It's so warm out in New York that the birds have been fooled into believing it's Spring. The trees in Central Park are astonishingly green. When I head out to do errands, I'm still wearing shorts and no socks.
But the calendar says November, and that means, in more places than you might imagine, they're stringing holiday lights and getting ready to wind you up to shop.
If I believe the news, it's going to be a fabulous holiday for some of you --- the resorts have all raised their prices and yet they're booked to capacity. For others, it's going to be a season of using Visa cards to pay the heating bill --- and thinking of gifts you can knit or bake.
I'm bad at holidays. I prefer random generosity --- I like to sprinkle gifts throughout the year, popping up with presents when people don't expect anything. But my iconoclasm only goes so far: I am crushed by the pressure to perform in December. And so, gritting my teeth, I do.
I grit my teeth less these last few years, because I do all of my shopping online. Literally: all. The one time I found myself in a store was a mistake, and I corrected it in a few minutes. Noise, perfume, crowds --- not for me. If, like you, I had to find a parking space on top of all that, I'd be babbling now.
What do I give? What I love --- and what I'd love to be getting myself if I had never had the pleasure of these books, CDs and DVDs. And then, because pretty much everything I buy online is discounted, I'm able to make a larger gift to charity. [My cause is hunger --- it makes me crazy how many people, in the richest nation in the history of the planet, go to bed hungry every night. If you share that opinion, please check out Share Our Strength and Second Harvest .]
My advice to you: Yes, it's crazy early. But make your list, check it twice --- and get it done now. While everyone else is running around like madmen starting the day after Thanksgiving, you can relax. Indeed, maybe you can even get in the holiday spirit.
Thriller/Suspense:The Tears of Autumn by Charles McCarry. Who killed John F. Kennedy Jr.? McCarry, a former CIA agent, has created in Paul Christopher a spy worthy of John Le Carre. Paul doesn't carry a gun. He won't betray an agent. He won't help a regime that tortures political prisoners. For a guy who's physically fit and courageous in the usual manly ways, he's astonishingly thoughtful. And he's not unique; in his branch of the CIA, there's a real commitment to The Code....
Mystery:The Killer Inside Me by Jim Thompson. Stanley Kubrick, the film director who knew a thing or three about evil, said 'The Killer Inside Me' was "probably the most chilling and believable first-person story of a criminally warped mind I have ever encountered." Consider yourself warned.
Historical Fiction:Dark Voyage by Alan Furst. His novels are set in Europe in the years before (and, sometimes, during) World War II, and their ostensible topic is espionage, and the occasional gun does go off, but these are most definitely not 'guy' books --- indeed, men looking for testosterone-powered thrillers of the Tom Clancy school will be bitterly disappointed by Furst. Because he is, first and foremost, a novelist of considerable gifts. He can create intriguing situations. He can also create complex characters, serve up a lovely description, concoct a sophisticated love scene. If you like elegance, Furst's for you.
Fiction:Last Night by James Salter. Many will find this writing overly mannered. Yes, there are crumpled napkins on tables uncleared from last night's dinner party: "glasses still with dark remnant on them, coffee stains, and plates with bits of hardened Brie." Privileged women pine for love -- or sex. At a man's funeral, there are women the widow has never seen before. A married man is having an affair with a male friend. A hill is made from a pile of junked cars. A romantic opportunity is missed. The sentences drop, regular as coins. Salter's cadences are so hypnotic it's easy to miss them. But they are arrows to the real subject of these stories, which are, like the best stories about adult men and women, about honor and love in the face of death.
Women's Fiction: The Quality of Life Report by Meghan Daum. Lucinda Trout is a junior TV producer in New York City. She has a degree in l9th century American literature from Smith; by now, she thinks, she should be working for NPR or PBS. Instead, she does reports of takeout sushi and what it's like to wear a thong all day (or, "can you learn to live with a permanent wedgie?). In her off-hours, she wonders what happened to yogurt ("It just went away") and the disappearance of gold jewelry. Then she gets an assignment to investigate crystal meth --- "coke for the Payless shoes set" --- in the Heartland. She flies out to "Prairie City."Most of the women are...super-sized. They wear Birks and harem pants. They give "menopause showers" for middle-aged friends. Restaurant food tastes "like lunch at a school cafeteria." And yet there's something appealing about Big Sky country. A good apartment is $475 a month. On a lark, she arranges to do a year of reporting --- "The Quality of Life Report" --- for her New York show on what life is like in Alien America. And off she moves to Prairie City....
