No. Lou just got lazy with posting. That's part of it, at least. In the intervening months:
I started The Emperor of Ocean Park by Stephen L. Carter. I picked this up because his new book came out and the reviews fairly uniformly trashed it, but reminded readers how good Ocean Park had been. I'd always meant to read this because my aunt and uncle have a summer home maybe 1/4 mile from Ocean Park in Oak Bluffs, Martha's Vineyard, MA, and I know the area like the back of my hand. And while references to Linda Jean's restaurant and the Flying Horses kept me compelled on a personal level, I found the book tiring. It could have been half as long, in my opinion. As a long-winded, rambling writer myself, it's a bit hypocritical for me to say: but enough with the explanations & descriptions already, Carter! I gave up 3/4 of the way through, not because I was bored, per se, although I was, but because I put the book down long enough that I'd lost the thread.
I'm working my way through the Harry Potters starting at Book One. To me this is a luxury, a treat, an indulgence. I'm on Goblet of Fire right now, and I should finish that this weekend. What a pleasure it is to see that JK mentioned things in Chapter One of Book One that would become resoundingly important in the final book. Brilliance! And charming to revisit the fact that Books 1 & 2 were short enough that they could be tucked, inconspicuously, into a pocketbook.
I read Ernest Gaines's A Lesson Before Dying for school. Finished it in a little more than one sitting. Tragic, heavy book... one where it takes you clear til the end to actually feel sympathy for any of the characters. But what an impact. I was stunned, disappointed, when I met with my seven 9th grade advisees this week and found out that they all thought it was b-o-r-i-n-g! But to my surprise (and honestly renewing my faith that 14 year old girls are still GIRLS) they were way put off by the somewhat explicit sex scenes!
I also re-read The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne for school. Still a great book-- although not according to my students-- but I see the dead spaces, in my opinion, for what they are-- places where a genius short-story author stretches to make a short-story into a novel. I'll take "Young Goodman Brown" or "The Minister's Black Veil" any day.
So that's my skinny-- still reading, just reporting less. Will try to be better.
Friday, September 7, 2007
Thursday, July 26, 2007
The Yiddish Policemen’s Union by Michael Chabon
Chabon writes as though he is crafting poetry, not prose. That’s not to say that his work is poetic, per se, but that the art of his work is in the fact that it reads as though every word he sets to the page is a deliberate and much-deliberated choice. Thick with metaphor and simile, his writing makes the reader feel as though they’re in the hands of a author who lets nothing happen by chance, who makes no mistakes, without feeling intimidated.
You don’t have to “work” to read Chabon’s writing. It is not slow. It is not confusing. It is, simply, gorgeous.
And The Yiddish Policemen’s Union is as gorgeous as anything Chabon has written. The Adventures of Kavalier and Clay ranks in my top five favorite books ever, and this book is only slightly less astonishingly good. I struggle to put my finger on the difference between the two. Perhaps it is that K&C had an epic quality, or perhaps I just connected more deeply with the material because I enjoy comic books and NYC history.
I mean that not to diminish The Yiddish Policemen’s Union in the slightest. Nor to suggest that this book lacks an epic quality. But here the epic revolves around politics and culture, and not an individual.
Remarkable on every level, this book, like K&C showcases the depth of Chabon’s knowledge of Jewish history, knowledge that he uses to build the foundation of an alternate history, one in which Sitka, Alaska—not Israel— becomes the temporary homeland of displaced Jews post WWII. Sitka is not meant to be a permanent home, and now, in 2007, the territory is set to revert back to an American holding—“Alaska for Alaskans” is a political rally cry of the day. The looming reversion will mean another exodus for the “Frozen Chosen,” who have few, if any, viable options.
“It’s a strange time to be a Jew.” The refrain appears again and again, spoken by character after character.
