"Chapter One: The Bride"

I get so excited when I get the chance to tell people this (which, by coincidence, has happened twice in the last week): Yes, The Princess Bride was a (fantastic!) book before it was a (terrific) movie.

In this instance, I’m most certainly not one of those folks who sniff disdainfully at the film adaptations of favorite novels. (We’ll have to wait and see what Guillermo del Toro does with The Hobbit, but I’m cautiously optimistic.) So don’t get me wrong: I’m not saying, “You poor saps who liked the movie have no idea that you’re missing something much better.” It’s more like: “If you loved that story as much as I did, you’re in luck: there’s so much more waiting for you!”

I think the relationship between the movie and the book is, in this case, remarkably more solid than usually happens film adaptations of novels. Does the movie include everything wonderful about the book? Of course not. How could it? There’s just not time. But does it capture the sly, wry humor and hysterical population of wacky characters found in the book? Absolutely.

(Of course, it helps that the William Goldman -- the author of the book -- also wrote the film’s screenplay. In fact, as the screenwriter of “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid” and “The Sting,” he’s arguably a more well-known figure in the film world than the in the book world. In the introduction to The Princess Bride, he writes, “When I die, if the Times gives me an obit, it's going to be because of ‘Butch.’”)

My guess is that most lovers of the book really liked the film, and most folks who loved the movie will find that they adore the book. In fact, they’re probably likely to hear the film actors’ voices in their heads as they read the book’s dialogue, because the casting was so spot-on. I mean, Billy Crystal as Miracle Max? Perfect.

What the PB movie lover may not know is that the full title of the book is The Princess Bride: S. Morgenstern's Classic Tale of True Love and High Adventure. Anyone who’s seen the movie knows that the story unfolds to the audience as a book -- ostensibly, The Princess Bride, written by S. Morgenstern -- is being read aloud to a young boy by his grandfather.

Here’s the thing: Until I was well into high school, I fully believed that the original book was written by S. Morgenstern and abridged by William Goldman in exactly the way described in the book’s introduction. Maybe I just wasn’t a terribly post-modern thinker at a young age, but it didn't occur to me for years that Goldman was using the adaptation conceit as a storytelling device.

For that matter, I didn’t realize initially how satirical the book was, so I firmly believed -- and even repeated to other people! -- elements from the novel as fact, like the green speckled recluse being the most dangerous spider in the world, a tidbit Goldman includes in the Zoo of Death sequence. (For PB film lovers scratching their heads at that one, the book’s “Zoo of Death” became the film’s “Pit of Despair” -- but you’re going to loooooove the Zoo of Death!) Of course, there’s no such thing as a green speckled recluse -- except, evidently, in Florin.

Some of my confusion about the book is likely the result of encountering it at such a young age. You know how you see a movie when you’re really young, and then somehow, whenever you see it again, you’re transported back to the age when you first saw it? “Star Wars” is always my example for this. That film has some of the worst movie dialogue of all time. It’s just gawdawful, but I didn’t realize it -- or even stop to consider the possibility -- until I was in my twenties and read a collection of Pauline Kael’s film critiques. Why did I, a word person, completely space out on this? Because I more or less still experience “Star Wars” as if I’m a little kid. I saw it in the theater when I was five or six and, in some ways, I’ll always be a little kid when I see it.

It’s the same with The Princess Bride. It’s an incredibly clear memory for me. I’m six years old, it’s bedtime, and I’m laying in bed in my ridiculously pink room in the on-base “family housing” at Tripler. Mom walked in holding a book, sat down on the side of my bed and said, “Chapter One: The Bride. The year that Buttercup was born, the most beautiful woman in the world was a French scullery maid named Annette.”

The next paragraphs were sketches of the miserable fates suffered by the women who were the most beautiful in the world at various points during Buttercup’s childhood, followed by a portrait of her parents’ bickering, then an overview of Buttercup’s obsessive relationship with “Horse” (her horse), and then … how can I explain everything that awaits you, the PB film fan, in the book?!? You get:

• Buttercup’s fit of jealousy when she meets the Countess, the most glamorous woman in Florin (although the story takes place “before glamour,” according to Goldman/Morgenstern);
• Humperdink’s loving and kind stepmother, whom he calls Evil Stepmother (“E.S.” for short) because the only other stepmothers he knows are from stories in which they are, of course, evil;
• The disastrous date between Prince Humperdink and Princess Noreena of Guilder, who harbors an ugly secret;
• Yeste, the master sword-maker of Madrid, who becomes Inigo’s trainer and surrogate father;
• Fezzik as an enormous but terrified youngster, sobbing while his father teaches him how to throw a punch;
• And of course, Goldman breaking into the story constantly to share his thoughts on heartbreak, publishing, his brilliant but chilly wife, and what “Morgenstern’s” book meant to him throughout his life.