Foreign Fiction: Bel-Ami by Guy de Maupassant. George --- the kind of handsome guy from the country who, for lack of a better thing to do, joins the Army --- finishes his military service without a prospect in the world. He moves to the big city, because that's where opportunity lies. But he gets a lousy job and is totally frustrated. One evening he runs into Charles, an old Army buddy who's now a newspaper editor. Charles has an idea: George should write up his wartime experiences, Charles will publish them, and then George will have some business and social credibility. One problem: George can't write. No problem: Charles's wife will help him. She does. A job follows. And social invitations. And rich lovers. And thus begins George's rise to the top in Paris in 1885.
For Naturalists:The Rarest of the Rare: Stories Behind the Treasures at the Harvard Museum of Natural History by Nancy Pick. Consider this book a call to dream of exotic places, fascinating expeditions and late-night conversations around crackling fires with men and women who make Indiana Jones sound dull. The irony: Everything featured here is in the museum at Harvard that's easiest to overlook. If you know anything about it, it's because you've heard of its collection of glass flowers. But as this book attests, there's much, more to savor in its collection of 21 million specimens. (The "Egg Room" alone has 30,000 boxes of birds' nest and eggs --- no wonder an early part of the museum was called The Repository of Curiosities.)
Non-Fiction/Adventure: We Die Alone by David Howarth. It is 1943. The Germans have overrun Norway. But there is a vigorous Norwegian Resistance; in London, an ambitious plan has a dozen tough Norwegians cruising home on what looks like a fishing boat and blowing up a Nazi airfield. As the boat chugs into the harbor of a tiny Norwegian town, the plan is discovered and the boat is blown out of the water. One man swims to safety: Jan Baalsrud. Now he has a fresh challenge --- get out of Norway. He has no supplies. It's deadly cold. Does he fall 300 feet in an avalanche? Is he frostbitten? Is he snowbound? Does he spend a week in a hut with almost no food? Does he ---- with a knife that's far from a surgical instrument --- amputate most of his toes? All of that, and more, and still he keeps his wits and his will.
Eccentric coffee table:Dora Lives: The Authorized Story of Miki Dora by C.R Stecyk III and Drew Campion. In the mid-'50s, a dark, brooding kid out of Hollywood High became the James Dean of surfing. Maybe the greatest ever to ride the boards at Malibu, Mickey Dora was also the most cutting, enigmatic and mercurial. He hung out with Peter Lawford, was 'surf stuntman' for 'Gidget,' taught Sally Field how to look like she was hanging ten. By the mid-'60s, Dora was sideswiping amateurs who attempted to ride his waves and mocking the commercialization of surfing. He turned to poetry, but his talent veered to writing bad checks; by the '80s, he had pushed a credit-card spree to the point of fraud and prison. He died of cancer in 2002. Now he is the subject of a blunt, ironic ('Miki Dora wasn't perfect, but he had tendencies') picture-and-text biography that is never less than mesmerizing and is destined for the hippest of coffee tables and nightstands.
Jazz: Take Five: The Public and Private Lives of Paul Desmond by Doug Ramsey. Desmond's 'Take Five' appears on a 1959 Dave Brubeck album called 'Time Out.' The record company hated it. America loved it. The song was a hit. The album was the first jazz release to sell a million copies. Overnight, Brubeck was famous, and he and Desmond were --- at least by musician standards --- insanely rich. 'Beauty, simplicity, originality, discrimination and sincerity" --- that was what Desmond sought from music. And it's what he provided. His tone was cool and hollow, discrete as a priest in the confessional. He described it best: 'I want to sound like a dry martini.' He lived hard, died young --- and makes for great reading.
Spirituality: A Month of Sundays: Searching for the Spirit and My Sister by Julie Mars. Shirley Kress Carter, born in 1937 died as Christmas ended in 2000. Shirley was a mother of six, a professional caregiver, a resident of that northernmost patch of Vermont that qualifies almost every resident to call herself a hermit. Women like this often pass through the world unnoticed. It is not surprising, therefore, that one of her sisters, bowed by grief, would attempt to lift her up --- to pump importance into her life --- in a memoir that celebrates the holiness of an unheralded existence. But what Julie Mars has done is present us with a spiritual challenge wrapped in a story...
Society:Everybody Was So Young by Amanda Vaill. Late each morning in the summer of 1922, Gerald Murphy went outside his home in Antibes and created something never seen before --- a beach! --- by raking the seaweed and stones. For this, he is said to have invented the idea of the Riviera as a summer destination. Moments later, his wife Sara would join him. She wore a white linen dress or bathing suit. And, always, a long strand of pearls, which she looped around her back so she wouldn't mar her tan (and, she said, because the sun was good for them). For this, she became a style-setter and muse. Gerald and Sara together were not two but one. They were "The Murphys," a young and rich American couple who used their youth and money to establish themselves at the center of a cultural elite in which everybody was young, talented, acclaimed. Cole Porter, Stravinsky, Picasso (who was in love with Sara), Cocteau --- though they were stars on their own, they orbited the Murphys. They make a compelling story: glorious, beautiful, tragic.
