At the Zoo by Simon and Garfunkel

From "The Essential Simon and Garfunkel"

Someone told me it’s all happening at the zoo.
I do believe it, I do believe it's true.

It's a light and tumble journey from the East Side to the park,
just a fine and fancy ramble to the zoo.

But you can take the crosstown bus if it's raining or it's cold,
and the animals will love it if you do.

Somethin' tells me it's all happening at the zoo.

I do believe it, I do believe it’s true.

The monkeys stand for honesty, giraffes are insincere,
and the elephants are kindly but they're dumb.

Orangutans are skeptical of changes in their cages,
and the zookeeper is very fond of rum.

Zebras are reactionaries, antelopes are missionaries,
pigeons plot in secrecy, and hamsters turn on frequently.

What a gas! You gotta come and see at the zoo.

Photo from the Folsom City Zoo Sanctuary

Five Stars for Paris Trout

Just finished Pete Dexter's PARIS TROUT, and enjoyed it thoroughly. I'd seen the movie years ago and had forgotten about it until reading on John Lescroart's website that he loved the book, which got me thinking about it.

The story is set in Cotton Point, Georgia, just after World War II, and features as its protagonist a middle-aged tyrant, Paris Trout, and his tormented wife, Hanna. Paris and Buster Devonne, a former policeman, soon become embroiled in the murder of the young Rosie Sayers, and that's when the novel takes off, weaving throughout the next three hundred pages the challenges presented to Paris's defense attorney, Harry Seagraves, and Hanna's divorce lawyer, Carl Bonner -- not to mention Hanna herself.

Dexter's writing is supple and appealing, as he captures so eloquently the voice of the South. Here is a sample:

The lady knelt to pick up the things on the floor. Rosie would have helped, but there was a counter between them, and she knew without being told to stay on her own side. Even if they were in the same mess, white people would think she was stealing.

The lady came back up slowly, flushed and serious. Rosie heard her bones pop. "Now, she said, "where were we?"

"I ain't moved," Rosie said, and showed the lady her hands.

The lady did not look at her hands. She smiled, so small it might have been something that hurt. "That's an expression," she said. "It means, What were we doing."

To my surprise, Dexter also wrote DEADWOOD, which I picked up at Border's a few days ago. If it's half as good as PARIS TROUT, that's saying quite a lot.

Good Readin'

Reading Pete Dexter's PARIS TROUT. Hoo-ey. Delish. (More soon!)

Who Loves Short-Shorts? Ray Bradbury!

Watched two documentaries this week; the first on John Steinbeck, who, at one point in his career considered giving it all up due to competition from -- Ta-da! -- TV. (Seems not much has changed in the last sixty years.) I hadn't realized how severely the critics lambasted him, or how much this stung his psyche. Every time he received a scathing review of a new book, he hightailed it to Mexico. Smart man.

Second documentary featured Ray Bradbury, who appeared throughout much of the interview in a white shirt, necktie, white jacket and what looked like gym shorts. When he discusses an experience he once had with the director John Huston, he becomes quite emotional -- almost tearing up. Apparently, Huston was unkind to him during the writing of the Moby Dick screenplay in 1956, a cruelty he hasn't yet forgotten.

These documentaries were a mere 45 minutes each, and well worth the time. Hemingway's en route! (As is Robert Redford; couldn't resist.)

Spotted Towhee in Treetops

Steve took this shot of a spotted towhee (formerly known as the rufous-sided towhee) within walking distance of our house. These birds are fun to watch, as they use a 2-footed scratching maneuver (kicking up a lot of loose debris) while seeking food on the ground.

Steve likes the little acorn caps to the left of the towhee's ear.

I Hereby Resolve to Take a Deep Breath

What is your New Year's resolution? Lose weight? Quit smoking? Cut out white bread and chocolate and Japanese rice candy?

Okay, maybe you're fine on that count, but no doubt there is room for improvement somewhere. In my case I'll work on changing my mindset, as so much of my angst revolves around writing: what has sold and what has not, and if it hasn't, what the hell is my problem?

I let all that worry get in the way of some nice successes this year, dismissing the things I'd done right, throwing myself a pity party and believing, for a time, there wasn't a chance I'd make it. I spent three months waffling -- write a third novel, let it go, write a third novel, let it go -- until a friend mentioned she rarely worries about such things, but allows the notion to arrive at will, accepting stories the way they come, rather than forcing them to fit some role.

The timing must have been just right, because I actually heard her -- listened to what she was saying.

I know acceptance will take practice, but here is how I'll begin: inhale and hold my breath, then count to three and concentrate, just let the anxiety go.