Monday, January 31, 2011

Wild West Road Trip Excerpt

                 Casinos in Las Vegas are a mixture between DisneyWorld and those cages that they herd cattle into right before the entrance to the slaughterhouse. Our first stop was Paris Las Vegas, one of those big fancy places that prides itself on maintaining a thoroughly Parisian theme while also having street signs encouraging you to visit “Le Restroom.” We didn’t actually bother gambling there until the next morning, instead passing through to get across the street to the Bellagio.
                The Bellagio is nice. It’s still Las Vegas, but it feels more comfortable, like the kind of place you might like to hang out for a while even if you’re not gambling. We obtained our Player’s Cards (ten free dollars!) and got right down to gambling. The free money went quickly, but with it came some minor winnings. Enough to wet our palate and get Steve and I interested in something a little harder – table games!
                Here, though, we struck a serious wall. Table games in Las Vegas are not your friendly pick-up poker game. Chips move at absurd speeds and then a man dealing cards or rolling dice yells something unintelligible until suddenly it’s over and everyone has lost. Little signs alert you to the table minimum  – generally in the $10-$25 region, but I definitely spied a few empty tables that were $1000+. $10-$25 still seemed like a lot, though, especially when we were banking on the free money from the Player's Clubs. By the time we had made it through Caesar’s Palace and into Mandalay Bay, though, the Player’s Clubs were no longer open, meaning the free money had dried up and there was no choice but to grab the bull by the horns and hit a table game.
                Sage and Natalie gamely waited around while Steve and I admired our choices. Roulette seemed fun in theory, and also had a better chance of winning than most games, but in reality it’s impossible to tell what is happening, since the dealer almost immediately scrapes the chips off the mat as soon as they are placed. Poker was a definite no, as all eight thousand varieties were available in their maddeningly precise forms. We finally settled on blackjack, hoping to find a table with a few cute girls who we could impress and maybe get some drinks for. No such luck in that department – I guess cute girls in Las Vegas, just like everywhere else, are a commodity that is quickly exploited. Steve and I lack that quickness.
                So, we just picked a table. Minimum $15. We sat down in the two empty seats and pressed 20’s towards the dealer. She changed us out for four $5 chips. Betting time arrived and Steve slid a single chip forward. “Minimum is fifteen,” the dealer noted. Important fact: Minimum does not mean the buy-in price. It means the absolute minimum bet. Steve and I gulped and went all in on our first hand.
                The dealer recognized our that we were novices and took pity. As she dealt, she alerted Steve and I to our surprisingly winning prospects, then proceeded to lose with her own hand. The dealer paid out to everyone and Steve and I ended up doubling our money. Sensing victory would not be so easy to come by in the second round of betting, we did what so many gamblers are incapable of - we picked up our meager piles of chips and went home successful.