Self Help:The Creative Habit by Twyla Tharp. Mozart became a “genius” because his father recognized the boy had talent --- so he pushed him. 'By the time Mozart was 28 years old,' Tharp notes, 'his hands were deformed because of all the hours he had spent practicing, performing, and gripping a quill pen to compose.' And Tharp? Every morning at 5:30 , she awakes and goes directly to a gym where she lifts weights for two hours. Why? For physical strength. And more: because the ritual of lifting steel jumpstarts her creativity in her real work. That's right. Tharp sees creativity as a blue-collar work --- as real, honest, sweaty labor. And in that work, repetition is crucial; you are, in effect, training your muscles to do the heavy lifting that creativity requires.
Memoir: Pure Heart, Enlightened Mind by Maura O'Halloran. She went to the Toshoji Temple in Tokyo in 1979 for training under its distinguished teacher, Go Roshi. It's an impossible discipline: 20 hours of sitting at a time, begging in freezing weather, endless chores . She loved it. By 1982, she was enlightened. Maura was the last person on earth to brag about her accomplishments, but it's quite clear --- she reached a level of feeling and thinking that a great many of us would give a lot to have. This collection of Maura's journals and letters gives an amazing insight into the process of Zen training. But the real attraction is that it speaks to the most essential spiritual concerns --- it slices a layer of dullness from your brain and helps you see clearly.
Cooking:Italian Easy: Recipes from the London River Cafe by Rose Gray and Ruth Rogers. Here's the philosophy: 'Simple, delicious food relies on its ingredients.' Don't look for a bargain when it comes to olive oil. And buy the vegetables you're going to serve in the evening fresh that morning. These women own a London restaurant that is extremely expensive (for an Italian establishment), favored by a celebrity clientele and always packed with foodies --- this is fine dining, just on relaxed terms. The good news for you: There are great pictures of everything. The recipes rarely have even a half dozen ingredients. Nothing takes much time to cook.
Poetry:The Essential Rumi. He was born in Afghanistan in 1207. His father was rich, a Sufi mystic and theologian. There's a famous story of Rumi, at 12, traveling with his father. A great poet saw the father walking ahead and Rumi hurrying to keep up. 'Here comes a sea followed by an ocean' he said. As a poet, Rumi was as clear as he was deep. His story-poems are riddles you can solve. His poems are little telegrams, straight from his heart to yours. Whatever it cost him to write is hidden. His point is: Here is honey. Taste. Eat.
Blues (male): Hoodoo Man Blues , Junior Wells. He looked the part of a bluesman. Sharkskin suit, slicked hair, sharp hat, cigarette. One night, at a club, he handed a friend a wad of cash to hold while he played --- he couldn't abide an unsightly bulge in his clothes. He was a character. In some clubs, when his band started to play, Junior was at the bar, which had been rigged with a remote mike so he could perform without having to leave his drink. On the bandstand, his tools awaited: harps in seven keys. And, always, a bottle of gin. You can hear all of that in this rough, exalted music.
Blues (female): Ball 'N Chain , Big Mama Thornton. The first night she sang at Harlem's Apollo Theater, she was Willie Mae Thornton, and she was the opening act. The following night, as 'Big Mama' Thornton, she was the headliner. That overnight success came in 1952, when Willie Mae was 26. By then, she had moved far beyond the gospel songs she learned in the churches of Montgomery, Alabama, where her father was a minister and her mother sang in the choir. Now she was living in Houston, performing in clubs, learning to play drums and harmonica, drinking gin and milk, and doing advanced study in the kind of male-female dealings that lead to a deep understanding of the blues. This record proves it: No one did it better.
Country:Universal United House of Prayer , Buddy Miller. Music lovers who are familiar with Buddy Miller --- which is to say, each and every fan of the music known as 'alternative country'--- will tell you he can do anything. He can sing 'high lonesome' like a backwoods wailer from the hollow. He can sing rugged and soulful as Otis Redding. He can write classics. His guitar solos have the ring of inevitability, whether he is cutting like Led Zeppelin, swamp-rocking like John Fogerty or delivering a solo so brilliantly understated it can go right by you unnoticed. His duets with his wife, Julie Miller, are precise and delicate as cut crystal. For almost a decade now, he's been the guitarist in Emmylou Harris's band --- yes, he's good enough to stand up there every night and do 'Love Hurts' with her. And, in a home studio that's more living room than not, he produces CD after CD that listeners cherish for their integrity, depth and what Steve Earle calls 'the best voice in country.' But who would have predicted that Miller --- --- who was born white and Jewish in New Jersey --- would make the greatest gospel recording since the Staples Singers?
