Yes, that insane girl is me. And I mean it, too--once an obsessed Harry Potter fan, always an obsessed Harry Potter fan. You are talking to a girl who still has her photo of a thirteen-year-old Dan Radcliffe dressed as Harry Potter tacked to her bedroom wall. I still talk about the HP characters as if they're real people. You know how some people talk to themselves? I talk to Hermione, Ron, Harry, Hagrid, or Snape. (Yes, I really do.) I don't care how old I get--when I am fifty years old, I will still have my imaginary talks with my favorite Harry Potter characters, and I dream of the day that I will be able to read these books to my kids, show them the pictures and videos of Potter fans lining up outside bookstores, libraries, or movie theaters, and say to them, "Guess what? Your crazy mommy did that."

This song is my favorite at the moment, because it pretty much expresses everything I feel about Harry Potter, without the sappiness that I've invariably drenched my latest Potter rants in.

So long, Hermione. Maybe we'll hang out sometime, yeah? Keep Ron in line, would you? And keep an eye on Harry for me. Tell him I'll miss him. Tell him to hug Ginny for me. And no matter what, please, please, PLEASE keep inspiring silly, optimistic nine-year-old girls around the world--it's what you do best.

~Cue new section of blog~

So I've been writing a lot this summer. (Cue massive "DUH!" here.) I've also been doing a lot of editing and a lot of college shopping, but for the most part I've been holed up in my room, the car, or a hotel room writing my pants off. (Please do not picture that.) So, since my best friend has responded so positively to one of my stories, I thought that maybe I would post a bit of it on here, just for fun:

~~~

"Loving Cooper Finnegan" (excerpt)

December

Snow covers the ground. It’s as cold here during the winter as it is hot in D.C. during the summer. Sam and Maggie and I grab each other’s hands and run and slide, run and slide, until we collapse in a heap on the thin layer of ice that has formed on the ground.

We find Cooper near the auditorium and bring him in with us. We run around the auditorium and shout lines from our favorite movies, and sing songs from RENT and Hairspray and Sweeney Todd that we only know half the words to, and we skip and play and dance until a security guard kicks us out.

On the way back, Maggie comes up with the idea of naming our favorite constellations. The night is clear, and we look up and see every star through the tops of the trees. “Mine is Seven Sisters,” Maggie tells us, reaching up to point out the shape in the sky.

Sam thinks about it for awhile. “I think Orion is mine.”

I stop and look up, staring around until I find my favorite—the Big Dipper. “Such a cliché,” Sam teases me when I voice this opinion.

But Cooper takes my hand, and points up to the very same constellation I just named. His breath makes a perfect little cloud in the crisp night air as he says, “My favorite is the Big Dipper, too.”

~~~

There's more, but the story is still in the "revise like crazy" stage, so I don't think I'll post the rest of it just yet. But trust me. If Mishka is to be believed (and all past experience tells me that she is), this is a good story. So consider this a teaser.

On to the insanity that was the North Carolina trip! I tell you what, you have not lived until you've seen a southern small town. It is picturesque in its awkwardness. You know the stereotype of a small town? It is motherfluffing TRUE. Tiny secondhand treasure shops, neat little brick houses with tidy lawns, everything five minutes away from everything else...the works. You see, my mother now works in a hospital down there. So last week, I got to take a road trip with her and my dad, stay in a semi-unclean hotel with dodgy internet (hence, no blog post), drive twelve hours in one day, and eat Froot Loops for breakfast every single morning.

(Yes...I do consider this exciting. How pathetic is that?)

Here's the thing about road trips: they are templates. There is a Road Trip Template for each family. For some families, like Jake Johannsen's (go to 2:10), you MUST get up before the sun and drive to as many states as humanly possible and see the lamest roadside attractions known to mankind. For our family, here are the Rules of the Road Trip:

1. We MUST leave at least half an hour later than we originally planned to.

2. We MUST forget something/forget to do something and have to either go back or buy whatever we left at home once we get there.

3. While it's not required to use a rental car, we MUST drive the most uncomfortable car available. (The winner of this award would have to go to the Subaru Outback we drove last year--it was UNBEARABLE.)

4. One of us MUST need to use the bathroom every hour.

5. We MUST stop at McDonald's and/or Bob Evans at least twice per trip, despite the fact that we have a cooler full of food in the backseat.

6. We MUST take at least twice the amount of luggage we need. Bonus points if this happens in a car half the size of the one we'd usually drive.

7. We MUST have at least one argument over the following: a) what radio station we listen to, b) what restaurant we eat dinner at on the way there or on the way home, c) where we stop to use the bathroom, d) which hotel we'll stay at once we get there, or e) whether we should stop on the way home or "just drive straight through."

8. There MUST be at least one instance of uncooperative weather on the way there or back, whether it be rain, blinding sunlight, excessive wind, rain that turns to snow, snow that turns to sleet, or excessive cloud coverage that renders it impossibly dark once the sun goes down.

9. We MUST drive on a turnpike. Bonus points if it's the impossibly-f***ed-up Pennsylvania Turnpike.

10. We MUST stay in the hotel with the least-comfortable beds imaginable. (Worst Award for this one: hotel that I can't remember the name of in Ohio, 2006. SO. FREAKING. BAD. It was like sleeping on a rock.)

Yes. These things invariably happen on the Beatnik Belle Family Road Trips. (If that hasn't been copyrighted yet, it should--I might just make a movie about this someday.)

Speaking of movies, I have a new master plan: Instead of waiting until I graduate from college, I will write an adaptation of Twisted in the remaining weeks of summer, send this screenplay to Laurie Halse Anderson along with my portfolio of shorts, and beg her to let me make her book into a movie. Sound like a plan?

ANYWAY. Back to the road trip. So we get there--FINALLY--and check into our hotel, only to discover that while it may not have bedbugs (and that's debatable), there is always the classic problem of the sheets not staying on the freaking beds, no matter what you do. (Unless you use duct tape, which we didn't happen to have on hand--see Road Trip Rule #2.) Then we found out that while they had a (reasonably) clean pool, the carpet was about as grungy as you can imagine. Think the carpet in the Runaways' first dressing room. And on top of all this, we had a mini-fridge the size of a baby bathtub--and enough groceries to fit a regular-sized fridge.

Welcome to summer vacation.