There’s so much more -- you’ll just have to read it yourself!

Besmirchment

I’m new to Joe Posnanski’s blog -- he writes a lot about sports and a little about pop culture -- but I’m getting to like it. Today, he had me swooning with this paragraph, tucked into a thoughtful piece on the ubiquitous A-Rod sitch:

I will say: I’ve never been entirely sure when the Yankees became the bastion of purity. That seemed to be at least one of the themes of the early A-Rod coverage -- that somehow he had besmirched the impeccable history of the New York Yankees. As far as I can tell, the Yankees tradition began with Babe Ruth, who would get chased on trains by naked women wielding knives. Mickey Mantle was an alcoholic; Whitey Ford was his carousing partner. George Steinbrenner pled guilty to obstruction of justice and later paid a gambler for dirt on Dave Winfield. Billy Martin was a five-tool rogue. Even just talking steroids: Brian McNamee was the Yankees strength coach, Roger Clemens was a Yankees pitcher, and we know at least one of them is lying. And so on. Not a knock -- every team has its past. Just saying I’m not sure that A-Rod betrayed some sort of saintly Yankees code.

Hear, hear!

Joe also recently did a nice little post after watching George Carlin’s brilliant take on the language of football versus the language of baseball. Joe’s post ain’t Carlin, but some of it is lovely (like how the language of the game “sounds like something a small child came up with long ago”) and it’s always cool to see what happens at the intersection of “baseball” and “words.”

Semi-relatedly: If you haven’t yet seen the PBS broadcast of the Mark Twain Prize being awarded (posthumously) to Mr. Carlin, it’s definitely worthy. And yes, the football-versus-baseball bit -- part of Carlin’s opening monologue in the first-ever episode of “SNL” -- is included.

“Do the Thing You Can’t Not Do”

There was a time, not that long ago, when I was convinced I wanted out of Communications. (Not the department, but rather the function or field or job description or whatever. Financial services is my industry; Communications is my job.) When I left the Corporate Communications Department (with no job lined up) in 2006, the reason I gave was that I wanted to do something different. My then-boss sent out a lovely e-mail announcement with the subject line, “Laura S. Embarks on New Adventure.”

And God knows I wanted to. I was researching vet tech school and thinking about a job at a gardening center. Various people were encouraging me to write a book. A friend thought she could get me an audition as a cage dancer in a club I liked. I was up for something, anything!, different because I was sick to death of how others’ perceived my job and -- this was the kicker -- got in my face (and my work) about it.

After years of being a professional writer (good writing is necessary but not sufficient for effective communications), I was both insulted and wearied by the near-ubiquitous attitude others had towards the job, which is, in sum: the vast majority of adults think they can write. Because they send e-mails on the job, or have a blog (cough, cough), or got decent grades on papers in college, or because they regularly write letters to friends or family, or maybe because they just like it: people think they can write. And worse, they seem to see nothing odd about telling a professional writer how to do her job.

Think about what that means for someone who has spent decades (I count three of ‘em: I was word-crazy from the get-go -- thanks, Mom and Dad!) honing her craft. I wouldn’t dream of telling a programmer how to code or arguing with a financial analyst about the content of earnings reports. Yet, day after day in my role as a senior communicator, I encountered (and still do, sometimes) folks who acted like they could do my job as well as I could -- or at least, well enough.

These are the people who would call to say, “Why did you change my article?” Why? Because you don’t know the difference between “effect” and “affect.” Because you have no concept of where commas go when there’s a day and date in the middle of a sentence. Because the poor syntax you employed made the sentence factually inaccurate. I got lots of reasons -- you want ‘em all?