At the center of the story is Meyer Landsman, divorced, alcoholic, rogue cop who lives in a flop house straight out of a noir novel. A murder has occurred in his run-down hotel home, and just when you think that the book will be a noir mystery that happens to be set in troubling times, the plot spins wide and reaching and suddenly the thriller embraces international politics, terrorism, mysticism, the second (or third) coming of the Messiah, and even the End Times.
Like any noir detective, Landsman is sympathetic in his flaws. But more than most iconic gumshoes, he’s loveable. His greatest sorrows haunt him and move him to tears on a regular basis. He’s an asshole who takes advantage of his kinder, more centered friends, but does not do so without regret. The tiny thread of a love story in the novel is among the most believable and moving that I’ve encountered of late.
My only complaint, and it’s not a complaint so much as a regret, is that Yiddish, the language of the Sitkans, plays such a central role. If I understood even rudiments of Yiddish, I might have found the book even funnier and even more tender.
As I read the last chapter, I snuck a peek at how many pages were left and saw that there were but three. I stopped reading and cursed Chabon for creating such a dense and complicated book—there was no way he could finish it in a satisfying way in three pages.
I was wrong. I am satisfied. Satisfied in that any true, tie up all loose ends, ending would create an impossible Die Hard-ish fairy tale of a thriller. His (again satisfying) ending is messy and frustrating. But the situation is messy and frustrating. Any neat ending would have felt fraudulent.
You don’t have to “work” to read Chabon’s writing. It is not slow. It is not confusing. It is, simply, gorgeous.
And The Yiddish Policemen’s Union is as gorgeous as anything Chabon has written. The Adventures of Kavalier and Clay ranks in my top five favorite books ever, and this book is only slightly less astonishingly good. I struggle to put my finger on the difference between the two. Perhaps it is that K&C had an epic quality, or perhaps I just connected more deeply with the material because I enjoy comic books and NYC history.
I mean that not to diminish The Yiddish Policemen’s Union in the slightest. Nor to suggest that this book lacks an epic quality. But here the epic revolves around politics and culture, and not an individual.
Remarkable on every level, this book, like K&C showcases the depth of Chabon’s knowledge of Jewish history, knowledge that he uses to build the foundation of an alternate history, one in which Sitka, Alaska—not Israel— becomes the temporary homeland of displaced Jews post WWII. Sitka is not meant to be a permanent home, and now, in 2007, the territory is set to revert back to an American holding—“Alaska for Alaskans” is a political rally cry of the day. The looming reversion will mean another exodus for the “Frozen Chosen,” who have few, if any, viable options.
“It’s a strange time to be a Jew.” The refrain appears again and again, spoken by character after character.
At the center of the story is Meyer Landsman, divorced, alcoholic, rogue cop who lives in a flop house straight out of a noir novel. A murder has occurred in his run-down hotel home, and just when you think that the book will be a noir mystery that happens to be set in troubling times, the plot spins wide and reaching and suddenly the thriller embraces international politics, terrorism, mysticism, the second (or third) coming of the Messiah, and even the End Times.
Like any noir detective, Landsman is sympathetic in his flaws. But more than most iconic gumshoes, he’s loveable. His greatest sorrows haunt him and move him to tears on a regular basis. He’s an asshole who takes advantage of his kinder, more centered friends, but does not do so without regret. The tiny thread of a love story in the novel is among the most believable and moving that I’ve encountered of late.
My only complaint, and it’s not a complaint so much as a regret, is that Yiddish, the language of the Sitkans, plays such a central role. If I understood even rudiments of Yiddish, I might have found the book even funnier and even more tender.
As I read the last chapter, I snuck a peek at how many pages were left and saw that there were but three. I stopped reading and cursed Chabon for creating such a dense and complicated book—there was no way he could finish it in a satisfying way in three pages.
I was wrong. I am satisfied. Satisfied in that any true, tie up all loose ends, ending would create an impossible Die Hard-ish fairy tale of a thriller. His (again satisfying) ending is messy and frustrating. But the situation is messy and frustrating. Any neat ending would have felt fraudulent.
