The first thing I want to point out is that this book starts out with a 50 page short story called The Mansion on the Hill. Now what is so short about a 50 page story? It's an alright story about a man working at what basically is a wholesale wedding venue, but it goes on for way too long. Long enough that when I finished this book I thought that it was its own sepearate book. Leave it to Rick Moody to find a way to make 50 pages seem like its own novel. He does even worse with The Carnival Tradition, one story split into two parts that have nothing to do with each other. It's a story of two people who are dating each other, but the first part is the girl's perspective and she's trying to get home but there are stray dogs there and then there's a bus crash, and then she asks some random guy on the street to help her navigate the rooftops to get to her apartment, but he ends up trying to rape her up there...Look, it's just a bit too much in such a short time. Then there's the guy's perspective and it's just him at a Halloween party when he's in high school which has nothing to do with the previous half and it's just maddening. Nothing in this book made sense. None of the stories are any interesting. There's one where a kid is recounting his father having an ostrich farm and something having to do with an ostrich egg. I just couldn't keep myself interested in this book one bit.
Really Rick Moody seems to be hit-or-miss. His novels are where he shines, and his short stories are where he unfortunately falls apart. Save yourself the trouble, get The Ice Storm, see him at his best, and put his short stories behind you.
I should probably start this by saying that I've been avoiding this book for years. I've heard the title before and thought it would be some incredibly pretentious piece of crap by the likes of David Foster Wallace. It even has a nice little notice on the cover letting you know that it was a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize. It's also a memoir, the height of pretentiousness.
Then I saw that Dave Eggers was co-writing the screenplay to Where the Wild Things Are and I know I want to see that movie so I thought I'd give the book a chance to see what kind of hack they hired to write the movie.
The book starts off with a long disclaimer letting you know that most of the book can be skipped, most of the characters are fictionalized versions of real people that wanted nothing to do with the book or wanted parts of their stories changed to protect the guilty. It starts off what turns into a wonderfully self aware memoir the way all memoirs should be written.
It starts off with Dave, his sister Beth, and his little brother Toph as their parents both succumb to cancer within a week of each other. Their brother Bill is off at some think tank, Beth has things of her own going on and Dave is pretty much stuck with the task of raising his little brother Toph. They live pretty much like how you'd expect a 21 year old and a 9 year old to live, meaning in borderline squalor but there is this awareness that their situation is amazing, that child services could knock down the door at any moment and take Toph away, that the babysitter may in fact be some sadistic child killer commiting all sorts of unmentionable acts while Dave goes out on dates juggling parental and personal responsibilities.
The book really starts to shine when it tears down the 4th wall. Dave's recounting of his audition for MTV's Real World (back in 1993 or so when the show was actually socially relevant) turns to the surreal when the interviewer mentions that this wasn't how the interview turned out at all and Dave acknowledges that it's completely fictional but it gives him grounds to explain things about his parents and his situation that he wouldn't have been able to do otherwise and the actual interview was a lot more boring. Also there are times when Toph, and another semi-made up character break character, one of them threatening to leave the book for being made up and being named after his dead father.
I've read a handful of memoirs before and they're so boring because it's basically like you're sitting at lunch with the person and they're telling you things they think are amazingly important like their silly childhood or how they turned into the person they are today because of "insert childhood tragedy here." What I got from this book is that Dave's parents death didn't really affect him too much, at least not as much as he could have gone into. What it focuses on is him and Toph and their take-over-the-world attitude.
The book is never really heartbreaking but there's a lot of staggering genius going on here. It's the perfect memoir, a wonderful admission that all recounted thoughts are pretty much made up (Can you recount a conversation you had with a friend fifteen years ago?), and that Dave's story isn't really exciting or particularly interesting but it's written so wonderfully that you don't really notice that nothing really happens.
The only complaints I would have is that Dave can be long winded at times, but it serves to the grandiose thinking of his character, but the book is so beautifully written that it's easy to overlook. Also it was good to know that the title is more tongue in cheek than anything else and not really Dave trying to jerk himself off on the book cover, that was a relief.
First off, for those of you who twitter you can find me at twitter.com/toleary.
Now the Ice Storm is a day in the life of two families during a rather nasty ice storm during 1973. There are the Williams and the Hoods who are the main family. There's Ben Hood, the father, who is having an affair with Janey Williams. His wife Elena tries to stay unaware of the adultery but can't seem to shake it. Wendy Hood experiments sexually with Mickey and Sandy Williams, while Paul Hood is off in the city trying to make the last train to New Canaan while dealing with his own adolescent problems.
The big theme of the book, at least from what I got, is the breakdown of the American family. Ben Hood, who is described as a rather unattractive man, has cheated on his wife multiple times. It's not that his wife is unattractive, actually quite the opposite, it's just that he's a lousy human being, a lousy father, and a lousy husband. Elena turns a blind eye to it but confronts her husband before going to a neighborhood party which turns out to be a swingers party. Her husband wants to stay, mostly because his mistress is there. Elena changes her mind and stays at the party to play on her husband's turf and see what all the fuss is about and finally let go and stop letting Ben ruin her life.
Wendy is attracted to Mickey Williams, and his younger brother Sandy. She experiments with both of them sexually, and even recounts experimenting with one of the neighborhood girls. A lot of her story deals with sexual and gender identity, especially in the 70's where her father is having an affair, the neighborhood parents are swapping husbands and wives for the night and sex seems to be heavy in the air.