Rock:Lafayette Marquis , C.C. Adcock. This CD has a lewd, ass-shaking boogie-beat, atmosphere thicker than Louisiana fog, production that emphasizes the beat, molasses-thick lyrics that don't aspire to profundity --- this is the good times music you've been looking for. A crazy fiddler gives the boogie some Cajun twang. The drum sounds hollow as a barrel. The bass player drives the beat like a steam engine. And above it, C.C. sings lyrics that are family-friendly only because they're too slurred to hear.
Soul:Spirit in the Dark , Aretha Franklin. We don't think of Aretha as a quiet performer, but that's because we think of her only as a singer. We savor her soulful shouting. We're dazzled by five-octave runs from the guttural to the soprano. And we bow to her when she demands r-e-s-p-e-c-t. That high-octane Aretha can be found on this CD, a neglected masterpiece from 1970. But so can something subtler and more compelling --- her astonishing piano playing, which you can hear on ten of the album's dozen songs.
World:'Broken Flowers' soundtrack. Mulatu Astatke grew up in Ethiopia but went abroad to study jazz in America. He was influenced by Miles Davis and John Coltrane --- and by the organist Jimmy Smith. What he brought back to Ethiopia was a blend of soul and jazz. Which he then proceeded to blend, once more, with traditional Ethiopian music. The result is easy to listen to and hard to describe. The horns play cool jazz figures; you could almost mistake them for clarinets. But under that is a groove that could have been created by Booker T and the MGs. And connecting the two are some Ethiopian chords that sound exotic, space-changing, hypnotic. Think desert cha cha. Cuba goes to Memphis. Desert trance music
Classical:Christmas with the Tallis Scholars . J.S. Bach wrote “SDG” on the bottom of every composition --- short for “soli deo gloria,” or “to God alone be the glory.” In those days, individual ego was unthinkable; your purpose in life was to add your small stone to the building of the cathedral. We hear that collective ambition in the great choral pieces of the Renaissance --- magnificent voices blending together to sing, in harmony, their praise to the Almighty. And, today, we hear that holy music, delivered intact, in the recordings of The Tallis Scholars.
Comedy:Local Hero directed by Bill Forsyth. The plot doesn't begin to convey its charm. An oil executive in Houston (Peter Reigert) is sent to a small town on the Scottish coast by his eccentric boss (Burt Lancaster) to buy up everything in sight. Then the oil company will build a giant refinery. Riches are soon on everyone's mind --- in Houston and in Scotland . That's all of the plot: Reigert's efforts to negotiate a deal. But the film doesn't need more...
Drama:Dodsworth directed by William Wyler. 'Dodsworth' was nominated for seven Academy Awards in 1937, including Best Picture, Best Director and Best Writing, Screenplay. It only won for Art Direction. (If you will devote an hour and a half to this film, you will be outraged on its behalf --- at the Oscars, it wuz robbed.) The story is a simple one: Samuel Dodsworth (Walter Huston) is a rich Midwestern industrialist who sells his business and sets out to “enjoy life.” His wife Fran (Ruth Chatterton) couldn't agree more --- her daughter is just married, and the thought of growing old appalls her. She wants to be chic, she wants 'to live.' She is, in short, a bomb waiting to explode. Off the Dodsworths sail to Europe. They have barely waved goodbye to New York when Fran befriends her first suitor....
Documentary:The Edward R. Murrow Collection . Murrow was the symbol of journalistic integrity when the word still meant something. In his wartime dispatches for CBS radio, he had only to say 'This...is London' and American listeners knew that whatever followed was as close to the truth as they were likely to hear. And he was as brave as he was talented --- he flew in twenty bombing missions over Berlin, and was one of the first correspondents to report from the Nazi concentration camps. After the war, Murrow came home to find himself a star. Television loved him; he was tall, with slick hair, a hangdog handsome face, beautifully tailored suits and an omnipresent cigarette. He gave class to the new medium. He personified decency, and curiosity, and the idea of a democracy based on a well-informed public. This set collects his best work.
Children:The Snowman directed by Dianne Jackson. A boy in rural England builds a snowman. At midnight, as the boy looks out his window, the snowman lights up. The boy runs outside. He invites the snowman to tour his home. Then the snowman takes his hand. And off they fly, over England, over water, to the North Pole. There, Santa gives the boy a scarf. The boy and the snowman fly home. As the boy is going inside, the snowman waves --- a wave of goodbye. The boy rushes into his arms and hugs him. The next morning, the snowman's just a few lumps of coal and an old hat. Did that magical night really happen? The boy reaches into his pocket and finds the scarf. He drops to his knees and, almost as an offering, places it by the snowman's hat. That's it: 22 remarkable minutes.