Harry Potter & the Deathly Hallows by JK Rowling
At 2am EST on July 22, I finished reading Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, 26 hours after its release. There are no true spoilers in this entry, and any pseudo-spoilers will come with warnings.
Roommate was in NYC for the release, and by midday on the 20th, he was text messaging me to let me know that crowds had already gathered. I headed downtown Saratoga Springs around 7pm and picked up my wristband from Borders. The clerk said that my green wristband would allow me into the green line and then festivities began at nine. I parked myself at the bookstore across the street—Uncommon Grounds—to do some grading. The location gave me the opportunity to check out the Borders line whenever I went out to grab a smoke.
By 10pm, a throng had gathered, but even by 11 or so, it hadn’t increased. When I headed over at 1130, I felt pretty confident that, although Roommate had been telling me that there were thousands gathered in Times Square, Saratoga would be an in-and-out venture. What I hadn’t realized was that the crowd outside was just catching some air… inside it was breast-to-back claustrophobia.
Had the clerk done me a favor when bestowing me with a green wristband? I’ll never know. But after fighting my way through the crowds, I found that the green line was the shortest. I took my place behind a cloaked mom and a daughter dressed as Crookshanks and held my precarious ground. The other colored lines were double the green even then and expanded to fill the small store. When green built up behind me it grew slowly—us green folks were the lucky ones.
The store had raffle drawings and bingo. I paid little attention to either. A handsome man, 31 year old ad salesman, took the green space behind me. He reeked of liquor and made loud jokes about the costumed attendees. He will remain an enigma to me, as he was brutal and yet… still in line for his own copy. At one point I spun around and said, “You DO realize that this is book meant for kids, right?” He admitted to being a Star Wars geek and having dressed in costume for a premier or two. And so, I gave him a bit of a hard time. My elbow bumped him hard when I was taking off my sweatshirt in the oppressive heat, and when I apologized, he said, “I’ll never complain about a pretty girl taking her clothes off in front of me.” He (I did catch his name, but have forgotten it) seemed rather intent on picking me up, until I flatly told him that nothing short of nuclear war was going to stop me from starting to read HP as soon as I bought it.
So, strange crowd indeed. I admired Crookshanks’s “witches brew” necklace and she disappeared and returned with one for me. I made small talk with drunk guy, and he honked his horn at me and screamed out the window when he drove by me (he shouldn’t have been driving) on my way back to the car. Next to me were parents—locals—in line so their wee ones on the balcony wouldn’t be crushed by the hoards on the selling floor.
Green magic worked in my favor and I walked out at 12:21 am with my prize. Headed straight back to my dorm lodging at Skidmore College where my box o’wine awaited me. And by 12:45, I’d cracked open both the box and the book.
Read until the wine made me sleepy at 4am-ish. Woke at my 8am alarm and cursed myself for not shutting it off. I considered continuing to read in my bed at 8, but fought it and then couldn’t get back to sleep. I lay awake for two hours, thinking about the book. And I came up with what I thought would be the perfect fate for Harry. This may be a spoiler but I promise that I won’t tell you if I was right or not so don’t finish this paragraph if you don’t even want any ideas: My thought was it would be perfect if Harry survived and somehow became the first, really permanent Defense of the Dark Arts professor at Hogwarts.
Again, this was just a musing of mine when I was less than 200 pages into the book.
Anyway, finally re-slept at 10 and woke at 12:30… and pretty much read until I finished at 2am.
Did laundry, had lunch, got sushi, and did a little shopping, but other than that my day was devoted to finishing the book. Got a bit of a sunburn reading on my porch. And just after I finished, and just after I started this entry, I was confronted by a curious skunk not two feet away from me. Luckily his claws skittered on the concrete and I had a little time to think, but he was so cute it was all I could do to not reach out and pet him.
Final verdict: Best book out of the seven. 750-some pages of nail-biting suspense. Gorgeous and moving wrapping up of the mythology. I GET that it is over, and I accept that.
