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.