On my first night of the vacation I saw something on TV that I found appalling and somewhat intriguing. I was watching a show called Bridezillas, a reality show that exposes the rude behavior of some brides-to-be. There was one woman who was a victim of the worst kind: Nothing was her fault, everyone was out to get her, the best man was an asshole, her bridesmaids were unreliable, her mother was a freak, the whole thing was going to pieces and it was all someone else’s fault. There was another who had such an attitude that I wondered why her friends and family were putting up with it. And then there was a girl, nineteen years old, who was about to get married to a twenty-one-year-old man who seemed to have no self-respect. How else to explain the fact that he was marrying a girl who, quite literally, had him by the balls?

This girl had no business getting married. She was a year older than me, with about one-third of my maturity level. To people who read this and know me personally: You think I’m sarcastic? You ought to see this girl in action. She was bratty, arrogant, immature, aggressive, lazy, and obnoxious. She made the Kardashian girls look like good-will ambassadors.

During the course of the show, she slapped her fiancé, called him a dick, threatened him, whined at him, called him stupid, called him retarded, told him she was much better than him and he was lucky she liked him, said she was hotter than him, demanded money from him, and when all else failed, grabbed him between the legs when she didn’t get her way.

I looked up the episode online and was disappointed with what I read in the comments. The worst insult that anyone had for her was “waste of skin.” In my opinion that was not nearly good enough to describe her. There was one point when she was in the car with her best friend and fiancé, and when beating up on her fiancé didn’t get her anywhere she started in on her best friend—now, if I were in that car with her, I can assure you I would not have put up with her crap. In fact, I can’t imagine for the life of me why anyone would want to marry her or be her best friend in the first place.

If this girl had been a guy, and the show had depicted a guy smacking his fiancée in the back of the head while she was driving, grabbing her by the breasts so he could get her to hold still, and backing over the cake topper she bought because it wasn’t exactly the one he wanted, you can bet that every comment box in the interwebs would be flooded with “What a bastard!” and “OMG he’s such a jerk!” and “Why the [censored] is she marrying that [censored]?!”—all of it well-deserved. Where was the criticism and judgment for this girl? Where was all the “That girl is a bitch!” and “What does he see in her?” and “If I were her mother I’d smack her!” Even my mom remarked, “If I were her mother, I wouldn’t let her go on TV—I wouldn’t want the world to see what a selfish, violent daughter I raised.”

And what did her fiancé do? Nothing. He let her control him. He made one or two half-hearted attempts to stand up to her, and after that, he gave in. He didn’t fight back when she hit him or grabbed him. He didn’t say a word when she backed over the cake topper. If he’d hit her back, he probably would have been attacked again, not just by her, but by her friends and anyone else who was shocked that he’d “hit a girl,” even if it was in self-defense.

I'm not exactly sure where I'm going with this. I just know that I found this little incident extremely interesting. It made me think: why is it, in our culture, that everything has to be taken to epic extremes? Why is it that either a man is a total wimp or an abusive pig? Why is it that people seem to think if a woman stands up for herself she is "badass" and "feminist," but if a man dares to stand up for himself he is labelled "controlling" or, heaven forbid it, "abusive?" I'm telling you, she was abusing him--had he firmly taken her hand and pulled it away from his private parts, I would not have labelled him "abusive." I would have labelled him "reasonable."

Now I know this stereotype had to start somewhere, and believe me, I am not trying to belittle all women or minimize domestic violence. It's just that this episode of Bridezillas made me think--and I'm hoping that it will make you guys think too.

One more thing before I sign off...I am not going to make fun of Amy Winehouse, however tempting it might be. (Keep in mind, I never really listened to her music, but the little bit of it that I heard I didn't really like. It's not that I don't think she had talent, because she obviously did--her stuff just wasn't my cup of tea.) What I am going to say, though, is that I find it kind of absurd that, what with everything that happened over the weekend, particularly the tragedies in Norway, all everyone can talk about is her death. Not saying that she isn't news; she clearly is. But I think it says something about our culture that we freak out when a celebrity dies, but when a true tragedy happens, few people--at least from my generation--take notice.

On that note, a shout-out to my former roommate, the wild and wonderful Elizabeth V., for making this very point on Facebook the day of Winehouse's death. YOU GO GIRL.

And now...I think you all know what comes next...

STOLEN DIALOGUE

Person one: We should go get some of "da dip."

Person two: If we do that we'll get "da s**ts."

"Harry, your panties are showing."

Person one: This is one of those places where you get everything on a paper plate with a piece of white bread.

Person two: So in other words, it's real southern cooking.

"This guy is a big d**k...but his penis is really small."

"Hey, buddy, if you don't get off my ass, I'm staying right here! I know you're in a hurry to get to Waffle House, but back off!"

"He's an old man from New Mexico, therefore he MUST have to pee."

"This guy must have Alzheimer's...he can't remember which lane he's supposed to be in."

"'Speed limit enforced by aircraft'..so, what do I do, leave my sunroof open so they can just drop the speeding ticket right into my car?"

"What's the difference between a long-ass and a short-ass? I must be a short-ass--I'm only 5'4."

"Your phone can't take one more 'f**k you,' okay, honey?"

"Hey! That bird is making fun of the Big Man!"

Person one: Hey, can we go to the China Super Buffet?

Person two: Not unless you want China Super Diarrhea.

Person one: There's Cafe Acropolis.

Person two: Cafe WHAT?

"There's a wide gulf of difference between Taco Bell and Waffle House. With Waffle House, there's only a 50-50 chance that you MIGHT throw up."

Thank You, Professor Rowling

I had a loooong, technical-speak-filled post about what I loved and hated about the Harry Potter movies...but I just watched the interviews at the final HP premiere and couldn't stop crying, and I thought, you know what, as much as I love critiquing the films (just ask my dad!), I can't do that this time.

So instead of ranting about how Alfonso Cuaron f-ed up the dementors (which he DID, by the way), or giving David Yates and Steve Kloves a long, virtual talking-to about putting in scenes that were DEFINITELY not in the books (why, boys, why?!), or gushing about Chris Columbus's incredible casting and Stuart Craig's breathtaking production design, I'm going to do something a little more special.

I read Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone when I was nine years old, after receiving a Hermione action figure for my birthday and reading an article about Emma Watson inAmerican Girl magazine. I'd heard things about this "Hermione Granger," and I wanted to know more. She was cited as a strong female character, and I was constantly on the lookout for those.

We read the books as a family, with a strict "no reading ahead" rule (which my dad and I constantly broke, especially on Goblet of Fire), and each book release was a celebration. I remember 4th of July, 2003, just after the fifth book, Order of the Phoenix, had come out--we read until it got dark, almost finishing the book (we got to chapter thirty, when Grawp is first introduced), and then went out and lit sparklers and Roman candles, cheering the entire time and shouting "Dumbledore's Army" and other such silly Pottermaniac phrases.

