Alizah Salario

I went to bed reading Super Sad True Love Story, and I woke up reading Super Sad True Love Story.

I need to get ready for work, Gary Shetyngart, but instead I am still in my pajamas, curled in my bed (which is actually a couch, but that’s another story) with your book resting on my thigh.  I should not feel guilty reading for pleasure, but sometimes, like with your highly entertaining and astute yet slightly smutty new novel, I do.

Do you remember when I came into your office and asked if I could write a profile on you?  You looked bookish and professorial, and your beard was even more brillo-like in person. You gently said no, citing an already packed schedule and no clue as to the details of your calendar (your publicist handles that). I lingered momentarily, and gave you a fawn-searching-for-it-mother-in-the woods look. Maybe it expressed longing, maybe desperation, maybe it was one of deep sorrow on account of my permanent existential crisis.  But it worked, sort of. Why don’t you contact my publicist, you offered, she knows better than I do if we can carve out some time.

Read the rest of this entry »

the amazing Dita Von Teese

For a long time I’ve wanted to do something thrilling and just a little bit saucy with my life. Today, I finally did: I danced burlesque. Well, sort of. I’m just getting the basic bumps, grinds and shimmies down. I’ve wanted to pursue burlesque since I tried a one-hour class nearly three years ago. Of all the dance forms I’ve tried, burlesque feels the most natural. Chicago burlesque, according to my teacher Frenchie Kiss, is the most classic  compared with the rock’n'roll style of LA and the arty vibe in New York. Little did I know there are three walk that involve different ways of swaying the hips: elegant, cutesy, and the bump and grind. Don’t get too excited; there’s no feathers, boas or pasties involved – yet. The emphasis of this slow striptease is on the tease. What remains a mystery is always more exciting.

On Sunday, the New York Times reviewed three cancer memoirs, none of which, at least by critic Dana Jenning’s assessment,  did the emotional heavy lifting that a grief memoir should do. I’m particularly intrigued by If You Knew Suzy by Katherine Rosman, as well as her tart response to the review over at Gawker.

From what I read, I was struck by the brutal honesty and often contradictory messages we receive when dealing with the dying. From Suzy:

“I was forced to lay fallow. I took off the trappings of contemporary life — vanity, ambition, pretense — and entered into a sort of parallel time where I was compelled to do things the Bible envisions. Be needy. Be a stranger. Be uplifted by those around me. Be reunited with the ones I love.”

Going into the realm of terminal illness – and the otherworldly sense it brings  – feels antithetical to our noisy digital age. Having lost my own father to cancer, I couldn’t help but wonder about Rosman’s motivations for writing this book: perhaps there is a growing need to explain, to confess, to make clear, precisely how death alters life in a way that feels honest for our time. I’ll let you know what I think of the book.

The last thing Jonathan Saffron Foer needs is for The New Yorker to stroke his ego.

Many of you (I’m addressing all two of you who follow my blog) know that The New Yorker is coming out with a list of the top 20 fiction writers under 40. Here are the golden boys and girls:

• Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie
• Chris Adrian
• Daniel Alarcón
• David Bezmozgis
• Sarah Shun-lien Bynum
• Joshua Ferris
• Jonathan Safran Foer
• Nell Freudenberger
• Rivka Galchen
• Nicole Krauss
• Yiyun Li
• Dinaw Mengestu
• Philipp Meyer
• C. E. Morgan
• Téa Obreht
• Z Z Packer
• Karen Russell
• Salvatore Scibona
• Gary Shteyngart
• Wells Tower

In accordance with Gawker’s stringent guidelines for complaining about the list, I’ll keep this pithy and brief.

For what it’s worth, I admire and enjoy the works of many writers on this list. Kudos to all the literary superstars, especially my potential soul mate, Gary.  But the fact that something as calibrated and crafted as a “best of” list seems oddly incongruous with the spirit of the writers chosen. This is literature, not Letterman.

When I saw the list, it felt like rushing to see my name on the cast list in high school only to realize I didn’t make the cut.  Of course, I wasn’t in the running, but lists draw lines in the sand between the good and the not up to snuff, the winners, and ostensibly, the losers. That would be me. (cue the violins and self-deprecating inner monologue).

Oh well. I still have another 11 years tighten my prose. It’s not like that novella and the countless short stories growing stale on many misplaced USB drives really mean anything to me anymore. Every other young journalism school grad seems to have a half-baked novel hidden in his or her back pocket.

Maybe I should write about how I immigrated from a communist/fascist/third world country and write a scathing, sardonic critique of Americans. Oh wait, that never happened.

I’ve wanted to see Hair for ages, long before I donned long skirts and dabbled in hippiedom for a few years in college. I knew I’d love the music, the costumes, the astral-projection- groovy- can you dig it style of the entire thing, but I didn’t know I’d be slammed with one of the most powerful and moving pieces of theater and social commentary I’ve ever seen.

Read the rest of this entry »

“Phone sex is not so unlike being a reporter .A central challenge of success at both is keeping random strangers – horny guys, hostile hedge-fund managers – on the phone, talking to you, confessing to you, growing fond of you, resolving to talk to you again. And at all times, phone-sex operators, like reporters, are expected to remain detached, wise to “The Game,” objective-but in a way, that’s crap. It’s not easy to become beloved by strangers if not a single part of you truly yearns for that love.”

From Marueen Tkacik’s “Look at Me! A writers search for journalism in the age of branding” in this month’s print version of the Columbia Journalism Review

Well. I have always been told I’ve got the voice for it….

Last August, I finally caved. I bought a Macbook Pro.

To be clear, I don’t identify as a Mac person. I opted for the Pro because I got a student discount (though other brands were still cheaper, I can’t pass up a bargain) and Macs were recommended by my esteemed grad program. Essentially, I bought into the market tactics that would make me just like everyone else.

Read the rest of this entry »

When a pigeon almost flew in my window, I remained nonplussed.  The rat with wings sat in my windowsill and stared at me. I stared back. So what if I contract avian flew? What’s the worst it can do, poke my eyes out? It flew away, and I considered myself victorious.

Read the rest of this entry »

What'chu lookin' at?

Ravel’s Bolero is the song I listen to when I’m gearing up to work. Its measured tempo, predictable and steady, suggests forward motion and productivity. This is exactly what I need to enter the fray of my own mind before I turn amorphous thoughts into concrete ideas. It was also the song Courtney Love chose accompany her lackluster entrance during her concert at Midtown’s Terminal 5 last night.

Read the rest of this entry »

I’m often floored by how many incredible thinkers, scholars, and leaders pass through Columbia. I don’t have time to see all of those who visit the J-School, much less the university at large. As my grad school days draw to a close, I’m trying to glean as much from the experts as possible.

Read the rest of this entry »