Oprah's Book Club Research Paper


After Harry Potter, Stephenie Meyers and perhaps the James Patterson machine, Oprah’s Book Club is one of the most powerful forces currently at work in the American publishing industry. When Oprah announces a new book for her book club, there is an immediate mad rush to the stores. Sell outs are common – print runs can hardly keep up. Women across America simply have to read the latest choice, whether they actually want to discuss it or not. Oprah’s Book Club is almost more of a cultural phenomenon than it is a book club. The interesting part, though, is that these aren’t your run-of-the-mill bestsellers that Oprah is choosing. Her books are often obscure, occasionally dense and, in general, not lighting up the New York Times list of bestsellers prior to being chosen. Unlike Stephenie Meyers, James Patterson and all those other top 10 authors, Oprah’s books are not mindless fluff for a summer afternoon. In essence, Oprah isn’t just encouraging America to read – she’s encouraging it to read well. And she’s doing a damned good job of it. It leaves one wondering: Why and how has Oprah been so successful, and what, exactly, does this have to say about our literary culture in general?
Book clubs are not an idea originating with the Great O herself. American reading groups originated in New England in the early 19th century, when women would get together to discuss serious literature and the issues they raised. Gradually, these groups grew and moved out of New England, until by the turn of the 20th century even men were getting involved. People joined together around books primarily for the chance to socialize, but also due to a deep interest in improving oneself. Rachel Jacobsohn in her book, The Reading Group Handbook, notes that “within a reading group, freethinking, aspiring souls not born to privilege could pursue knowledge heretofore reserved only for those who passed through the expensive pearly gates of higher institutions of learning.” (4) War and depression diminished the popularity of book clubs for a time, but with the onset of the social and political activism of the 1960’s, reading groups flourished once more. It wasn’t until Oprah arrived on the scene in 1996, however, that the book club truly became a national endeavor. Prior to Oprah, book clubs were generally small groups, meeting locally to raise actual discussion about the literature they had read. Oprah, having a successful syndicated talk show, was able to reach far more people than could ever hope to meet for a pleasant discussion over coffee and cookies. Thus, Oprah introduced the idea of a national book club, one that focused on the book-reading and left the discussion to a select few who appeared on the show. As Kathleen Rooney notes in her book, Reading with Oprah: The Book Club that Changed America, Oprah “pioneered the use of electronic media, specifically television and the Internet, to take reading—a decidedly non-technological and highly individual act—and highlight its social elements and uses in such a way to motivate millions of erstwhile non-readers to pick up books.” (6)
Reading trends of late have not been encouraging, which is a reason why the dominance of Oprah’s Book Club is both intriguing and important. According to a 2002 National Endowment for the Arts study, only 56% of Americans had read a book in the previous year. That means in 365 days, nearly half of America had not picked up a book. That’s a staggering fact when coupled with the idea that this number has actually been getting worse from year to year. It’s also staggering by comparison – the same study arrived at the conclusion that 46% of Americans read literature per year, while 46% of Americans watch three or more hours of television per day. Three hours is no short time span, and yet as many Americans will gladly give up that amount of time per day as chose to read a single book per year. Perhaps then, this is one reason for Oprah’s impressive drawing power – she crosses the barrier between television and literature. Oprah’s talk show is the most watched in America, averaging 7 million viewers for new episodes. This audience is larger than many popular night-time TV shows and is therefore particularly noteworthy, as it takes place during normal business hours. With an audience this large (as well as extended viewership through replays and the internet), Oprah has a greater degree of power than many forms of publishing advertising. While it’s certainly true that more people might see an ad in the New York Times or Entertainment Weekly, they are not necessarily likely to rush out and pick up the book. With Oprah, on the other hand, this is a dedicated audience of millions, all of whom implicitly trust Oprah. If she says a book is good, then the book is unquestionably worth reading. With a book club, however, the need to buy the book becomes more insistent. These 7 million viewers don’t want to be left in the dark during the Oprah’s Book Club episode at the end of the month. Although the only real book club interaction takes place online through a series of questions, Oprah’s viewers and readers still want to feel involved – which means purchasing the book.
In this way, not only is Oprah involving more Americans in reading, but she’s also a boon to the publishing industry itself. The “Oprah effect” is now a quantifiable increase in sales any time Oprah announces a book club choice. At first, her book club was a minor part of the talk show. It was announced almost off-handedly in the final five minutes of a show about pregnant women who use drugs and alcohol. Although she was excited about the prospect of sharing her favorite books with her viewers, the enormous, instantaneous success of Oprah’s Book Club took almost everyone by surprise. While her first choice, Deep End of the Ocean, was already somewhat of a literary success, it was with her second choice that one was really able to view the Oprah effect. Song of Solomon, first published in 1977, was a steady seller until Oprah chose it. Orders exploded from 50,000 copies per year to 500,000 copies in a week. Not only that, but the book remained on the bestseller list for 16 weeks, long after the book club had moved on. All this for an older book that was no easy read – the story revolved around a black man’s quest for identity in 20th century America through the piecing together of his ancestry. The Oprah effect continued with the rest of Oprah’s choices. Cecilia Farr notes in her book, Reading Oprah, “In the first four years of the Book Club, Oprah’s books consistently averaged about fifteen weeks on the New York Times bestseller list – paperback or hardcover books, literature or light reading, popular or obscure authors, male or female characters or writers. In the final two years before its hiatus and format change, when the Book Club met less often and the given wisdom was that it was losing popularity, that average rose to nearly seventeen weeks.” (16) East of Eden exceeded its average yearly sales of 40,000 within mere hours of Oprah choosing it as her next great read. Even when choosing bestsellers, Oprah still contributed to their success. Anna Quindlen’s novel Black and Blue debuted at number four on the Times bestseller list, so even without Oprah it would have been a hit. But once it was chosen, the book jumped to number two on the list and sold an additional 500,000 copies (not to mention a million paperback copies the next year). When Quindlen published her next novel - not a book club choice - it sold at more normal levels, proving that Oprah could have an effect, even on a widely read novel by a popular author.