The first time I ever went to a book release party was in 2007, when Deathly Hallows was release. I will confess I didn't exactly have the best time--the best part was when we read the first chapter at midnight, and even that felt slightly wrong because I was reading it before my dad had the chance. Still, it was an experience and I was happy about it, because it had something to do with Harry Potter. I still have the "wand" I made that night, and that was four years ago.

It almost seems fitting, in a way, that the last film in the series comes out the year that I graduate high school. I grew up with these books. They were the perfect gateway for me. Yes, I know that some of my close friends (yes, my dearest friend Miss Dean Moriarty, I AM LOOKING AT YOU) were probably reading books much darker than Harry Potter when they were the age that I was when I started reading Harry Potter (nine, for the record). But I was a sheltered little scaredy-cat (yes, I was!), and these books came to my attention at the perfect time to ease me into the adult world.

When first began reading the books, I found the Harry Potter series so good because it was so exciting. The early books--Sorcerer's Stone to Azkaban--plunge the reader into a world of colorful characters and intoxicatingly magical settings (come on, who WOULDN'T want a teacher who shot chewing gum up a poltergeist's nose, or to eat in a dining hall with a ceiling enchanted to mimic the sky?). The mid-way books, Goblet of Fire and Order of the Phoenix, start lacing the books with danger and adventures that don't resemble Scooby Doo mysteries. (Not that there's anything wrong with Scooby Doo mysteries, it's just that you can only use the man-in-a-mask or bait-and-switch so many times before it gets old.) And then by the final books you're ready--you understand that some heavy stuff is going to go down and you'd better brace yourself. But the magic is still there. The magical inventions get more and more dangerous--an object that houses a piece of your soul? Jeez!--but they're still as inventive and interesting as they were in the earlier books. The new characters are wild, the old characters equally compelling. They get darker as they go--but somehow never any less enjoyable.

I was born at exactly the right time to enjoy the Harry Potter series. I am a proud member of the Potter Generation (no joke, that actually is what some Potter fans my age call themselves). Sometimes, it felt as if the books were written just for me (which is, I think, one of the marks of a book written by a truly talented author). I started reading them just after Goblet of Fire was released, and every time a new book came out it brought a new experience, including that silly release party.

Until I read Harry Potter I did not understand that it was perfectly okay to kill off main characters in your books. (This was why I threw a minor tantrum at the end of A Separate Peace, if anyone knows what I'm talking about.) Characters in books always felt real to me--but when I read Harry Potter, that was just multiplied tenfold. I cried hysterically when Dumbledore died--hated Snape for awhile after that--but fell in love with Snape (a longtime favorite character of mine) all over again at the climax of Deathly Hallows--called Bellatrix my "favorite death eater" until she killed Dobby--shouted at the book in frustration when Harry fell in love with Ginny instead of Luna Lovegood--groaned and shook my head every time Ron said something stupid, as if he could hear me.

Here is the final nail in the coffin, if you will, the last and greatest notification of just how powerful these books are, just how incredibly attached to these characters I had become: At the end of the seventh book, there is a moment when it is revealed that Harry will have to die to truly defeat Voldemort. I read this sentence, burst into tears, ran to my room, and slammed the door. My thoughts were not along the lines of "Oh God, J.K.'s done it, she's really done it, well I guess she's happy, she'll never have to write another Potter book again, but that means I'll never get to READ a new Potter book again!"

No. Not even close.

This is what I was thinking as I cried in my closet (I was a strange fourteen-year-old):

Holy crap, that is so unfair! Unfair doesn't even begin to cover it! Oh God, he's going to die at seventeen...he's only three years older than I am! He's only seventeen, God, please don't do this to him, please don't let him die...what will Ron and Hermione do without him? What will Ginny do without him? I take it back, God, I take it all back, everything I said about how she's not his type and he'd be so much better off with Luna, if it's what makes him happy, he can have her, but please, let him have her, let him live, he needs to live...if he dies, if he lets this bastard kill him, he'll never get to have a family, he's always wanted a family...he won't have a child or get married or become an Auror or do anything...please, God, it's so unfair.

It was only after I had hidden in the closet for about twenty minutes, crying and praying for someone who didn't technically exist, that my father came upstairs to remind me that the book wasn't over yet, and that there may just be a surprise or two around the corner. Looking back I think he might've read ahead a bit, and seen that all hope was not yet lost--I don't know. I never asked him; I should do that. After all, it wouldn't have been the first time; he did the very same thing when we read Goblet of Fire, so he could ascertain there was nothing that would keep me up at night in the coming chapters.

But I'm digressing, again. Point is, the character of Harry Potter had become so real to me that when I found out he would have to die at the hands of Voldemort, I felt as if I were about to lose a best friend.

That, my friends, is powerful writing.

Now please understand me, this is not my typical reaction to a book. Yes, I know that from what you all know of me, it's not that improbable that when I read Twilight for the first time I cried at Edward's sappy declarations of love and Bella's willingness to sacrifice her life for her mother's, but trust me, I didn't. This is because, as Stephen King so perfectly phrased it, Stephanie Meyer can't write worth a darn, and anyone who has read Twilight knows it. J.K. Rowling, on the other hand, can. And that is why I fell in love with this series, to the point where I mourned a character who hadn't even died yet, to the point where I still read the series obsessively nine years after I first picked up Sorcerer's Stone.

I've said it before, and I will say it again: Story is everything. And on the surface, Harry Potter is a simple, told-to-death story of Good vs. Evil Wherein the World in the Hands of a Plucky Orphan. And broken down to the bare bones story spine, it might be just that. But the magic is in the way Rowling tells this simple story--with great narrative, subtle humor, compelling characters, and solid, classic themes. That is the real way to tell a perfect story. That is the secret to truly powerful writing. That is why I look up to Jo Rowling.

I'm heading off to college this fall. (This is where Gustavo is allowed to smack me and/or say "Duh, Beatnik Belle!") When I leave, I hope to take with me all of the lessons--good, bad, and just plain funny--that Rowling has taught me, via Harry Potter, over the years.

WHAT I LEARNED FROM THE HARRY POTTER BOOKS...