It did feel a bit slow for a while after around 100 pages, but so much was revealed during a time of inaction. Connections unearthed. Revelations uncovered.
In the end, the mythology feels, well, done. And well done.
Semi-pseudo-spoiler alert: I’ll never for the life of me know what JK Rowling meant when she said that “Two die.” Bull SHIT! I can’t even begin to imagine what her qualifications for “two” were. The death toll in the book is considerable and there were few deaths that didn’t bring tears to my eyes.
Roommate was in NYC for the release, and by midday on the 20th, he was text messaging me to let me know that crowds had already gathered. I headed downtown Saratoga Springs around 7pm and picked up my wristband from Borders. The clerk said that my green wristband would allow me into the green line and then festivities began at nine. I parked myself at the bookstore across the street—Uncommon Grounds—to do some grading. The location gave me the opportunity to check out the Borders line whenever I went out to grab a smoke.
By 10pm, a throng had gathered, but even by 11 or so, it hadn’t increased. When I headed over at 1130, I felt pretty confident that, although Roommate had been telling me that there were thousands gathered in Times Square, Saratoga would be an in-and-out venture. What I hadn’t realized was that the crowd outside was just catching some air… inside it was breast-to-back claustrophobia.
Had the clerk done me a favor when bestowing me with a green wristband? I’ll never know. But after fighting my way through the crowds, I found that the green line was the shortest. I took my place behind a cloaked mom and a daughter dressed as Crookshanks and held my precarious ground. The other colored lines were double the green even then and expanded to fill the small store. When green built up behind me it grew slowly—us green folks were the lucky ones.
The store had raffle drawings and bingo. I paid little attention to either. A handsome man, 31 year old ad salesman, took the green space behind me. He reeked of liquor and made loud jokes about the costumed attendees. He will remain an enigma to me, as he was brutal and yet… still in line for his own copy. At one point I spun around and said, “You DO realize that this is book meant for kids, right?” He admitted to being a Star Wars geek and having dressed in costume for a premier or two. And so, I gave him a bit of a hard time. My elbow bumped him hard when I was taking off my sweatshirt in the oppressive heat, and when I apologized, he said, “I’ll never complain about a pretty girl taking her clothes off in front of me.” He (I did catch his name, but have forgotten it) seemed rather intent on picking me up, until I flatly told him that nothing short of nuclear war was going to stop me from starting to read HP as soon as I bought it.
So, strange crowd indeed. I admired Crookshanks’s “witches brew” necklace and she disappeared and returned with one for me. I made small talk with drunk guy, and he honked his horn at me and screamed out the window when he drove by me (he shouldn’t have been driving) on my way back to the car. Next to me were parents—locals—in line so their wee ones on the balcony wouldn’t be crushed by the hoards on the selling floor.
Green magic worked in my favor and I walked out at 12:21 am with my prize. Headed straight back to my dorm lodging at Skidmore College where my box o’wine awaited me. And by 12:45, I’d cracked open both the box and the book.
Read until the wine made me sleepy at 4am-ish. Woke at my 8am alarm and cursed myself for not shutting it off. I considered continuing to read in my bed at 8, but fought it and then couldn’t get back to sleep. I lay awake for two hours, thinking about the book. And I came up with what I thought would be the perfect fate for Harry. This may be a spoiler but I promise that I won’t tell you if I was right or not so don’t finish this paragraph if you don’t even want any ideas: My thought was it would be perfect if Harry survived and somehow became the first, really permanent Defense of the Dark Arts professor at Hogwarts.
Again, this was just a musing of mine when I was less than 200 pages into the book.
Anyway, finally re-slept at 10 and woke at 12:30… and pretty much read until I finished at 2am.
Did laundry, had lunch, got sushi, and did a little shopping, but other than that my day was devoted to finishing the book. Got a bit of a sunburn reading on my porch. And just after I finished, and just after I started this entry, I was confronted by a curious skunk not two feet away from me. Luckily his claws skittered on the concrete and I had a little time to think, but he was so cute it was all I could do to not reach out and pet him.