One could consider that perhaps it is the books themselves, but in many cases they have needed Oprah’s push to truly excel. Although, she has chosen a wide range of books with many distinct flavors, primarily, it has been fiction, which traditionally does not sell as well as non-fiction. Year-end reports in 1997 (only one year after the book club was formed) showed five fiction bestsellers in the top twelve, four with Oprah’s stamp of approval. By 1999, fiction bestsellers outnumbered self-help books for the first time ever. With Oprah’s help, fiction became a viable reading option for American public. Similarly, Oprah tended to push African-American authors. In general, books by African-American authors are not bestsellers – the yearly top twenty list is dominated by white males. But thanks to Oprah, Toni Morrison (a very literary, African-American female author) now typically rubs elbows with less literary writers like John Grisham and Michael Crichton on the bestseller list. Farr offers this observation: “For a largely white audience in an industry dominated by white writers, this is a significant inroad…she could have focused on light fiction by well-known writers and created blockbusters every time. She could have stuck with nonfiction self-help and been influential. She could have played to the comfort zone of a white, middle-class audience. But she didn’t.” (22) What Farr fails to note in that statement is the sex of Oprah’s audience – her viewers are predominantly women and, as such, her book choices tend to appeal to a female audience. Of her first forty-five book choices, thirty-five were by female authors. Of the novels by men, seven feature a female main character. It is with this crucial fact in mind that the Oprah effect is lessened, if only slightly. Female readers by far outnumber male readers – in the 2002 study mentioned earlier, 55% of women had a read a book, while only 37% of men had. Playing to a female audience is a surefire way to sell books, but it’s doubtful that was Oprah’s plan all along. It’s more likely she was just trying to appeal to her core audience.
Because Oprah seems to have a set interest in certain book types, publishers now actively seek “Oprah-type” novels. It’s important to note that Oprah has no financial stake in the books she chose – these really are just books that she has enjoyed and wants to share with everyone else. But it’s rare that she chooses the books on her own – normally, she reads a select few books passed on to her by producers, friends and, occasionally, other writers. Big publishers also typically send to her production company any novel they think might fit Oprah, a type characterized by Farr as, “moderately successful contemporary novels by or about diverse women.” (20) While this is good for the publishing industry on the whole in terms of sales numbers, finding a set “bestseller” type and then pushing it hard often leads to fatigue. For example, the current vampire craze peaked just as the myriad Harry Potter clones stopped selling warehouses of repetitive drivel. And now, with vampires being so ridiculously popular, almost every other young adult fiction piece features a vampire somewhere in the mix. One can’t be particularly opposed to this manner of “selling out,” as it has its benefits for both the authors and the industry, but it does nothing to inform or enlighten the reading public. Similarly, Oprah’s chosen books push a style and a type that, despite being generally issues-oriented, dims our literary consciousness when overloaded on the reading palate. This argument has been made against Oprah’s book club from the very beginning – critics claim Oprah is diminishing our literary awareness by pushing contemporary, women-oriented books on female readers who would probably choose such books regardless. While this argument could potentially be true, the good far outweighs the bad when it comes to Oprah’s book club. Certainly, after a while some of her choices could become derivative, but it’s still important to recall that she is getting people to read. A crucial segment of the population would not have had an interest in books without Oprah’s instigation. And even as critics bemoan Oprah’s choices, there are some they simply can’t argue with – Anna Karenina or East of Eden, for instance, are certified classics, novels that have gone down in history as “worthy reads.”
Ultimately, Oprah’s effect on our literary culture can be recognized in the continued proliferation of “moderately successful contemporary novels by or about diverse women.” But Oprah herself, in recent years, has taken a dramatic step back from the promotion of such novels. Her entry into the world of classical literature began with East of Eden in 2003 and has since continued with many other tough, older books that don’t necessarily carry the themes that would be appealing to the modern housewife. That’s not to say books like Faulkner’s The Sound and the Fury haven’t been successes, though. In a way, these difficult books are even more of a success for Oprah, since they raise the literary consciousness of her readers in a comfortable way. Readers in Oprah’s book club are never without resources – her website features online discussion and a lengthy Reader’s Guide. Similarly, during the actual book club shows, the author and Oprah are never the sole features. Oprah places the author in a conversation with herself and several everyday readers. None of the millions of readers in Oprah’s book club ever have to feel alone when struggling through Faulkner – they merely have to turn to any one of the dozens of resources Oprah has provided to the weary reader. As Farr puts it, “she modeled how to read these more challenging books in the context of a community of engaged readers.” (96) The success of Oprah’s book club does not stem necessarily from the magnetic qualities of Oprah herself, but from how she has embraced the manner in which Americans want to read: socially. She used her position of power to bring to the masses the type of book club that originated in the early 19th century. People have always enjoyed getting together to discuss literature and the issues it raises. Oprah merely took this to a national audience. She has shown our literary culture to be one that desires communication, sharing and social context. Oprah is little more than a celebrity, and the books she chooses are simply good books. It is when these two are placed together with an audience of millions that we are able to once more understand the connecting power of books and how important this power is to our society in general.