1. Story truly is everything. A lot of my fellow filmmakers seem to have forgotten this.

2. Beverly Cleary is not the only admirable author in the world.

3. It is possible for an platonic relationship to develop between a straight girl and a straight guy.

4. On the flip side, it is also entirely possible to fall in love with your best friend.

5. There is more to everyone--yes, even Dudley Dursley--than meets the eye.

6. Adding onto the list of Things It's Okay To Do, it is absolutely okay to develop a crush on a fictional, greasy-haired, black-clad, sharp-tongued, anti-hero who teaches how to make magic potions...especially if that anti-hero is physically represented by Alan Rickman.

7. There is a Badass inside every Neville Longbottom--you just need to know how to let it out.

8. We all have our Luna Lovegood moments. Some of us are just better at admitting it than others.

9. There is always another side to the story.

10. Good things happen on trains.

11. Robert Pattinson is actually a fairly decent actor.

12. Right from the pages of the book: "Voldemort created his own worst enemy, as tyrants everywhere do!" (Half-Blood Prince, chapter 23)

13. People feel threatened by success. This is how people can justify calling a brilliant author a Satanist just because her book happens to be set in a fantasy world that, yes, involves magic.

14. There is a little bit of lovability inside every fictional character, even the evil ones. (Didn't I tell you Bellatrix was my "favorite Death Eater"?)

15. "Kill or be killed" is never black and white.

16. Going off #15, it is never, ever okay to betray your friends. Ever. Even if it involves spitting in the face of a known murdurer.

17. Even the best of us can royally screw the pooch--the Dumbledores and Mad-Eye Moodys of the world are not infallible.

18. Love is infinite. You can make as much as you want. You can use as much as you want. It just keeps regenerating itself, even when you think it's impossible.

19. House-elves don't exist in the "Muggle" world, but they should, because they are amazing.

20. There is no excuse for giving up hope, giving up on your friends, or giving up on yourself.

Let's Review, Class...

...and by review, I mean book reviews. Obviously.

Since it's summertime, I've spent roughly 50% of my time with my nose stuck in a book. I've read some good, some bad, and two that I think deserve a bit of special attention.

THE GOOD: The True Colors series by Melody Carlson, the Alice series by Phyllis Reynolds Naylor, Something Rotten by Alan Gratz, Benny and Omar by Eoin Colfer, Luna by Julie Anne Peters, A Cold Day in Paradise by Steve Hamilton, ANYTHING by Laurie Halse Anderson (more on her later)

THE BAD: The Day I Killed James by Catherine Ryan Hyde (good idea, bad execution), The Supernaturalist by Eoin Colfer (sorry, Eoin...I tried to get into this one...I really did...just couldn't make it happen), The Host by Stephanie Meyer (to the person who told me this was a good book: YOU LIED, MADAM. YOU LIED.), and perhaps most disappointingly of all...

Larry and the Meaning of Life by Janet Tashjian.

*dies a little inside*

I am absolutely in love with Janet Tashjian's work. I mean, I will read anything that she has written. Put it in front of me, and I guarantee I will have it finished within a couple of hours. There aren't many authors I trust this absolutely--even my childhood heroine Beverly Cleary has had some definite hit-and-miss moments--but she is definitely one of them. I read The Gospel According to Larry and that was it, I was addicted. I went through everything of hers in my library. And when I found out that the third book in the Larry series, Larry and the Meaning of Life, had FINALLY gotten to my library, I squeed like a fangirl and snatched it up.

And promptly spent two hours wondering who in the hell had written this book and what she had done with Janet Tashjian, because this simply could NOT have been written by the same woman.

To recap, for those of you who don't know the story (POSSIBLE SPOILERS AHEAD): Josh Swensen is your average teenage philosopher, with one secret: He is the head of a popular website called The Gospel According to Larry. One fan, betagold, decides to make discovering Larry's true identity her life's mission. Of course she succeeds, and all hell breaks loose. But that doesn't stop Josh from running for President in book two, Vote for Larry. But of course it's not that easy; someone is sabotaging him--and he thinks he might have a pretty good idea who it is. But in the heat of the moment he blames it on someone close to him, someone who would cut off her arm for him, with disastrous consequences.

Now, in Larry and the Meaning of Life, Josh/Larry is attempting to piece together his life after the insane events of the first two books, with minimal success. Without a project to work on, he begins to get depressed. His failed search for his ex-girlfriend Janine (the girl he wrongly accused of sabotaging him in Vote For Larry) hasn't exactly made things any better, so it's up to Josh's childhood best friend Beth to help him get off the couch and back into the game...but she has a bit of a strange way of accomplishing this.

(WARNING: INSANE SPOILERS AHEAD. READ WITH CAUTION, UNLESS YOU'VE ALREADY READ THE SERIES.)

From the beginning things were screwy. In book one, Josh is a firecracker, willing to put everything he has on the line to get his message out and make the world a better place. In book two, he willingly comes out of hiding to run for president, event though he knows going in that he's going to get his ass kicked. And then here we are in book three, where our rebellious hero can't get his ass off his living-room couch.

*facepalm*

I'm not going to lie--it didn't seem like a great opening for the book. But I had faith in JT, and I kept reading, because so far I've never been let down by one of her books. Within the first couple of chapters, things started to pick up. Josh meets a sketchy guru named Gus, and starts to try to pick up the pieces--and I started thinking, "YES! Now THERE is the Josh that I know and love!" or, more accurately, "Now THERE is the Janet I know and love!" I was excited, especially when Janine, who was one of my favorite characters from the past two books, showed up at the end of one of the first chapters--I thought, "Okay, I see where this is going. He'll try to win her back, she'll be cold at first, but when she sees how sincere he is, she'll come back to him and everything will be fine and they'll save the world together."

Oh, how wrong I was.

Now, let me just say, I understand what the author was trying to do, because I've seen her pull off this very trick before: She was trying to create a direct path to WTF Land and drag Josh straight down it, but at the same time leave clues for the readers, indications that something bigger was going on. Theoretically, if this is done correctly (as it was in the first two books), you should either reach a crucial twist and smack yourself, saying, "WHY DIDN'T I SEE THAT BEFORE?" or you should come to a crucial twist, gasp, throw the book in the air, and cry, "I SURE AS HELL DIDN'T SEE THAT COMING!" and then realize later that she cleverly foreshadowed it.

That's what I thought was going on, and I eagerly began searching for those "plants." I thought that Gus would turn out to be a father-figure, or that he would be in league with betagold, or that he would be the catalyst for something that had happened in one of the first two books. As it turns out, I was two-thirds right--but in ways that were so incredibly wrong that I actually cried in disappointment after I finished the book.