Paul is in the city with his crush Libbets and a mutual friend of theirs. His story deals with a lot of adolescent identity and unrequited romantic feelings. He needs to catch the train home but keeps putting it off in a futile pursuit of Libbets who proclaims her friendly love of him while he ponders the question, "What does that even mean?"
The Hood family make up the four narrators of the novel going from one to another. Some stories are stronger than others. Ben's story is rather strong, going between his conflicting emotions about family and love. Elena's kind of falls apart as she never really rises above being the cheated woman as her own attempt at cheating falls apart. Wendy's is probably the strongest of all as her search for identity leads her to Mickey and Sandy, and eventually to a surprise ending that shapes her character in the end.
Paul is the wildcard character as his story isn't directly related to anyone's as he doesn't interact with any of the other main characters until the very end of the story, but it holds together as a simple boy likes girl, girl loves boy as a friend, story.
In the end it all weaves together nicely, especially since I have a rather distaste for the day-in-the-life gimmick. The characters are strong, the dialogue and writing are top notch which is a rather big change especially considering the last Rick Moody book I reviewed was a failure on almost every level. One thing you want to consider though is that this is not a happy book. There is not a happy ending. It's just a peek into the live of some severely screwed up and confused people. Think of it like someone wrote a story about your family reunion, except probably not as screwed up, maybe.
Now there's supposed to be a movie version that came out in 1997. I never heard of it but I think I'm going to have to check it out to see how Ang Lee handled the material. We know he doesn't shy away from sexual material and the cast seems pretty solid, I may just have to track this one down.
I've got two more Moody books to read once I finish A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, but I'm a little reserved as this one set the bar pretty high after the last one.
I've liked Hunter S. Thompson since high school when I picked up Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas from my sister and then saw the movie. I knew very little about Hunter at the time except that he wrote this really crazy book that turned into a really crazy movie. Then a few years ago someone let me borrow their copy of Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail and I started noticing that these crazy books were written by quite the crazy person.
Then I saw the documentary, Gonzo, that came out last year. I had always heard bits and pieces about Hunter. I read a piece after he died about one of the assistants that he had and the hell that she said she had gone through working under him. Then I read a few other pieces by people who loved to be around him. I just couldn't figure out one way or another how to feel about him. Was he a brash alcoholic/drug addict who burned every bridge he came across and ruined his writing career at his peak, or was he a lovable alcoholic/drug addicted prankster whose genius was incredibly misunderstood by those who weren't closest to him?
After reading this book I've learned a few truths about Hunter. He was always drunk, he was always high on something, and he could be more drunk and more high than anyone else and still perform as normal as Hunter could ever be. He didn't just drink people under the table, he started drinking and never stopped. For all intents and purposes the man was a machine. Ingesting every substance that came across him and pumping out some of the most original literature of the last half century.
The book is an oral history, meaning it's just the people who knew him best talking about him. The dialgoue serves as the segues, the description, the plot. Nothing but talk, talk, talk. Now some people talk better than others. His ex-wife, Sandy Thompson, being the real lead of the book as she was the one by his side during his creative apex and even when things were just getting started. She gives you a real idea that Hunter was a classic southern gentleman at heart and could get anyone under his spell, male or female.
Some people don't get enough talk time. It would have been nice to see what Tom Wolfe had to think about Hunter creatively and not just silly anecdotes about whenever they crossed paths. Sonny Barger, head of the Hell's Angels, still obviously holds a grudge against Hunter and spent most of the time trash talking which got a little old. Then there's Jann Wenner, his editor at Rolling Stone for 35 years. You can tell Jann gets a little high and mighty with the whole "I gave Hunter his big break" and just a lot of gloating at being around Hunter. Johnny Depp also comes across as little more than a fanboy who, aside from some interesting stories about Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, has little more to add to the story.
Also, what I felt was a bit of a critical mistep is the lack of Ralph Steadman in the book. Ralph was his go-to guy, the only guy who ever got to successfully collaborate with Hunter. They went on stories together, probably even became stories most of the time and he's given just enough talk time to explain what's already been explained.
It's still a fantastic book, and coming in at 467 pages it covers much more than you would expect with someone like Hunter. Think of it as a companion piece to the documentary and it works perfect. The documentary gives more time to Ralph and covers some things more than the book does. Also the book covers a lot more things than the movie, like covering more of the McGovern campaign and his campaign for sheriff.
Of course when it comes to someone like Hunter is it even possible to know the whole story? Also how much do I want to seperate man from myth? Short of reading all of Hunter's work this is the best way to get an insight in to who he really was, from the women he loved and lost, to the friends he loved and lost, to his son Juan, celebrity friends like Jack Nicholson and Margot Kidder, there are enough people to give a pretty good insight into what kind of a person he really was.
I'll leave you with a quote from the man himself: "I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence, or insanity to anyone, but they've always worked for me"
Angela dreams of airplane disasters. This is usually while she is on an airplane working as a flight attendant. Whenever she gives her take-off speech and instructs passengers how to buckle their seatbelts and prepare for an airline emergency she wants to add some things at the end. In her little fantasy she tells the passengers that she is the one sitting closest to the main exit. That means in case of emergency her salary is not enough to ensure that she helps the passengers safely out the door. She wants to tell them that she will be the first one out the door unless she gets a raise. She wants a disaster to happen so she can abandon the passengers, to leave them stunned and speechless until a passenger finally says, “She wasn’t kidding.”