Final verdict: Best book out of the seven. 750-some pages of nail-biting suspense. Gorgeous and moving wrapping up of the mythology. I GET that it is over, and I accept that.
It did feel a bit slow for a while after around 100 pages, but so much was revealed during a time of inaction. Connections unearthed. Revelations uncovered.
In the end, the mythology feels, well, done. And well done.
Semi-pseudo-spoiler alert: I’ll never for the life of me know what JK Rowling meant when she said that “Two die.” Bull SHIT! I can’t even begin to imagine what her qualifications for “two” were. The death toll in the book is considerable and there were few deaths that didn’t bring tears to my eyes.
Friday, July 20, 2007
Island of the Sequined Love Nun by Christopher Moore
Christopher Moore used to rank way up there on my list of favorite contemporary writers, but the last couple of books that I have read by him have left me feeling rather-- eh. I used to feel like he was a more literary Carl Hiaasen, whom I greatly admire, but, with the exception of the extraordinary book Lamb, my more recent reading has rendered Moore no more than on par with Hiaasen (although his name is considerably easier to spell).
After reading the book, I'm still not sure who the "sequined love nun" is. I assume it is Beth, the Sky Priestess, although she ain't a nun, never did anything remotely nunly, and only appeared in sequins once. The book does take place on an island in Micronesia, so the Island part is accurate.
Love Nun is the story of Tucker Case, a womanizing screw-up pilot who begins the novel with his biggest screw up ever. While drunk, he crashes the plane of his Mary Kay-like employer, injuring the hooker passenger, and ramming a lever on the instrument panel through his naked love pump not once but twice. Broken, unemployed, and impotent. Ain't no way to go through life.
Mysterious circumstances land him on the island of Alualu, home of the Shark People and a cargo cult centering around an American WWII pilot/Jesus figure named Vincent and the beautiful naked Sky Princess painted on the nose of his bomber. An American missonary doctor and his wife have hired Tuck as their pilot and offered to pay him so generously that their intentions can only be criminal. But when he arrives (on a 20-foot boat with a cross-dressing navigator and a talking fruitbat during a monsoon) he finds that they have appropriated the native's mythology and Beth has assumed the identity of the Sky Princess.
It's fun, it's funny, and the writing is still excellent. But Moore's usual semi-magical realism feels more like a stretch in this one.
After reading the book, I'm still not sure who the "sequined love nun" is. I assume it is Beth, the Sky Priestess, although she ain't a nun, never did anything remotely nunly, and only appeared in sequins once. The book does take place on an island in Micronesia, so the Island part is accurate.
Love Nun is the story of Tucker Case, a womanizing screw-up pilot who begins the novel with his biggest screw up ever. While drunk, he crashes the plane of his Mary Kay-like employer, injuring the hooker passenger, and ramming a lever on the instrument panel through his naked love pump not once but twice. Broken, unemployed, and impotent. Ain't no way to go through life.
Mysterious circumstances land him on the island of Alualu, home of the Shark People and a cargo cult centering around an American WWII pilot/Jesus figure named Vincent and the beautiful naked Sky Princess painted on the nose of his bomber. An American missonary doctor and his wife have hired Tuck as their pilot and offered to pay him so generously that their intentions can only be criminal. But when he arrives (on a 20-foot boat with a cross-dressing navigator and a talking fruitbat during a monsoon) he finds that they have appropriated the native's mythology and Beth has assumed the identity of the Sky Princess.
It's fun, it's funny, and the writing is still excellent. But Moore's usual semi-magical realism feels more like a stretch in this one.
Waiting for Harry
It's 10:56pm EST. Do you have your wristband?
Lou is out of town, but she ordered her Harry Potter online from a bookstore in Saratoga Springs, NY. She's in the green line. And she's been very, very, very careful not to read a single spoiler.