~MAJOR SPOILER COMING UP~

Every single person in the book was breathtakingly out-of-character, most of all Josh's nemesis betagold. I'm sorry, but WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT? You don't just say, "Hmm, I chased this kid for two years, hell-bent on revealing his identity and hell-bent on destroying his campaign, but you know what, when his best friend comes to me and asks me to help him, I'm just going to say, 'Ooh, okay!' and then, after that's done, I think maybe I'll just attempt suicide to round off the novel as confusingly as possible..." NO! THAT IS NOT HOW IT HAPPENS!

As for Beth, what in the blue hell happened there? She's a college student with no time on her hands, and yet she has the means to create an entire alternate reality just to get Josh up off the couch? You know what my friends do to get me off the couch? They call me and say, "Hey, idiot, quit sulking. Come play hide-and-seek with us." Or if it's because I'm down, like Josh was in this book, "Do you want to talk about it? Let me help." They don't say, "Oh, I HAVE AN IDEA, I'm going to create a PARALLEL REALITY just so that my best friend snaps out of it!" Sorry, but this was waaay too unrealistic, even for the Larry universe.

Normally I would excuse things like that. No, really, I would. Despite the enormous OOC moments in the Harry Potter books, I still manage to enjoy those...BECAUSE THOSE BOOKS DON'T HAVE COP-OUT ENDINGS. According to Junior Library Guild, "What begins as a harmless Thoreau-esque search for meaning soon turns into Josh's most chaotic and profound adventure yet." I'm sorry, did I miss something? There is nothing profound--except maybe profoundly ridiculous--about your best friend creating an alternate reality for you. What kept me turning the pages was the incredible, fast-paced nature that carried over from the last two books (this is one of the few things that didn't disappoint me), but at the end, I was more than just disappointed. I was pissed off.

Here's the crux: The plot kept me on the edge of my seat. The moral conundrums--for instance, Josh having to donate a kidney to betagold because it might save her life even though they have been enemies in the past--were pure, classic Tashjian, all the way. Oh, there were moments of WTF-Land-Inc--like when Brady is euthanized after allegedly biting a policeman's son, and Janine blames Josh for the whole incident--but again, that's just the author's style, and even though it was more exaggerated than usual, I went with it. Some of the moments were downright nail-biting--the uncovering of the conspiracy to fill Walden Pond with landmines, featuring betagold as a potential suicide bomber was even more tense than the three-way presidential race in Vote For Larry.

But the ending was, as I said, a cop-out. You go through the whole book with a sense of detached danger, a feeling that everything is about to blow up (literally and figuratively) in front of Josh, a feeling that everything is spiraling out of control. But in the end you discover, along with Josh, that everything was a hoax. Not a single event after chapter two was real. It's part Claire Voyant and part Punk'd. Beth engineered the whole thing, just to shake Josh up.

Now, if I were Josh and I found out that my friend had done this to me, I would probably not forgive her instantly. But guess what Josh does? Yup, that's right, forgives her instantly. No problem, honey, I don't mind that you scared me half to death multiple times, put me under anesthesia for no reason, joined forces with a woman who once nearly killed me, caused unnecessary tension between me and my stepfather, and gave me reason to think that the girl I love is involved in a terrorist conspiracy...because, hey, IT WAS ALL FOR A GOOD CAUSE.

That's just it, though--there is no good cause in this book. The Gospel According to Larryhooked me because it was about a young kid trying and continually failing to make the world a better place. Vote For Larry won me over because it was about an eighteen-year-old kid running for President of the United Staes against astronomical odds, again so that he could change things for the better. But Larry and the Meaning of Life takes the Josh Swensen that we all fell in love with and completely throws him under the bus.

And it all could have been so much better! Instead of creating a huge hoax, why couldn't Beth have found a way to help Josh get re-involved in what he does best--trying, in his own quirky way, to save the world? Now that is something I could have enjoyed reading about.

Oh, and as if that's not enough? betagold's random suicide attempt at the end just made me throw the book across the room in frustration. Ms. Tashjian, I'm sorry to say that if you were trying to make me feel sympathy for this woman, you failed. But if you were trying to confuse me, frustrate me, and make me wonder why on earth you had to include THIS PARTICULAR SCENE, hey, congrats, you succeeded!

One last thing...that whole Beth/Josh/Janine love triangle that started last time? Yeah...it STILL remains unresolved. I could buy it at the end of Vote For Larry. I really could. But this time, it's just plain annoying. The "I loved you once but now you're different and I don't know if I still can" horse has been beaten to death so many times, both in this series and in literature in general. Part of the reason that I love Tashjian's books is because they avoid the clichés of common teen lit. But the end of this book, as far as Josh and the Beth/Janine debate is concerned, is so full of cliché that I wanted to scream.

Janet Tashjian, I absolutely love your work. I really do. But I was painfully disappointed byLarry and the Meaning of Life. I could read and re-read most of your books over and over again, but I think this one is destined to fall squarely into the category of checked-out-once-and-never-bothered-with-again. And that is a real shame, because like I said...you are at the top of my list of favorites. Please, please, please win me back over...write another Larry book and prove that somewhere in there, the characters that charmed me in The Gospel According To Larry still exist.

Love,

your concerned (but still hopeful) fan, Beatnik Belle.

~SPOILERS (and melodrama) END HERE!~

Now, as it happens, in the very same week that I read the disappointment that was Larry and the Meaning of Life, I snagged another book from the library called Twisted, by Laurie Halse Anderson.

...

...

...

Holy freaking crap.

Can you say "really flipping awesome?" Because that's what this book is, in a nutshell.

I can't describe this book. I really can't. But I'm going to try, because hopefully this will convince you to read the book, and EVERYONE needs to read this book--ESPECIALLY my generation. Class of 2011--hell, class of 2015--READ THIS BOOK.

Why?

Because this book is proof that there ARE adults who understand. There is a forty-nine-year-old woman who is not only a hard-core EXPERT on high-school girls (understandable, seeing as she was one once), but gets into the head of a teenage boy so well that you'd swear the book was actually written by a teenage boy. This is not an everyday occurrence. Believe me, I know plenty of fortysomething women who can't even get into the head of a teenage girl (I speak from personal experience on that one!), let alone a teenage boy. (coughcoughHIGHSCHOOLFAIRYTALESTEACHERcoughcough)

Basically, in Twisted, high school senior Tyler finds his reputation completely changed after he commits a "foul deed" that earns him a probation officer and mandatory community service. His crush Bethany, the popular daughter of his father's boss, decides that he is officially date-worthy, only to wind up getting him in a load of trouble when nude pictures of her at a boozed-up party surface on the internet.