She wants to leave behind the unruly children and the parents who do nothing to calm their kids down. The older man who made a comment to her about joining the mile high club, he’s on his own. To all of the men who look at her and conspire she wants to remind them that she is wearing a uniform. Not an outfit, not a costume. It is company issued and is in no way meant to be comfortable or sexy. Anyone who has ever looked at her and envisioned some sort of fantasy can find the exit on their own. She will not tell them to stay low to give them extra time in case the plane fills with smoke. She will not tell them that a mad dash to the exit is a bad idea. If an emergency happens and they are on the ground, while they are looking around for their flight attendant to give them guidance, she will be long gone.
Angela thinks to herself, “In case of emergency, I quit.”
The plane eventually lands without incident. The passengers leave the plane, filing out with their carry-on baggage. No one tells her thank you. A child cries at her and a man gives her a suggestive wink. She retains her corporate smile and makes sure that each and every person leaving the plane gets a bye-bye.
Last to leave are Angela, the pilot, and the first officer. If a first officer ever bothers her or tries to flirt she’ll respond with, “What’s a fancy word for co-pilot?”
It’s the end of their day and they walk through the airport to wait for a shuttle. Pilots function like they’re in some kind of fraternity. It doesn’t matter if they’re the new thirty-something or the outgoing sixty year old, they all have the same attitude. They flirt relentlessly with the female flight crew and take unpaid bets on the sexuality of male flight attendants. Angela has found it amazing that so many people get on a plane and put their hands in the lives of men with the maturity level of high school boys.
Waiting for the shuttle to the hotel the pilot and first officer talk and talk like teenage girls on the telephone. Talking about movies, female actresses they’d take to bed. How they couldn’t wait for the trip to be over so they could hit a bar.
Angela wants to tell the passengers that it’s regulation that no flight crew drinks twelve hours before a flight. She wants to tell the passengers that the flight crew takes it as more of a kind suggestion. She wants to say that if they are on the third day of a three day trip, the flight crew is functioning on maybe six or seven hours of sleep total. Add alcohol to that and judgement is slightly impaired. Add an airplane filled with jet fuel and passengers and it’s a lot different then driving the car home after a few beers with the guys. She wants to tell the passengers that they really shouldn’t be so trusting when it comes to putting their lives in the hands of someone else. Especially when that person is on salary.
The shuttle arrives late as usual. The pilots take their chatter onto the shuttle while Angela only looks forward to a hotel room where she can kick off her heels and take off her polyester uniform.
Every step she takes is one more rub against the blisters forming on her big toes. Every step from the shuttle to the hotel lobby where the pilots check them in and get room keys. All three of them get separate rooms. Then there are the steps from the lobby, up a flight of stairs because the elevator is under maintenance, then down the hallway to her room. The first officer walks her to her room. It’s a gesture she appreciates but she knows how pilots are. There will be some pass at her and she’ll give him a polite smile and close the door.
This one must be new, Angela thinks to herself. He takes her to her room, makes sure she gets in, wishes her goodnight and is on her way. One less problem she has to deal with. Not even two steps into the room and the heels are kicked off, flying across the room and falling under a small table. She works the buttons and straps of her one piece uniform, taking it off with quickness but placing it on a hanger with care. She’ll need it again in the morning. Then it’s into something more comfortable, unflattering grey sweat pants and a simple black tank top. She removes her socks and wiggles her toes as if to let them know that they’re free, at least until morning.
On her way in she noticed the hotel had a bar, a rarity she thought. A quick debate went through her mind whether she should risk having a drink or just take a bath and go to bed. Sure, rules are rules, but ever since the airline promised random alcohol testing on flight crew no one has been tested. The odds were in her favor if she didn’t overdo it.
She walked down to the bar, not worried about getting caught. If the pilots came in they’d make a joke about how she’s not supposed to be drinking but then they would order something themselves. They weren’t getting paid enough to make it worthwhile to rat out a fellow crew member. Job security was the last thing they worried about.
The bar looked like some kind of 1940's relic. An open space with a stage, not used for a concert or dancing in decades. The bar looked just as unused, if it weren’t for all of the liquor bottles and beer taps she could have sworn the place was closed down. A young bartender in a t-shirt and jeans stood behind the bar watching sports highlights on television. She took a seat near the end of the bar and it took a moment for the bartender to realize someone had come by. He must not have been expecting any customers at this hour. Angela ordered a vodka cranberry and made an unspoken promise to drink only one. While making the drink the bartender glanced occasionally at the television screen. Angela wanted to ask if he had money riding on one of the games but thought it was better to not get personal.
A few sips into her drink and she found herself watching the sports highlights. She didn’t know the teams, and if not for the clips of game footage she would have no idea what sport they were even talking about. It took her a moment before she realized that there was someone sitting two seats down from her. He orders a beer, taking the bartender away from the television for a moment. A new set of scores comes up and the bartender lets out an audible groan. Angela wanted to say tough break but stopped herself again.
“I’m Henry,” a man’s voice said. Angela was startled to see that the many sitting down from her was now sitting next to her, holding out his hand for a handshake. She met his hand, they shook politely and she said, “I’m Angela.”