Bibliography
Farr, Cecilia. Reading Oprah. Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 2005.

Rachel, Jacobsohn. The Reading Group Handbook. New York, NY: Hyperion, 1994.

"Reading at Risk." Diss. National Endowment for the Arts, 2002.

Rice, Lynette "Find the Next Oprah." Entertainment Weekly 14 Dec. 2009: 17a-b18.

Rooney, Katherine. Reading With Oprah. Fayetteville, AK: University of Arkansas Press, 2005.

Still Life at a Party


Still Life at a Party                                                                                                                           Dakota Morgan

What are we even talking about? You look at me with those lazy blue eyes, booze-hazed, sleep-deprived, red-rimmed and hardly lucid. There’s a touch of madness there too, the kind of madness that only comes on when 2 AM meets 3 and suddenly its past too late and just about too early and anything seems possible because the world is quiet.

But we’re talking and I can’t remember why. I haven’t seen you in eight months. Eight months and fifteen days to be exact. I figured it out when I saw you earlier, saw those long thin legs striding towards me like slim, young maples dug up and brought to life. The numbers popped into my head unwarranted, warm, buttery nuggets of information that I had long forgot. On purpose, I should add.

You’re here.

The words come out of me like a leaky faucet, dripping into the full bowl of party noise. She doesn’t hear. She steps to me like a hawk, focused on her prey.

Hi.

Her voice is quiet too, but I hear the word like a story, eight months worth of silence suddenly exploding into voice.

I nod, I can’t help myself. I want to stay quiet, I want to stay still, I want to stay away from this reality of you, showing up in front of me those long legs – those damn long legs – nearly touching mine as you lean down over me and you smile like it hasn’t been eight months, like it’s only been ten minutes and nothing ever happened at all.

Hi.

I say it back. Who doesn’t? I’m not that cold.

I was hoping I might find you here. Tonight. It’s-

She pauses. I wait.

It’s been a while.

I can’t argue with that. I can’t reply either. It has been a while. Eight months and fifteen days. The numbers, they’re just there, flashing in my head like a clock radio that’s been unplugged. I smile faintly, unintentionally.

Yeah, it has.

I’ve got nothing to fear from you, I tell myself. I’m just an empty envelope to you, a letter long since sent, received and tossed aside. You can’t pick me apart anymore, can’t open me up and tear at my insides.

You grab my hand and the skin prickles and my muscles tense and I feel the sensation run from my brain to my bones that says Repond and soon I’m standing and we’re moving and the crowds part like hair through a comb. I shiver. A different room, outside, the porch, lit by ridiculous tiki torches, mosquitoes wafting in the smoke. You bat one aside and look at me like I’m no different.

I think. That’s what I see.

I wanted to talk to you. I’ve been- I’ve been thinking.