Now, just from the summary, you wouldn't think this would be anything out of the ordinary. But that's just it--I didn't read the summary. I picked up this book in the library because the cover caught my eye. I opened it up to read the inside flap, and all it said was, "Everybody told me to be a man. Nobody told me how." The reviews on the back also gave away very little about the plot--but they raved about the book itself. Intrigued, I took it home and read the first three pages, and by the end of the second chapter (about the eighth page of the book), that was it--I was officially hooked.

What draws me to Twisted so much is that I feel like I know Tyler, after only reading a few pages. Not every author can take a character like this and, within ten pages, make the reader feel as if they've known this person since grade school. Now make no mistake, I do know a few "real-life" Tylers--in fact, as soon as I read his description, one of my friends popped into my head and stayed there for the rest of the book--but that's not the real reason why it takes such a short time for him to become familiar.

No, that is because Tyler has a brilliant knack for putting into words every single thought that every teenager in a situation like his has ever had, every feeling that a teenager has ever felt, good, bad, or indifferent. Submitted for your consideration:

"My alarm went off at five the next morning. My first thought: It was a bad dream. My second thought: No, it wasn't. My third thought: Crap." (p. 22)

"A lot of kids would tell you that being taken away in a squad car was the coolest thing I'd ever done." (p. 45)

"Meet my father: Corporate Tool." (p. 5)

"The girls kept getting pissed. An almost-naked hottie would strut down the hall, butt swaying side to side, top of her underwear peeking out of her shorts, hair flowing down her back, jewelry in her belly button, boobs spilling out of her top, big smile, and what would happen? Every guy she'd walk by would say something crude. Or whistle. Or pant or moan or follow her. And she'd get pissed. Well, duh." (p. 62-63)

"Again with the clean-nose thing. Authority figures ha a pathological fear of boogers, that's how I saw it." (p. 83)

"I cried like maybe it might help something. It didn't." (p. 133)

"Breathe. Just keep breathing. And kill the first thing you can get your hands on." (p. 69)

"She was an innocent, a freshman, one of the sad believers who thought high school was where they would be popular and smart and happy--above all, happy....The enlightened ones--the wounded sophomores, jaded juniors, and wise seniors--we trudged to the door, a prison gang so beaten-down we didn't need ankle shackles." (p. 44)

I swear to God. This woman is a genius.

This is not teen lit. This is not chick lit (God forbid). This is something that I can relate to, that I'm willing to bet about 95% of my friends could relate to, that I'm willing to bet almost every teenager on the planet could relate to. You don't have to have Tyler's situation to understand how he's feeling. As adolescents, we have ALL felt that hopelessness, that irritation, that joy, that desire. (Even if we don't always want to admit it.) If there is someone who can't relate to at least something in this book...then his name is probably either Joe Jonas or Justin Bieber. (Kidding, of course...sort of, anyway...)

Since getting this book from the library about three weeks ago, I have read it so many times I'm surprised the spine hasn't fallen apart yet. I have memorized my favorite passages, right down to the page numbers. If they make this book into a movie, I want to be the one to direct it. I have the perfect cast in mind, comprised of both people I know personally and the actors from my favorite movies. I would have Laurie Halse Anderson herself write the script.

Now, I know that won't happen, because a) I haven't even been to college yet, and by the time I get out it'll probably already have been made, and b) I'm not that lucky. BUT. Someday I will make a movie that will have something in common with this book. Maybe it will have a leading male character like Tyler--someone who, in spite of the fact that he has the worst luck in the world, still contrives to be a good kid. Maybe it will have the same sort of storyline--a down-on-their-luck teenager trying to hack it in the real world. Maybe it'll just have that same tone, that Louis Sachar-esque black-comedy-meets-total-realism sort of feel.

Whatever it is, you can bet that if (BIG IF *crosses fingers*) I ever have the chance to give an acceptance speech after winning an award for that movie, the first person I thank will be the woman who wrote this incredible, honest, raw, all-kinds-of-inspiring novel.

I think I have a new obsession.

Last one guys, I swear

I know I'm committing the repeat offense of posting already-written works because I don't have enough to say, but I promise, this is the LAST ONE. There WILL be a proper post, with stolen dialogue and everything, next time. And besides, wouldn't you rather I post short stories and whatnot than not blog at all? ;)

Happy 4th of July, everyone! :)

~4^th of July weekend 2011~

It’s nearly ten o’clock but the sky isn’t quite dark yet,

the sunset obscured by dark-purple clouds

like sinister cotton candy.

I sit on the front porch with my father,

both of us barefoot,

breathing in the humid post-storm air

as we watch the fireworks.

It’s cooled considerably since noon,

when we went into the backyard

and threw ourselves into the pool headfirst,

ignoring the cloudy water and slimy bottom.

“It’s not making chlorine,” my mother warned us.

But she came in too, because it was so

unbearably, ridiculously, incredibly

almost surprisingly hot.

We laid on pool loungers that wouldn’t inflate properly,

sweating through our sunscreen,

until we couldn’t bear it any longer and flipped into the water.

After a dinner of leftovers, my parents went for a walk

while I sat in the kitchen

and watched the sunset

and read books, lots of books,

the smell of my mother’s homemade pound cake filling the house.

Now I sit on the porch with Dad

watching, waiting, but not knowing what I’m waiting for.

“Let’s go for a walk,” I say, and stand up.

He takes my hand and we walk across the wet grass

and into the street.

Fireworks burst all around us,

some of them smaller ones that shoot straight into the sky like comets,

others bigger and more explosive,

bursting on impact and letting loose showers of sparks and stars.

Other than the fireworks, this could be any other night.

But on any other night I would hate my neighborhood,

I would be embarrassed to bring my friends here,

to this deceptively perfect place, this Camazotz of sorts,

this place where we pretend bad things don’t exist.

Tonight I don’t care.

Tonight, I walk through the streets

holding my father’s hand

and wondering if maybe, just maybe,

I should have given this town a chance.

Any Resemblance Is Completely Coincidental (MORE serious [S-word])

This is a piece of short fiction that I wrote for my final project in Writing About War.

*clears throat*

This is a piece of fiction. Any resemblance to events or to persons living or dead is completely coincidental.

(I just realized that with the amount of "draw from what you know" that I do, I really need to start putting that at the beginning of my stories and movies...)

~Like A Snowflake~

(short story)

I stare at the locker in disbelief. In the back of my mind I know that I shouldn’t feel shock, I should have known this was coming. After all, they’ve said these very words aloud to me at least a few times a week all year—why wouldn’t they just give up and put it on my locker for the world to see?