“I apologize, I didn’t mean to startle you, it’s just not often that people come into places like this. I’m usually stuck drinking alone.” Angela wanted to tell him that just because they were at the same bar they weren’t drinking together. He did seem kind and maybe he was just looking for some drinking company. He looked like the kind of man that would be around her father’s office, the kind of businessman who regret going into the field.
“It’s fine,” she said, picking up her drink, finishing it off. Against her better judgement she ordered another.
“I’m here for a convention. A silly thing where a bunch of medical suppliers set up booths and show off the latest and greatest in enema bulbs and tongue depressors. A whole day of that and a man needs a drink.” Angela found herself smiling. She thought that maybe it was the drink, or that she was happy to have some polite conversation.
“I’m just passing through.” She said. Angela didn’t want to tell him she was a flight attendant and then have him notice her drinks.
“Aren’t we all just lonely travelers. I’m a product vendor for a medical supply company. I travel the country, staying at hotels, attending these silly conventions. Whenever someone comes up to our booth I have to convince them that our bedpans and IV bags are better then the next guy. It’s really silly when you ask me, but it pays the bills so who am I to judge?”
“Well if you’re unhappy why don’t you quit?”
“I have an ex-wife and two boys who would be extremely unhappy if daddy’s check didn’t come this month. The crazy harpy took my kids and now she wants to take all of my money. I’m sorry, I’m getting a little personal here, I don’t mean to be rude.”
Angela shook her head and pressed him to go on. She felt like she was talking to a passenger who wanted to explain himself, like Henry was apologizing for all of the terrible things that passengers have put her through. She’s been on hundreds and hundreds of flights and not a single passenger has opened up to her beyond simple orders or flirtatious comments.
“I can sell things. Anything, really. It doesn’t mean I like it though, in fact I quite hate it. It’s like every day I work I feel like some sort of crook. I sell things people don’t need, I take their money, and then I skip town and go on to the next one. Well what’s your story young lady? What brings you to a hotel bar in the middle of the night? What troubles you?”
Angela was well into her second drink and felt like opening up a little. “Don’t tell anyone but I’m a flight attendant.”
“Flying the friendly skies.”
“With unfriendly people,” she interrupted. “I’m here because all day I’ve been wearing heels from hell, biting my tongue from dozens of passengers giving me small demands, simple things they could either do themselves or do without. No I’m not supposed to be drinking but it’s the only thing that’s going to keep me from trying to bring down the plane myself.” Henry let out a soft laugh, throwing his head back.
“Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. I don’t blame you either, people walk all over whoever they get the chance to. If you want a drink you deserve a drink.”
“Have you noticed,” Henry says, “That every hotel is the same. Airport hotels especially. It’s disorienting. You wake up, you have no idea what city you’re in or where you are. You can’t remember if it’s Birmingham or Tallahassee. Then very slowly the brain starts firing up and you remember everything, but that same disorienting feeling happens all the time.”
“Exactly, it’s like they’re trying to remind you that this is not a place anyone would want to call home.” They shared a laugh, two strangers with a common bond.
The bartender came by and said, “Last call.”
Angela went for her pockets to get some cash but then realized that her pants had no pockets. That her purse and her money were up in her room in her suitcase. In a panicked moment she patted her thighs anyway, the place where pockets would be, as if money were to miraculously appear if she tried hard enough. Henry took notice and put his hand politely on her should to ease her out of the panic. “Don’t worry, I’ll get your tab. It’s the least I could do for you keeping me company.” Angela thanked him repeatedly, offering to go to her room and get money to pay him back. He put a hand up in refusal telling her it is perfectly alright.
Henry took a wallet out of his back pocket and produced a handful of bills. He dropped it on the counter and stood up from his stool. Angela stood up as well.
Henry held out his arm toward the exit and said, “Shall I walk the lady up to her room?” Angela found herself filled with an alcohol induced giddiness and began walking. They traveled up the steps and down the hallway. Angela stopped a few doors down from her room.
“I’m right down there,” Angela said, pointing down the hallway toward her room.
“I’m a few down this way,” Henry said, pointing in the opposite direction.
An awkward silence lingered between them, gazes shifting from each other to the floors and walls. Henry broke the silence, “You’re welcome to come to my room if you like.” Directly after the words came out his face changed, knowing he had just overstepped some sort of unspoken boundary.
Angela smiled and said, “No, I’ve got an early flight.” Henry looked guilty and apologized.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay, it was a pleasure meeting you Henry,” Angela held out her hand, offering a handshake. Henry met it and gave a quick shake.
“Good evening, Angela. Enjoy your travels.” He walked off in a hurry, embarrassed by his comment. Angela turned to walk back to her room but slightly turned her head around to see what room Henry went into. He used the card key, hurried into the room and shut the door. Angela stood at her door, her key card held in the waistband of her pants. She went to grab it and let herself in but something stopped her.
She started walking toward Henry’s room, walking quick but on her tip toes, like some child sneaking out of their room for a midnight snack. She stopped at Henry’s door. Her hand raised up in a fist to knock on the door but never made contact. She was gripped with second thoughts.
He wasn’t a particularly attractive man, and much older than anyone she had ever put any thought into. She was confusing pleasant conversation for something more, something deep. She put her hand down and thought that just because they share the same awful travel arrangements doesn’t mean they have to share the same bed. She waved goodnight to the door and hurried, on tip toes, back to her room. She used the keycard and turned the knob slowly, closing the door behind her with two hands, trying not to make a sound.
