- C.J.

- C.J.

In The Taste of Penny resides a mini-series of stories about a guy named James. James is an odd character who goes through a lot of hard times, including living in a basement with bats and centipedes (my least favorite creature) after being kicked out of his girlfriend’s house for accidentally sleep-peeing on her mother’s face. This little mini-series is only different from the rest of the book in one way, really — it deals with James. The humor and the quirkiness and the unique scope through which Parker sees the everyday world remains alive and vivid in each and every story. The conversations are real, the images are colorful, and the characters seem like high school pals. The Taste of Penny is an excellent set of stories.

- C.J.

Feathers by Kay Middleton

No longer the feather she used to be
her breath still sings a song in fretful air
a song like wings beating summers searing

a memory song in weighty boots
in the wet snow of winters’ waste

a song too early for the pale tips of spring
or moist brown earth or pink sunsets

a song preceding mating melodies
her desire to rise early or to try to love again

it becomes a chorus of excuses, stamps
in faded colors from distant places
repetitive refrains of rain, sleet and tears
a song like that of the mourning dove

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Fiction:

A Wonderful Shade by Duncan McCargar

“What time is it?” She asked. She was rubbing her eyes I guessed. It was late, too late to call but I had. I still wasn’t sure why I had so instead I said
“It’s four-thirty.” I waited, the phone warm against my face. She was considering I guessed. So I waited.
“What’s wrong?” She said at last.
“I’m not sure.” I said. It was almost true, I wasn’t sure but I had an idea of what was wrong. I was wrong, apparently. That’s why we’re on the phone instead of sharing the blue comforter, the one she had dragged up from the basement because she couldn’t stand it sitting down there rotting, and it was so pretty. It belonged to my mother, but it was in my basement, God knows why. But now it was on my bed. It had been for two months. She had been gone now for eight days. More than a week. Six eggs, thirteen pieces of toast, four T.V. dinners, and three orders of takeout. “I guess I just couldn’t sleep.”
“Oh.” she said. She was sitting up now, resting her chin on her knee I guessed. That’s what she does, when she doesn’t understand me, or when she gets put on hold calling the people at the electric company. It’s how she waits. And now she is waiting. And I am waiting. She had her hand in her hair now, I could hear it rustling static over the receiver. She wasn’t blonde, not quite blonde, she said she was a blonde but she wasn’t, not brunette either, but something in the middle.
With her chin on her knees and her hand in her hair she was waiting, for me, She was waiting and I was waiting. We were waiting for each other. What was I waiting for?
“When are you coming home?” I asked. And I waited.
“I’m not sure.” She said, she paused, “I just don’t know yet.” My hand was in my hair, my bed was cold, I wasn’t cold, but the bed was. Everywhere I wasn’t was so cold. If I moved an inch I would freeze become bodily stiff. One inch and I become a corpse.
“I need you here.” I whispered into the receiver. I imagined it was her ear, imagined my body pressed against hers I imagine my arm cradling the curve of her neck and shoulder my fingers in her hair my body filling the small of her back and her small frame filling up the bed and I imagined five stray not entirely blonde hairs tickling my cheek as I whisper into her ear, “I need you here.”
She had laid down now, her head on the pillow.
“I know, I know.” She whispered.
I heard her breathing static over the receiver. It was slow and even. She rolled over, I heard the rustling I heard her breath. “I have to go.” She said. I heard his breath, fainter. He rolled over. “Try to sleep,” she said. “I love you.” she said.
I hung up the phone. I was cold. It was four-thirty-four on a Tuesday in January. I pulled the blanket tighter around me. It really had been a shame, it was sitting in the basement all those years. It was such a nice shade of blue.

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Congrats to our winners! Note: Due to a small number of votes, the second and third place winners were hard to determine fairly and so were eliminated from the tallies. My apologies for the confusion.

The film shows these two girls in their raw, primal forms. With Currie’s love for David Bowie and trouble fitting in to, more importantly, Jett’s struggle to play the electric guitar as a girl. As the girls’ lives unfold, so do the roots of female individuality and sexuality in music, and the world.

This movie is gritty, rough, grimy and fantastic. The shots are clean, the music is tight, and the acting is surprisingly smooth and worthwhile. Dakota Fanning, playing Currie, and Kristen Stewart, as Jett, have an unmatched chemistry on screen, which boils over into the sex scene and ensuing concerts. The voices heard in the movie are actually Fanning’s and Stewart’s, which gives it a raw and completely real feeling.

At first, Fanning sounds terrible when she auditions for the band, but when she puts on the sexy red outfit and performs in Japan on tour, an animal is unleashed. This scene is strikingly the climax of the film, with a complete performance of “Cherry Bomb” and stunning visuals. Unfortunately, Fanning emanates a good-girl vibe, and lacks the harsh rock-and-roll edge Currie describes in her book.

Kristen Stewart, on the other hand, takes a pound of bricks and smashes all expectations in the face with her portrayal of Joan Jett. Not only did she do the part justice, but sets the standard for future rock-and-roll biopics. She captures the angst and emotion of the confused rock star, as well as getting the voice just right, but most importantly she grips the rock-and-roll attitude and kicks it to the curb, which is proved when she pisses on some guys guitar, for telling her she should be in the kitchen.

The final piece that brings the entire show together is manager Kim Fowley, played by Academy Award Nominated Michael Shannon. The slimy man constantly sneers and leers at the girls, egging them on and abusing them mentally and verbally. He jumps and screams and shouts when they mis-perform, and makes sure to let them know he’s the one with the money and power.

The one thing this film really lacks is true introspection. The minds of Joan Jett and Cherie Currie are never fully pried open, or at least not enough to see what’s really bothering them. They take it out on themselves with drugs, booze and sex, but there is never a moment, clean or drug driven, of revelation where the curtains open and the true meaning of things start to unfold. The girls were only sixteen when the band hit it’s pinnacle, but there is still a hidden truth behind The Runaways that the movie just doesn’t fully explore.

The Runaways: 4 out of 5

- Steve