Thinking about what, I think. Thinking about you? Me? The stars, the moon, the sun and all that lies in between? The beer in your hand, its refreshing coolness reflected in the way it perspires? My forehead responds in a similar fashion and suddenly I would give anything to be holding that beer.

It’s been a while.

I say this dumbly, knowing full well that I’m being repetitive. My tongue feels like it’s filled up my mouth and is beginning to spread into the rest of my head. I can hardly keep my lips tight. I want to lean back and drool like a toothless old man, asleep in the afternoon, hand resting on the tired ancient bloodhound that hasn’t left my knee in a decade.

You lean back against the porch, suddenly furtive. You glance around warily, as if the truth about us is going to catch up with you and leave you scared like I am. As if it could ever haunt you. That’s like being afraid of the dark while living on the sun.

I catch that glance and the eyes are sad and scared, but not because of us. I’m in there, dining on your corneas, relaxing on the retina, swimming in the great black pool of your pupil. Maybe there are some ghosts hanging around after all.

What have you been thinking about?

I can’t help asking, I’m curious. I’m angry and confused and scared and mad and worried, but most of all I’m curious. I know I’m in there, in that head of yours and I want you to take me out, shake me clean like a rug.

I’m not sure, really. Just maybe…

Maybe what? Maybe you shouldn’t trail off, maybe you should speak your mind and be done with it so I can know what these feelings in my stomach mean and whether I should vomit on your shoes or get up and dance. There’s a polecat in there, roaming around, looking for a place to sleep.

Just maybe that it’s time. Time for us to…talk. Again.

Eight months, fifteen days. The numbers flash again. Are they significant? What would Nostradamus think? I think maybe we’ve reached the end of the world. I lean back on the porch too and grip it in case a black hole rips time and space and us apart.

So that’s what we’re talking about. Those blue eyes, I am swimming in them, even if they’re hazed, crazed, half-drunk and half-mast. It has been a while. But maybe it’s been long enough.

Hayao Miyazaki

Although I don't quite have the undying adoration for anime as many profess to endure, I do maintain a small shrine to the grandmaster of anime stylings - Mr. Hayao Miyazaki himself. Of course, the shrine is not a physical object, it being encased in the porous walls of my mind, but it serves its purpose well enough. Each time I view a Miyazaki film, the candles are there to be re-lit, the film stills hung carefully as ever, and the wistful piano tunes of composer Joe Hisaishi are there to bring me back to a more carefree time in life.
 

I always harken back to that day nearly a decade ago when I first became acquainted with Princess Mononoke. It was a snow day, I believe, and I was stuck indoors with my cousin. He brought the DVD out and I immediately noted the reference to Star Wars on the cover - "The Star Wars of animated features!" Ebert had screamed in all caps. Star Wars being far-and-away my favorite movie at the time, my enthusiasm immediately tripled. After sitting in stunned silence for two hours, I openly proclaimed to my cousin that Ebert had been correct - Princess Mononoke was easily the best animated feature I had ever seen. To this day, I would argue similarly. Pixar certainly makes a valiant effort time and again, but no animated toys or clownfish will ever top my Ashitaka and his faithful Yakul.
 

Thus, it is with trepidation that I consume a new Miyazaki film on occasion. To knock them all out in a day or two would be...wrong. I think that sense of discovery, of an entire, fascinating world opening up before me that came with my first viewing of Princess Mononoke really stuck with me. I want to be able to experience that feeling with every film, and the only way I can think of is to make sure that every Miyazaki film is brand new to me. It's absurd and unscientific notion, but I stick by it. Recently, I finally watched Nausicaa of the Valley of the Wind in its glorious original form and was - excuse the pun - blown away. Or, Spirited Away, if you like. The movie was not without its flaws, but the world that Miyazaki had created was so outstandingly huge that I was desperate to delve in deeper. Even as one of Miyazaki's longer creations, Nausicaa was hardly long enough for me. As the cheesy end music drifted into the credits I was left panting for more - more history, more battles, more mustaches. At least I know that, thanks to my intensely low-key viewing schedule, I still have a handful more Miyazaki films to watch. As the sense of discovery associated with Nausicaa lingers within me, I can't help but look forward to the next world to be entered. Surely, it can be nothing but spectacular.