In the morning she awoke and had the same confusing thought. She forgot the town, the day. Morning amnesia that gripped her every morning she woke on a trip. Gradually facts came back to her, if they came back any more sudden she might scream.
She prepared herself for the workday ahead. A quick shower, back into the uniform, unwillingly back into the dreadful blister factory heels. A quick check of the room and everything was in her bag and in order. The pilots would be waiting for her downstairs.
They were already in the lobby, waiting for Angela to turn in her key. The pilot said they were running late, that the shuttle would be here any minute. On the way out of the lobby Henry passed by, just coming from the complimentary breakfast set up by the hotel. His gaze met with Angela’s and a slight nod passed between the both of them but they continued walking.
Outside Angela and the pilots waited on the bench. The shuttle was running late again.
I'd like to start off by saying I have no idea who Jon Raymond is. The only reason I got the book was because Stassney and I were at Barnes and Noble to get her one of the Twilight books and while she went back to pick it up I browsed the New Fiction section, not really hoping to find anything but just to pass the time. I had no clue who Jon Raymond was and as I held the book in my hand I had the urge to put it back, but I didn't want to go to the counter buying a Twilight book alone so I took it with me out of necessity.
Jon Raymond's stories are simple. Two friends reconnecting on a road trip to the woods. A conflicted widower starting a relationship with an old friend. Two kids getting into a fight. Two kids getting trapped in a mall clothing store. A father taking his daughter to buy new shoes while he waits for an important business call.
There are nine stories in all and it's one of the few story collections I've read where I wasn't satisfied at the end because I wanted more. The characters are never perfect, but always in a way you sort of sympathize with. We've all had friends we have tried to reconnect with and realized that spark is no longer there. We've gone along with things, especially as kids, only to realize you're being played for a fool. They're all universal themes which have been written about over and over again but these stories are written in such a way that it never seems old, like it's the first time realizing these parts of humanity.
I highly suggest picking up this book. It seems Jon Raymond has also written a novel or two so I'm going to put them pretty high on my list of books to read. I can only hope his talent for storytelling can translate even better from short fiction into long form.
I wanted to like this book, I really did. Personally I love Rick Moody. I've read a handful of his short stories and they're very good. At least the ones I read. This one reads like more of a b-sides or rarities collection, the stories that should have been buried away never to see the light of day.
The first story starts off alright, a man who records all of his wives phone calls who eventually gets caught. It's a decent start but goes downhill so fast after that. There's a story that's one freakishly long sentence. It may have been about two people filming a MTV Real World style reality show or some sort of indie film. I have no clue what was happening because it was all going by so fast like it was written on speed. Look, Kerouac did write On the Road on what ended up being a single sheet of paper but he had the decency to go through afterward and turn it into sentences and paragraphs.
The stories fall even further after that. James Dean survives (well actually dies but...well, it's hard to explain when you don't understand it) his tragic car wreck and joins a garage band. Then there's the title story which has something to do with a guy who goes around to sex shops and peek shows, but all I know is it's like Rick went on to Google, typed in "Sex fetishes" and wrote out a long list of it and called it a story. I didn't even make it to the end of that one, and making it halfway through was a struggle.
There's only been one other book that I couldn't read all the way through. That was Brief Interviews With Hideous Men by David Foster Wallace. Every page just stank of pretentious bullshit. Not that it wasn't well written or anything, but it seems like David would have been the kind of person to brag about his extreme talent to everyone who had ears (All past tense because David hung himself last year).
Rick is a little different, and unlike Brief Interviews I didn't throw the book in a trash can. I still have a lot of respect for Rick and every author who publishes multiple books has their one book that falls pretty short. I have yet to read one of Rick's novels, but I bought two of them so when I'm done reading Livability by Jon Raymond (which is turning out to be a fantastic book, so far) I'm going to jump into one of his novels and hope for the best.
So in the end I do recommend Rick Moody. His short stories are mostly spot on, just avoid this book and you'll do just fine.
When I first came across Franny and Zooey I was doing theater in high school (It may have been during Romeo and Juliet, at least that's what I remember). One of our theater directors, the late Mark Collins, said before every performance to "Do it for the Fat Lady." I was always kind of puzzled by what that was supposed to mean and he said to read Franny and Zooey to find out. I read it in high school, fell in love with it. Then I moved on to The Catcher in the Rye and moved on to Nine Stories from there.
Franny was published in 1955, Zooey in 1957, and the two were finally collected in novella form in 1961.
Franny and Zooey focuses on Franny and Zooey Glass from the Glass family that Salinger visits in the majority of his stories. It starts with Franny meeting her boyfriend Lane for a cocktail party followed by a football game. What follows is a late lunch where Lane goes on about school and a paper that he wrote, and Franny starting to tear into him in a self-professed mean streak she can't seem to shake. Franny starts to light up when Lane finds a book in her purse, The Way of the Pilgrim. She explains the book is about a Russian Pilgrim who wants to find out the secret to 'praying without ceasing.' He goes around, meets a bunch of interesting people, meets with priest after priest until he finally finds one who unlocks the secret to praying without ceasing. Basically it's repeating the Jesus Prayer, Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner, until the prayer becomes as natural to you as breathing. I could go a lot more into it, basically she's fascinated by it and Lane just kind of brushes her off. Finally she faints in the restaurant and after fainting, when Lane goes to fetch her some water, she starts mouthing the words of the prayer.