Sometimes, I could shut those folks up with a reference to rules they didn’t know: “I made the punctuation changes to comply with Associated Press guidelines, which dictate our usage protocols except when overridden by our internal style guide. This is standard in both corporate communications and journalism; I can direct you to more information if you’d like.” This was usually met with confusion or silence, but almost always made folks back off.

That kind of thing takes a toll. You hear yourself snapping at people who question your (far more informed -- on matters of punctuation, at least) judgment. You find that you feel angry about and unappreciated for your work -- and we Type As generally derive a lot of pride (and perhaps an unhealthy portion of our identities) from the work we do.

So then what? Well, I didn’t quit my job 2006 to get out of Comm; I quit because I couldn’t take the ever-mounting stresses of the department I was in and the impending horrors of a certain merger/conversion (which, as it turns out, wouldn’t happen for another two years). But still, it seemed like an ideal time for a change, to get away from fixing bad grammar and having to defend my efforts.

Except, I couldn’t turn it off, any more than I could when I was employed. I’d drive down Lake Street and wince at the missing hyphens or superfluous quotation marks in stores’ signage. I’d mentally copy-edit restaurant menus -- every one I saw. I’d debate myself about whether to follow AP style in my personal e-mails. I’d mutter corrections under my breath when I heard “that/which” errors.

Two years later, I’m back here, in Communications. Same firm, no less -- although a very different department. And while few things still piss me off more than “How come you changed the headline before you posted?,” I’m a little more philosophical about it than I used to be.

This is partly because I’m surrounded by a team of people who really are grateful for my contributions (and frankly, a lot of them are good writers for being non-writers, you know?). But I’m also a little older and wiser about myself. I know that I can’t stop trying to fix the world’s word messes, even if it’s only in my head, so I may as well do it where I’ll get paid, add value, and have a boss who is thrilled by my ability to nit-pick bad grammar into submission.

Long post! Why now? Two things:

First, I was in a meeting yesterday with Aeric, who started out a coworker and is now a friend (Aeric is not to be confused with coworker-friend Eric aka ETC from The Band). Darcy, also in the meeting, passed out a sample letter that one of our vendors has been using for some time. When I saw “… requests will be handled on a Best Efforts Basis [sic] …” and groaned out loud, Darcy looked at me quizzically, perhaps thinking I was unhappy with something she said.

“She’s just copy-editing; she can’t turn it off,” Aeric volunteered and smiled at me.

Second, this morning, I read an interview on Slate’s new Happiness Project blog that included this exchange:

Q: Is there a happiness mantra or motto that you’ve found very helpful?

A: Actually, it’s something that was shared with me by the soon-to-be former editor of Lifehacker, Gina Trapani. When I was interviewing her for my book, Career Renegade, at one point she said, “You do the thing you can’t not do.”

"Slings" on Sundance

The Gray Lady reports that "Slings & Arrows" -- arguably one of the funniest Shakespeare-related things ever written -- is being rerun on the Sundance Channel. I've watched the DVDs of the series so many times that I may soon have to replace them. In season one of the show, explains the NYT:

Geoffrey Tennant (Paul Gross) ... is New Burbage’s interim artistic director. He inherited the job after his drunken predecessor, Oliver Welles, was run over by a ham truck. Now he must direct an illiterate teen idol from Hollywood as Hamlet while dealing with egomaniacal actors, directors — and Oliver (Stephen Ouimette), who keeps showing up to chat, just like Hamlet’s ghost.

Good stuff. :) Catch it if you can.

Seriously?

This tasty tidbit from Overheard in the Office nicely captures one of the occupational hazards of working in corporate communications -- namely, that most of the rest of the company seems to have no idea what you're doing.

Employee #1, looking at intranet option of business transactions menu: Hey, look! Heh. These morons spelled 'Internet' wrong on this menu.

Employee #2: No, they didn't.

Employee #1: Yes, they did. See?

Employee #2: No, an intranet is different than the Internet. It's sort of like a private version of the Internet for corporations and organizations.

Employee #1: Oh, seriously? Damn, look at you, making me feel all stupid and shit. I've never heard of that before in my life. I bet you're the only one here who knows that. Look, I'll prove it to you. [Calls boss over.] Look, they spelled 'Internet' wrong on this menu.

Boss: Oh, I know! Isn't it funny? Yeah, those morons at corporate can't spell!

(Beautiful) Spoiler Alert!