Die, fag.

The square of white notebook paper is as light and innocuous as a snowflake against the dark-blue metal of my newly-scratched locker. I’ve seen the skull and crossbones a thousand times, from the time I was in kindergarten playing pirates with my friends—come to think of it, that was probably the last time I had friends, back in kindergarten—and now here it is, an actual threat. Who would ever have guessed that I’d see it in this context?

Slowly I reach out and rip the note from my locker. I want to burn it, but I don’t have the means to do so right now, and I need to get rid of this before anyone sees. Besides, I see the writer of the note—and he’ll pretend he didn’t write it later, but I know he wrote it—peeking from around the corner. He wants to see what I’ll do. Fine, let him watch me; I’ll give him something to watch…

Very deliberately, I roll the note into a ball and drop the ball onto the carpeted floor. While Scott is watching, I crush the note beneath my heel. Let him see my tiny display of defiance. It’s the only method of fighting back that I have. The administration has proven multiple times that they don’t care, so I have no help there, and my only friend is a skinny sophomore girl who’s about as much good in a fight as a Care Bear. I’m virtually alone; I have no way to fight against Scott, except to do this. He and I both know it’s meaningless, we both know he still has power over me, but for a moment I enjoy pretending that I can actually fight back.

I wince when I hear the voice ring through the halls—“You’ll regret that, faggot!”—but I pretend not to hear. Instead, I open my locker and fish out my binder, and then hurry back to class, having finally achieved my mission and obtained my homework.

And for the time being I forget about Scott, and that is where I make my critical mistake.

At ten-thirty the bell rings and I go to my third-period lunch. I hate this, I really do, it’s too early to eat, but if I don’t I’ll regret it for the rest of the day. I spot Katy at the edge of the cafeteria and wave to her, before heading off to get my food. I never bring lunch from home. Believe it or not, the food here is actually better than what I eat at home, causing me to wonder exactly why the kids all complain about what we’re fed at school.

I get my lunch and begin looking for a place to sit. This is when I notice Scott glowering at me from a corner of the cafeteria that I always avoid. Surrounded by his hulking, chain-adorned friends, he cuts an imposing figure, and I involuntarily shiver as I start to cross back to where Katy and a few of her friends are sitting.

And that is when I realize that the cafeteria is so tense that it’s actually scary. The level of noise is about ten percent of what it normally is. Moreover, half of the students located here are staring at me. I have no idea why, and honestly, I’m not sure I want to know. Probably has something to do with what Scott and his gang did this morning. It’s probably been blown way out of proportion, too. By this time, they probably think my locker was wired with explosives or they put a live snake in it or something. And of course I deserved what I got, for the heinous crime of not wanting to date girls.

I look down at my tray as I edge through the cafeteria. I don’t want to be stared at. I just want to eat my freaking lunch. But, since this is the worst public high school in the history of public high schools, that’s just not going to happen. The last time everyone in the cafeteria stared at me, I got attacked with a Jell-O catapult, courtesy of Scott and his right-hand goon, Justin.

A pair of black combat boots plants themselves in my path. I swallow hard and look up. Scott, of course. Well who else would it be, the tooth fairy? What did you expect, that he’d leave you alone? I ask myself sarcastically. Scott leers at me, and my stomach twists. I just wish he’d insult me or pour milk on me or whatever he’s going to do, and have done with it.

A circle of students, some of them his friends, some of them bystanders, has formed around us. The seconds slides by. Scott continues to sneer at me, and I protectively clutch my lunch tray against me, preparing to get food thrown at me or hear the now-familiar curse words. Come on, Scott…just get it over with.

The fist seems to come out of nowhere, hitting the side of my cheek with stunning force, causing me to drop my lunch tray in shock. For a split second it feels like I’m staring into a strobe light as the fluorescent lighting blackens in my eyes and then hits me full-force, and it’s only through sheer force of will that I manage to stay conscious. All the while, the only coherent thought going through my mind is, What the hell just happened?

I hear Scott laughing triumphantly, and I freeze in place—I’m not letting him do this, I am not letting him humiliate me like this, I know I haven’t got a prayer, but I don’t care anymore, I have to push back.

With a strangled-sounding war cry, I launch myself at him. Innocent of any knowledge of how to fight, the best I can do is sort of body-check him, but it’s enough to throw him off-balance. He stares at me in total shock for a three-count, and then he hurls himself right back at me, knocking me to the ground and causing me to hit my head—hard—against the tiled floor.

What follows is five minutes of sheer hell on earth. I don’t even know how it happens. All I know is that one minute, I’m trying to make sense of the dull, throbbing pain at the back of my head, and the next I’m spitting out a mouthful of my own blood. While Scott pins me to the floor and proceeds to beat the living crap out of me, chaos reigns around us. I hear screams and punches and curses, and I have to briefly wonder why they’re fighting. This is between me and Scott, not them, which is why it never occurs to me to wonder why they don’t help me. After all, they’ve never done that before; why start now?

It doesn’t take long—two or three punches, maybe, if that—before I give up trying to fight back and simply try to defend myself as best as I can from the blows. But it seems like forever before Mr. Wendell, the student dean, pulls Scott off of me, by which time I’m so badly injured that I couldn’t even tell you what’s hurting. My entire body feels as if I’ve just climbed out of a food processor set on “pulse.” Speaking of pulses, I’m amazed that I even still have one. I’m surprised Scott hasn’t killed me by now—God knows he’d be proud of himself if he did.

“Can you sit up for me?” Mr. Wendell asks, not ungently, as one of the security officers deals with Scott. Just seeing this makes me feel slightly better. I don’t have a hope of getting rid of him; the worst he’ll get is maybe a suspension, but at least he’s not getting off completely free. I let the dean peel me off the floor, spitting out another mouthful of my own blood as I slowly pull into an upright position.

“What happened?” the dean asks me.

Oh, now there’s a fine question to ask the one lying on the ground covered in bruises and blood and God knows what else. All I want is for an ambulance to come and knock me out with pain meds, is that really too much to ask? But I force out an answer anyway, and tell Mr. Wendell, through gasps of pain, that Scott punched me unprovoked in the middle of the cafeteria.

Mr. Wendell sympathetically pats my shoulder and tells me that he’s going to take me to the nurse’s office to “get cleaned up,” and then, and I quote, I should “Go back to class and let us take care of this.” Who, I wonder, is “us?” Is this the same “us” that has repeatedly ignored my reports of being cursed, insulted, spat on, and assaulted with food and spitballs and paper missiles in the hallways? Is this the same “us” that let Scott tape a death threat to my locker? Is this the same “us” that took forever to intervene when he started beating the hell out of me? Oh yes, I have a lot of faith in this unnamed “us.”