End of story, cut to Zooey. Zooey is the older brother to Franny (There are seven Glass children in all) and we meet him in the bath reading and re-reading a four year old letter from his brother Buddy. We learn Zooey is a television actor by the fact that he also skims over a recent script he was handed. His mother, Bessie, interrupts him and they have a long discussion ranging from Franny's recent emotional collapse (While Zooey was published 2 years later it takes place only 2 days after her visit to Lane), his acting career, the other Glass children (We learn one of the older children, Seymour, commited suicide which is the subject of the short story "A Perfect Day for Bananafish). They do a little verbal sparring and once he's out of the bath Zooey goes and talks with his sister.
Salinger's stories are pretty much 90% talk. It's a lot of inner monologue and conversation that just works superb. It's usually people with two different agendas going back and forth, sometimes completely ignorant of what the other person is saying, but it's always incredibly engaging. Everyone has their own distinct voice, no one sounds contrived, no one says anything that you think was put in there just to make a point in the conversation or to further the story. Everything just flows so well.
When Zooey talks to Franny who is having her emotional collapse in the living room it's a wonderful conversational dance where Zooey is going around the room from the desk to the piano to the window, going from attacking Franny, to attacking the Jesus Prayer, to finally explaining the Jesus Prayer (Also bringing up its close relation to Eastern religions) and basically enlightening her. Eastern religion is at the core of a lot of Salinger's work as he practiced numerous Eastern religions throughout his early life and injected them into his stories.
Franny and Zooey is wonderful for its perfect use of wordplay. Salinger always saw himself as a succesor to F. Scott Fitzgerald and it really shows. They both knew their way around dialogue and putting a lot of underlying meaning into their stories. They were (Okay, Salinger is still alive but he's been so secluded we can talk about him in the past tense) also wonderfully screwed up people but what writer isn't?
The Glass family is a wonder to read. After Franny and Zooey I suggest moving on to Nine Stories and Raise High the Roof Beams, Carpenters and Seymour: An Introduction. Make sure to also spend some time with The Catcher in the Rye but don't go writing "This is my statement" in the cover and killing John Lennon, that's just tacky. If someone did that with one of my books I'd go into seclusion too.
Also it turns out Salinger has been writing, writing, writing for himself these past few decades and has what may turn out to be a great library of post-humous literature ahead of him. Not that I want him to hurry up the process because I want him to keep on writing as long as he can hold up a pen, but I'm really excited to see if he's been keeping up with the Glass family all of these years.
Stassney's birthday was this past Friday. She got a sewing machine (she wants to design wedding dresses), and among other things she got a Wii Fit. The Wii Fit is a strange tool as it's an exercise tool masquerading as a video game.
It told me my weight (high) my BMI (overweight), and my "Fit" age (21!). Of course there are a multitude of exercise activities ranging from the silly (hula hoop!) to yoga and bonafide strength training (rowing squats). While the actual validity of Wii Fit will always be disputed as it's been used in actual professional exercise trials all the way to "watch my girlfriend hula hoop in her underwear" Youtube videos, it remains that the Wii is aimed at casual gamers and the Wii Fit is perfect for "casual gamers" who have "casual gamer" bodies. So far I've stopped drinking caffeine and sodas all together, I've maintained my minimum of 20 minutes of exercise a day, and I've so far been losing weight.
See back in the day (pre-college) I did kickboxing for about four years at which I had a really nice, lean kickboxer body. Then I broke my ribs, both my pinkies, and managed to sprain both of my ankles to the point that the arthritis they suffered from just a little bit has turned into a lot. Then (college) I gained weight to the tune of 210 pounds or so and stayed that way due to various reasons. Then post college and a bad breakup later I was running every day at Shelby Farms and eating a lot less than normal bringing me to the 160 pounds I was when I met Stassney. Then I moved to Austin, started eating like a normal human being and playing way too much World of Warcraft to be concerned with trivial things like exercise and health. Now we both want to get back into our prime shape (She used to row, I used to overuse parentheses) and Wii Fit has actual got us back into our exercise minds where we watch what we eat and exercise on a regular basis. What other video game has had that affect on you?
On top of that I've started writing again and I've been more inclined to actually take pictures with my camera rather than using it as a paperweight.
Also I'm getting more used to the idea of furniture shopping and apartment hunting. Stassney's blog is a great place to catch up on how our furniture tastes differ and also to catch up on her pursuits in fashion design and how her sewing is coming along. She already sewed Veronica a lining for her cage and a bed for her to sleep on. So far she's taken to the lining but has rejected the bed. Then again we tried to have her sleep with a piece of my t-shirt in her house and she repeatedly drug it out of her house for a few days until she finally made it a part of her home so it's a matter of time before she takes to it.
On that note I have another bottle of Killian's waiting for me. Until next time.
I came across this novel when browsing through Hastings. It's a wonderful place to get cheap used books (I think I got three or four books for 9 bucks).
Now my book buying process goes as such. First the cover must be mildly appealing. Especially if it's from a major publisher. If the cover is lackluster it's pretty much a throwaway cover for a throwaway book they're sorry they published and want to let it die a slow and peniless death.