I adored "Lost in Translation" -- just loved it. Was it slow, as M thinks? Sure. Did it misrepresent Japanese culture, as its critics attest? Probably. I don't know. But was it a stunningly moving and beautiful film? For me, absolutely -- not least because of the last scene, featuring Bill Murray's famous and mysterious whisper to ScarJo.

Right after the film came out, I remember lots of hubbub as everyone speculated about what he actually said. Sophia Copolla, the film's director, swore she'd never tell, but related that her teenage niece hoped that Bill's character was giving Scarlett's his e-mail address. Most of the speculation seems to have faded away in the three-plus years since the movie came out, but I've always sort of thought that, no matter what he said, it probably wouldn't be as satisfying as not knowing.

Flash forward to 2007. Someone ("vid22dotcom" to be precise) did some "digital processing" (pretty vague, but okay), was able to isolate and decipher the sound of the whisper, and posted to YouTube a video revealing what was actually said. To their credit, there's a lot of labeling around the video to avoid ruining the moment for those who don't want to know and would prefer to leave the mystery intact.

After stumbling across the video earlier today, I debated about it for a moment and then jumped in. I fully expected to be disappointed.

But you know what? I'm not -- not at all. It was as lovely as I'd hoped.

So, do you what to know? :) If not, do not play the video below. But if you loved the movie and are curious, I think you'll find his words to be nothing less than fitting.

Kitties, Not Scabs

Have you been following the Hollywood writers strike? Have you been watching the growing YouTube assortment of videos in which celebs express their solidarity? (The most buzzed-about seems to be the "Speechless" series, such as this one featuring the couple that Stephen Colbert refers to as "Filliam H. Muffman.")

And have you ever wondered to yourself, "Gosh, is there a viral video about the strike that really speaks to me as a person? You know, one that features the things I like most?" For me, that would include, say, things like:

• Cute kitties, especially LOLcats,
• Otters holding hands,
• And David Cross.

And, as it turns out, someone who feels passionately about the strike must have magically known my innermost thoughts. Lo and behold, I'm pleased to share what I will always think of as "A Very Sparklegirl Writers Strike Video" (props to ETC for the link!).

I Can Has LolPrez?

It may not be a surprise that the lolcats and their companions make ICanHasCheezburger.Com one of my must-check web sites every morning. (Does the fact that I'm intrigued by the phenomenon of cat grammar make me a total nerd? Probably.) I'm particularly partial to the poor lolrus's bukkit saga, which includes:







Imagine how excited I was to find the "next generation" of lolcats: LolPrez! First faves:

Charlotte and George

Remember this guy?

Turns out that he is probably a she, a female Araneas spider (from what I can tell).

Awesome NeighborTM Tim pointed out her presence this morning as she was (we thought) in the process of tearing down her web and reconstructing it up in George's top branches. Now, most of what I know about spiders comes from Charlotte's Web, which -- although wonderful (I highly endorse the unabridged recording narrated by the author) -- may not be the most accurate in terms of spider biology, what with the talking and the writing words into webs and all that. So I did a little Googling to learn more.

A search on "Minnesota spiders" directed to me the Common Spiders page of the U of M's extension service site (a treasure trove of info that I've often consulted on gardening matters), from which I was able to gather that our visitor is an orb spider, probably an Argiope (commonly known here as garden spiders) or Araneas (barn spiders -- and the same genus as Charlotte!).

After looking at a bunch of photos (and let me tell you that perusing photos of spiders is a fairly shiver-inducing endeavor), I think, based on its banded legs and duller color than is typically found on Argiopes, that it's an Araneas. I found more detail at Wikipedia, which explains that:

Like many other species of orb weavers, it takes down its web and rebuilds another web every evening.

So that fits with what we saw this morning. Regarding orb spiders in general, Wikipedia states that they aren't harmful to humans, except in defense. Rather, the main danger is the one I was first concerned about:

The average orb web is practically invisible, and it is easy to blunder into one and end up covered with a sticky web.

Ew. So although I'm happy to have Ms. Areneus around catching less-welcome visitors, I think I'll need to keep an eye on where she spins.

Finally, I love that Wikipedia includes this:

This spider was made well-known in the book, Charlotte's Web, with a particularly interesting point that the spider's full name is Charlotte A. Cavatica, and the barn spider's scientific name is Araneus cavaticus. Also, one of Charlotte's daughters, after asking what her mother's middle initial was, names herself Aranea.