I should be in the hospital. Instead, I’m taken to the school nurse, where my many wounds are cleaned with disinfectant and I’m given a Tylenol before being sent to Principal Deven’s office to be interrogated. I tell him the truth: Scott taped a threatening note to my locker and then attacked me in the middle of the cafeteria. I know that it won’t be enough to get the asshole expelled, but I know I have to at least try.

Principal Deven listens to my story and then tells me what Scott told him, and it’s enough to make me want to quit life: The reason that I was attacked today, according to Scott, is because I made unwanted advances.

Dear God, if You exist, I silently pray as Principal Deven explains that under the circumstances, others have to be questioned before a decision can be made, is it too much to ask that for once, just for once, they’ll believe me?

I already know the answer.

“It’s unbelievable, that’s what it is,” Katy says later that afternoon, as she bandages one of the multiple open wounds that the school nurse neglected to cover with a band-aid. “I just can’t believe it…so they actually said they have to investigate it? They didn’t believe you right away?”

I snort and shake my head. “Come on, Katy. Since when do they ever believe me right away?”

“Well, seeing as you’re the one who’s so scarred up that Freddy Krueger would be afraid of you, and Scott didn’t get so much as a scratch, I thought for once they might actually see that you’re telling the truth.” Katy tapes the gauze shut and squeezes my hand. “There, is that any better?”

Of course it isn’t; when your arm is grabbed and slammed off a tiled floor by a kid wearing fake brass knuckles, it’s not going to be made better by gauze and Bactine. But she means well, better than any of the idiots running our school, so I say, “Yeah, it’s a bit better.”

“Good.” Katy continues to hold my hand, even after she’s done playing doctor, and I’m grateful for that—it’s not actual medicine, but I actually feel better just knowing that she gives a damn about me, enough to want to comfort me, to protect me. And I know she was the one who ran to get the authorities. I know that out of the five hundred-plus spectators in the cafeteria today, she was the only one who actually went for help.

“So what exactly happened?” I ask her. “I mean, all I know is that Scott kicked my ass and there was some kind of riot…what actually happened? Did you see?”

“Well…” She sighs. “So after you started to fight back, basically everything just went to hell in a handbasket. Someone tried to break up the fight, I don’t know who, and one of Scott’s drones jumped him. Then everyone just lost it and started pounding on each other.”

Translation: Someone was worried about getting in trouble and tried to calm things down, only to get mixed up in the chaos. Nobody except Katy would care that I was getting beat up, only that they might be guilty by association. “Then what?”

“Well, I went for help, and when I got back everyone was still fighting. Mr. Wendell called for security, and the security people got the fighters to calm down pretty damn fast. But you know Scott, he just wouldn’t quit until someone actually pulled him off you…I mean, if anything, he just got worse.”

Of course. If you sense an end coming, try to get as many punches in as you can before someone stops you. “I hate life right now,” I announce, and Katy sympathetically pats my hand.

“Just tell them the truth if they call you into the office again.” She pauses, and then adds, “They questioned me too, by the way. Principal Deven and Mr. Wendell, I mean. They called me into the office not long after the fight ended and asked me a bunch of stuff about you, and about the fight, and whether or not I knew how it got started.”

“What did you tell them?” I ask.

“What do you think? I told them that Scott is an arrogant bastard of a bully who’s been tormenting you for months, and he started this whole thing by sucker-punching you in front of half the damn school.”

I smile. This time it’s the truth, but I know full well that Katy would tell them a pack of complete lies if it would protect me. “So what did they say? Anything?”

She shakes her head. “No…but I think they’ll have to do something this time. I’m praying for expulsion, but you know how they are, they don’t want to do anything that might get them in trouble with the board of education or with the parents.”

Story of my life. “They can’t do anything because…” It’s always about protecting themselves. Can’t defend me because Scott’s cronies might beat them up. Can’t tell on Scott because he’ll target them next. Can’t expel Scott because his parents will freak out. Can’t do this, can’t do that. Protect yourself, and if one lonely gay kid gets punched to death in the process, well, that’s just one way of solving the problem.

Katy sees the look on my face and knows what it means. “They’ll do something this time,” she says softly. “They have to. I mean…look at you, and then look at Scott. Anyone with half a brain could see—”

“There’s your problem, right there,” I cut her off. “They don’t have half a brain among the whole group of them. They all think in terms of fight-or-flight.”

Katy doesn’t say anything else, but she squeezes my hand again and I know she knows I’m right.

The next day, the entire school is called to an assembly in the auditorium at the beginning of the day. Hope rises in me once again. For a few brief moments I let myself fantasize about Principal Deven outlining a new policy against bullying, telling us that Scott has been expelled and sent to juvie, commending me for bravely putting up with his bullshit for so long.

But those fantasies are crushed the minute Mr. Wendell gets up to the podium and opens his mouth. He talks about the fight, and how it “reflects badly on our school,” and how we should all be ashamed of ourselves for behaving like this. I should want to kill him right now, but I can’t muster up the energy to be decently mad. Mostly, I’m just in shock. Katy doesn’t say anything the entire time, just stares ahead like me, her hand slowly tightening around mine as the assembly goes on.

Finally comes the icing on the cake: Mr. Wendell looks at us all gravely and says, “There’s no need to tell your parents what happened yesterday, so if you haven’t told them, don’t. Most of them have been e-mailed about the situation, it has been well-explained as an issue that the school is working to resolve. If anyone from the press asks to speak with you concerning this fight, please decline. There is no reason why what happened yesterday should bring down our school’s morale or image. We can remain unified, as we have always been.”

He goes on and on about how our school spirit shouldn’t be diminished, how we can still finish out the year and be proud of ourselves. I don’t care. I just stare straight ahead, wondering how in the hell I managed to get into this place, and how in the hell I’m going to escape when no one except Katy even knows I exist.

One sentence of Mr. Wendell’s sticks out in my brain. It’s the only time he gives us the truth in the entire assembly, actually—it’s the final statistics of yesterday’s fight: Eighteen bloody noses, four broken bones, thirty miscellaneous injuries, seven expelled—Scott not among them—nineteen suspended, eleven hospitalized, five withdrawn from school.

And all I can think is, Last week, when Marilyn Evans cheated at the Quiz Bowl, it made the papers. And this won’t.