Then again that's not always the case so we'll call the cover 30% of the process.
Next is the author. Some author's I'll never ever read again I don't care what they write (Chuck Palahniuk, David Foster Wallace). Some author's I'll read no matter what (John Dufresne). This would be 20% of the process. I don't rule out unknown names, which is where the third part comes in.
50% of the process is the synopsis. The back cover/inside flap has roughly 2 paragraphs to get my attention. This includes the 2 or 3 review quotes they'll add and I'll immediately disregard. Be wary though, sometimes the synopsis has NOTHING to do with the book which I'll get into in a moment.
First, my brief synopsis of the book: Caroline, Madeline, and Ellie are sisters. When they're young they want to run away but Ellie gets kidnapped and they never find the kidnapper and Ellie never returns. This drive the family apart. The dad's an alcoholic, Caroline runs off to New Orleans, Madeline...well she doesn't really do anything, and their mother Isabelle relentlessly pursues her missing daughter from the comfort of her own couch. She spots a photo that looks like her missing daughter and her kind-of-sort-of dying wish is that Caroline pursue the girl in the photo in the hopes of finding long lost Ellie.
From my count it took 165 pages to get to that point. It took over half of the novel just to set up the damn thing. Now Caroline is the narrator, along with Agnes Flowers who is writing letters to a man she met on AlaskaHunks.com (don't even try it, it's not a real website). There's also Caroline's childhood flashbacks, and flashbacks to when her mother/father were engaged.
Now if you're to believe the reviews it's "A compelling page-turner [that] unfolds as part suspense novel, part memoir...[How to be Lost] chronicles Caroline's tale with vivid eloquence, clarity, and dark nuanced humor." At least that's according to the Boston Globe.
Let's go backwards here. First off, it's not funny. There's no dark humor. There's no humor period. Caroline is not a funny or engaging personality. She drinks a lot, but not to the point of being drunk or letting if affect her life, or having any point other than having her go into bars, ordering a lot of whiskey and not feeling any sort of effect from it.
There's no clarity in this novel either. Is it about Caroline's search for her sister? Is it about the effect Ellie's disappearance had on their family? Is it about her mother's failed engagement to Bernard? Is it about Agnes Flowers laughably bad letters to her AlaskaHunk? Pick one, ditch the others. When the search for her sister finally gets underway after page 165 it takes about 40 pages for it to start and end, rushing through to make it to the "Oh my God everything turned out great!" ending.
We can rule out suspense as well. I'm glad the novel spoon-fed me the mystery before the search for the sister even got underway. Now usually I'll think I have it all figured out and there will be some curveball about two-thirds of the way through that will throw things off in a satisying way. Not this one. Once you have it figured out, that's it. Nothing will change, the novel will stay on its one track, it will make it to the station on time, and everything will go according to plan. It's not suspenseful, it's paint-by-numbers and it got a few of the colors wrong.
Let's just get something out of the way too. If you're going to put sex in a novel, please call it sex. Don't call it "tangling the sheets." Tangling the sheets is what I do when I try to get out of bed in the morning and I'm still half asleep. We're all grown-ups here. Sex is sex. Either be an adult about it or cut it out of your novel.
I do have to agree that the book is a page turner. I did have to physically turn the pages in order to finish the book. Now I wasn't excited to turn the pages and I wasn't biting my nails in anticipation of what lay in store on the next page, I just knew I had 52 books to read and I couldn't give up on one mid-way no matter how bad it turned out.
I'll cut to the chase. Do not read this book. Read The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold. It's pretty much the same premise except it has an actual plot to it that it sticks to and doesn't waver from. Also it has an ending that's actually satisying and doesn't make you feel like you've watched some hastily put together Lifetime movie while hopped up on painkillers.
I will make a promise though. The next time I read a book that has anything remotely close to this within its pages:
'She screamed It's not true! It's not true!' But Bernard knew it was true.
I'm going to throw the book into a fire. Thank you very much for telling me that one of the characters is aware of something that just happened to them. If it wasn't for you I would have never known that the character was aware of something he was actively a part of.
I decided to give myself a reason to read more books this year I'd read 52 books and write 52 reviews. I was going to do it as a once a week thing but obviously I missed that boat so I'm just going to do 52 between now and New Years.
So the first book of 2009 that I got through was Why We Suck by Denis Leary. I should probably start off by saying that I love Denis Leary. I've loved him ever since I saw No Cure For Cancer many, many years ago. I loved him in The Ref, I loved him in The Job, and Rescue Me is probably my all time favorite show ever.
So the book is half Denis Leary trying to say why Americans as a whole suck and half talking about his childhood which ends up having pretty much nothing to do with why we suck. Also did you know Denis Leary was Irish? If not he's going to let you know, a lot. He's going to talk a lot about his Irish parents, his Irish brothers, his Irish relatives, his flat, white Irish ass.
I mean I'm Irish from an Irish family (even though I'm third generation and he's second so he's more Irish or whatever) and have wacky Irish stories. I even thought I talked a lot about being Irish except Denis Leary takes the cake. He talks about it during his stand-up, he makes sure his character on Rescue Me reminds everyone around him that he's Irish, and his book drives the point home that much more. Just brace yourself.