No Gardening for a While

In spite of the slightly lower temps this week, I'm getting no gardening done at all. That on-again-off-again problem with my wrist is acting up this week and causing a little more pain than usual.

The problem seems to have originated when I fell down (shocker, right?) in dance class and landed funny on my hand. It was at my old studio, so it was probably about four years ago, and the pain and swelling in my wrist has shown up a couple times a year since then. I finally had it looked at last fall, and Dr. Mark determined it was De Quervain's tenosynovitis. It was oddly reassuring just to know what it was (versus "you know, that weird thing with my wrist), and I was kind of tickled that it had such a fun name (c'mon, that's nine syllables right there!). But when it's acting up, it's no fun at all -- mainly because it means I need to take it easy on my right hand and that's difficult in a job that requires tons of typing.

Actually, what did the damage this time wasn't typing, but editing by hand. Last Friday, I was helping out our training area at work by reviewing a bunch of quick reference guides and a couple of scripts for Web-based tutorials. Making consistent edits across lots of documents is easier when I'm working on hard copies, so I printed everything out, grabbed my red pen and went at it. I didn't notice any trouble with my wrist at all while I was editing, but when I finished three hours later, I couldn't really feel my thumb. That afternoon, I went to happy hour and noticed that I had trouble holding my glass in my right hand (because of the pain, not the martinis). Saturday morning, my right thumb was about twice the size of my left one, so no gardening.

That's a bit of a bummer, but I figured it would go away in a few days and that I could live with it in the meantime by pounding Advil. But it's been almost a week and it's still not back to normal. I've had to watch a whole slew of lovely evenings go by this week with no gardening ability (particularly bad because I need to get on that powdery mildew problem). I'm going to try some heat on it tonight in hopes of holding off on the recommended-but-dreaded cortisone shot (needles = bad). In the meantime, no gardening. Maybe I'll post on some baseball-related topics instead. Go Twins!

That Is *Not* Purple

One of the first things that I learned about in terms of garden planning was the importance of a color scheme. Along with things like repetition of patterns, staggered bloom times, and interesting foliage, having a color scheme to a garden helps give it a sense of unity and harmony.

Luckily, I read about this stuff before I got too far down the perennial-purchasing path. I'd also done some reading about native plants of Minnesota and the plants attract butterflies and birds. Putting those concepts with the plants and bloom colors I found that I liked best, the color scheme for my garden emerged as red, yellow, purple and white. Why?

• In terms of what's not in there, I think we've already covered how there's no pink in my garden, just like there's no crying in baseball.
• Red is pretty much at the top of the list in terms of attracting birds -- especially hummingbirds, although I have yet to ever see one in the city -- and butterflies. Plus, my mom always taught me that every room in a house needs a tiny bit of true red -- and the garden is one of my favorite "rooms."
• Yellow also works well for attracting birds and butterflies, and there are lots of easy-to-grow natives that are yellow (e.g., Solidago/goldenrod, Rudbeckia/black-eyed Susan, etc.). I also think I wanted an excuse to grow sunflowers -- either the dwarf varieties that I grew last year to feed the orioles or the giants I'm growing this year.
• When I was reading up on native plants, there were lots of purple natives. (Early on, I went so far as to consider a native-only garden, although I eventually decided that was a bit too rigid for a beginner. Given that I was leaning that way, though, you can see how that could contribute to me using purple.)
• White is important in both bloom color and foliage color, hence my choice of pale-leaved annuals like Senecio (Dusty Miller) and perennials like Stachys (Lamb's Ears). White not only works to blend colors harmoniously in the garden, but it gives your eye a "baseline" that helps you perceive the trueness of each color.

Given the reasons above, combined with the fact that those four colors worked well together, I've stuck with it. I'm throwing in a bit of blue this year, but I think that works pretty well with the purple/yellow/red/white thing.

The part that gets tricky is when I select something based on its color, and I get something I didn't expect. One example is the Thunbergia I planted along the part-shade trellises. When I grew Thunbergia last year, the varieties I got were all yellow-bloomed. But I purchased these before they had flowers on them, and they're turning out to be a nearly electric orange. I can't be too upset: they're growing well and at the moment they're only next to white blooms, so there's not a major clash.

Unfortunately, that's not the case with my Echinacea Purpurea, or purple coneflower. A perennial, Echinacea has a good chance of not blooming the first year it's planted. I popped three of them into the ground last year, and moved them into new homes this year as part of the raised-bed project. Last Friday, one of them bloomed for the first time.

WTF?!? That's not purple; that's full-on pink! Sparklegirl is not amused.

Ahem. Excuse me. So:

For a), There's no pink in my garden. No crying in baseball; no pink! I definitely would not have chosen this if was going to be pink.

For 2) [Yes, a) and 2) -- I always do that.], Who the honk would have known this was going to be pink?!? The name of the fricken' plant has "purple" in it!! OK, that's not really a guarantee: purple foxglove (Digitalis Purpurea) comes in several colors including white. But still.

For three), It's bad enough that it's pink, but it has to be a cool bluish-pink right next to the bright warm-red of the Salvia -- gross. As the Renegade Gardener says, you look at a color combination like that and "you'll need a brisk walk in fresh air to keep a cold shrimp dinner." I'm not sure the photo really does justice to how awful the red-pink clash is. Trust me. It's nauseating.

So now what? Well, first things first. I got out my fantastic new pruning shears and lopped that pink flower right off. Into the compost pile with you, my pretty. But now what about the plants?

• Well, I pawned off that pink-and-white phlox on our Awesome NeighborsTM, and it looks really nice next to their Dicentra. (I don't have a problem with pink in other gardens, just mine.) But they've recently mentioned that they're worried about the crowding in their perennial beds, so I'm not sure they're up for another three plants.
• I could maybe move them to the front of the house next to the pink Spirea, but I'm planning on getting rid of that thing this fall (I'm hoping to replace it with a Eunonymus Alatus/Burning Bush). Plus, the hose doesn't reach around to the front of the house, and I know I won't be able to transplant successfully without lots of watering. (I realizes that compromises my Eunonymus plans.)
• Much as I love the idea of Craigslist or the Twin Cities Free Market, I'm not sure I want to invite that much involvement from strangers. This certainly isn't a "come help yourself" situation; I get worried when M starts walking to close to some of my plants.

So although it's an odd solution for perennials, maybe I'll pot them and bring them to work. For the first time in years, I've got an office with a window and lots of light. Oo! And maybe someone here will fall in love with them and take them home to a place where they can be their beautiful pink selves.

Why "Sparklegirl?"

If my dad were writing this posting, he'd begin something like, "The year was 1962." You know you would, Dad! :)

I don't actually remember what the year was, but the name "Sparklegirl" emerged from one of those conversations wherein folks discuss their superhero alter ego. (I'm amazed at how many people I've talked to that have had this exact conversation.) Sparklegirl's super-powers are:

a) The ability to create a magic snow that dissipates conflict. You'd think that, being fairly loud and opinionated, I wouldn't have a major aversion to conflict, but somehow I do. It doesn't prevent me from advocating for things I feel strongly about, but it does make me tend to avoid needlessly argumentative situations, e.g., conversations about politics. (One friend calls me a "political recluse" -- I stay informed and well-read, but I don't like to discuss politics with others.)

So the idea is that superhero Sparklegirl, when she sees an unnecessary (whatever that means) conflict/dispute/argument, could create a sparkly, magic snowfall that eliminates it. As soon as the snow touches you, you stop fighting. But in a good way, like not squabbling with stressed-out family members at the holidays, as opposed to the givingupallhopeoftriumphingoverevil kind of way.

Tangent: Snow (the non-magical kind) sort of has this effect on me, anyway. Maybe it's because I grew up in warm locales, but I get positively giddy during a beautiful snowfall.

2) The ability to fly. This part's important, too, because otherwise how can she get to where the conflict is? Clearly, Sparklegirl has to be able to take her snow on the road to prevent needless disputes or clashes. Plus, how cool would it be to fly?

So at the risk of making myself sound like a great big wuss (it's really not that, I just like it when everyone gets along), that's the background on the whole Sparklegirl name.

Do you have an alter ego with super-powers? If not, you should get one -- they're fun.

Sparklegirl gets a kiss from Pilot at the St. Paul Winter Carnival.