Then he goes into the standard stupid American things. Yes Anna Nicole Smith was a talentless drugged up whore. Yes Britney Spears is a big joke. He also tossed a K-Fed joke in there, I guess to stay topical. We're fat, Nascar is stupid, My Super Sweet Sixteen and anything on VH1 should be considered cruel and unusual torture.
At this point I thought Denis was going soft and just playing it safe. I mean if you've seen any comedy routine by anyone in the past 5 years you've heard all of these jokes before. If you've ever had a pop culture infused conversation with anyone at all you've told these jokes before.
Then the book starts to pick up. He starts talking about bad children and even worse parents. He goes on about the big autism and ADD boom that's been going on for years. This is where Denis hits his stride and personally I agree with him on every point. Just because your kid is a little socially awkward, or has a hard time concentrating and is more infatuated with boggers than homework doesn't mean they're retarded or special, it just means they're a kid.
Me and my cousin were diagnosed with ADD at around the same time. My parents chose to treat me like any other kid, no special pills, no special classes, no special helmets, mostly because they thought the diagnosis was wrong. My cousin was always hopped up on ritalin, always treated like some sort of special needs kid and one of us ended up a heroin addict in prison. Think about which one of us that was.
So anytime I hear someone say "I can't do two thing at once, I have ADD, I just can't concentrate," I want to throw them off a building. You know what, Denis you grab the arms, I'll grab the legs and we'll throw on three.
Also Denis keeps going on and on about how beautiful his wife is, how perfect she is all in a really clichè manner. Actually he sounds like a guy who got caught cheating on his wife and wrote this book just so he could put pictures of her in there and talk about how great her ass looks when she gets changed just so he could have a 240 page public apology. The book might as well have come with flowers and a mix-tape to bring it all together.
His chaper on racism is one of the best in the book, and he doesn't skirt around any racist terms. Actually he organizes them from the least to the worst to see which race has it the worst. He does stay in safe territory though and keeps his focus on Jews and (surprise, surprise) the Irish.
So the book starts off with a clear purpose, to explain why we suck. But then the book doesn't tell us why we suck. It starts off down that path but then goes into childhood anecdotes and why Denis did theater in college. It probably would have been better just to have had no purpose and just have been a book by Denis Leary than to give us a defined goal of where the book wanted to go and not follow up on the promise.
If you're a fan of Denis Leary, get it, even though there are going to be parts of the book you'll read and think, "Haven't I heard this before?" Then again the book reads like a transcript of his stand-up act, and there's nothing wrong with that.
Me + Photoshop = This. It would have been a lot easier if it wasn't for the texture of the sign. Road signs have a reflective texture on them that makes any sort of minor photoshopping a pain.
Today Stassney and I were playing with Veronica (my hedgehog for the uninformed) in between rounds of Guitar Hero: World Tour and decided to take her outside and let her roam around the front yard. Now usually Veronica will still be defensive about her surroundings, especially when we have her out on the bed or on the floor. When we put her in the grass she immediately took off and I was trying to follow her with my camera but because she's so small I had to lay down to get any good pictures and she was moving so fast that I had to keep getting up, getting down, getting up, getting down. She did a lap of the front yard, even walking down the gravel next to the road which Stassney and I joked was Veronica hitchhiking trying to find a ride out of here.
When Veronica tried to burrow herself into a rosemary bush we decided it was time to take her in and 63 pictures later (Thank God for my DSLR being able to take a lot of pictures very quickly) a few really good ones came out of it.
Last April (just a handful of months before I made the move to Austin) I went to the Memphis zombie walk with a few of my friends. The walk started on Beale Street and went across downtown and ended at Ernestine and Hazel's bar. I went in a strictly photographic role while my friends Eric and Jared got there early and got themselves made up as zombies for the walk.
The first picture is of Eric just before the walk started when it would start raining, stop raining, start raining, stop raining and we were all standing around wondering if it was going to be a complete and literal washout.
Next up is Chris from Trilogy tattoo who wore her actual wedding dress to the zombie walk showing just how well her marriage turned out.
The zombies attacked a tour bus, smeared blood on every window and sign between Beale and the bar (much to the un-amusement of the people who were attending various showings at the art galleries). The third picture is a random zombie who was very much into it and very much zombie-like as he lunged at my camera.
Jared found someone who had a gallon jug full of fake blood and just kind of poured it on his face looking like he came from a fresh kill. The fake blood was kind of a pain in the ass as it stuck to everything and was a pain to get off, especially when it came to skin.
Finally we got to the bar which we ended up on the outside of because the place was so jam-packed with zombies. We stuck around for a while and finally went back to the car where we went to Ubee's (a wonderful Memphis establishment where everything is cooked in a vat of grease). It was me, our friend Mike, and zombie Eric and zombie Jared. The frat crowd in attendance got their yuk's by coming up and pointing out that "had some red on them" and other jokes. Then we went back to Trilogy for another round of pictures. One woman who walked into the store took one look at Jared and promptly turned around and left.
Then we went to the diviest of dive bars down the street for drinks which me and Mike stayed at for almost 5 minutes. The bar only took cash and got all of their drinks from the convenience store down the street it seemed like. Stay classy, Rally Point.
Too bad I missed the Austin Zombie Walk this year which seems a lot more organized and purposeful with the whole march to the capital thing. Oh well, there's always next time and maybe I can take a short trip back to Memphis for the next march.