Getting the book, going back to her local digs where she has a box of wine waiting for her and the whole place to herself.
Long live Harry! I hope.
Wednesday, July 4, 2007
Good Omens by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett (re-read)
Another one of Roommate's ease-into-fantasy purchases. A much better one in my opinion. A classic, in fact.
I first read Good Omens: The Nice And Accurate Prophesies of Agnes Nutter, Witch back in the mid-90's, in college, while lying on my single futon in the 6' X 8' bedroom of my fourth floor walk-up in Harlem. Ah, the good ol' days. I was working in the East Village at St. Mark's Comics and had fallen in love with Neil Gaiman's Sandman series of graphic novels. Good Omens lore-- substantiated by the authors' notes in the back of the book-- is that the story began as a short story that Gaiman started and couldn't finished; the young journalist sent it to Terry Pratchett-- already doing well as an author-- who promptly ignored it for a year. When he dug it out again, he said that he couldn't finish it, per se, but he could imagine what happened next...
This seamlessly co-authored book supposes that the Antichrist has been born, Armageddon is in a few days, and what would happen if the agents of Hell and Heaven on earth decide that they just don't feel like bringing about the end of the world?
Aziraphale (heaven) and Crowley (hell) have been adversaries for millenia, but when the End Times are just days away, they decide that it is humanity itself, and the constant struggle between good and evil, that has made life (such as it is) worth living. Should the Rapture come, the War would begin, a Victor would be declared-- where's the fun in that?
Hilarious, along a distinctly British humor/absudist vein, and stunningly well written, Good Omens exceeds any novel written by either novelist alone (and I do LOVE both Gaiman and Pratchett's works). The only complaint I can imagine is the sometimes cluttered-feeling huge cast of characters. There's Anethema, the modern witch. Adam Young, 11 year old AntiChrist. Warlock, who's supposed to be the AntiChrist. Agnes Nutter, the author of the titular prophecies. The four bikers of the Apocolypse. Several witchfinders. A bevy of rebellious children. The list of major characters takes up two full pages.
The authors notes mentions the lack of a sequel to a book that just cries out for a sequel and alludes that one may very well be forthcoming. Part of my holds my breath, and part of me worries. While Pratchett has sucessfully produced close to twenty books in the Discworld series-- all of which that I've read have been great-- and Gaiman kept the Sandman franchise fresh until the end, I was disappointed by Anansi Boys, the sequel to Gaiman's stupendous American Gods. There's nothing like holding one's breath for a sequel only to have it let you down (she says as she counts down the days to the next Harry Potter and whispers a tiny prayer for brilliance).
I first read Good Omens: The Nice And Accurate Prophesies of Agnes Nutter, Witch back in the mid-90's, in college, while lying on my single futon in the 6' X 8' bedroom of my fourth floor walk-up in Harlem. Ah, the good ol' days. I was working in the East Village at St. Mark's Comics and had fallen in love with Neil Gaiman's Sandman series of graphic novels. Good Omens lore-- substantiated by the authors' notes in the back of the book-- is that the story began as a short story that Gaiman started and couldn't finished; the young journalist sent it to Terry Pratchett-- already doing well as an author-- who promptly ignored it for a year. When he dug it out again, he said that he couldn't finish it, per se, but he could imagine what happened next...
This seamlessly co-authored book supposes that the Antichrist has been born, Armageddon is in a few days, and what would happen if the agents of Hell and Heaven on earth decide that they just don't feel like bringing about the end of the world?
Aziraphale (heaven) and Crowley (hell) have been adversaries for millenia, but when the End Times are just days away, they decide that it is humanity itself, and the constant struggle between good and evil, that has made life (such as it is) worth living. Should the Rapture come, the War would begin, a Victor would be declared-- where's the fun in that?
Hilarious, along a distinctly British humor/absudist vein, and stunningly well written, Good Omens exceeds any novel written by either novelist alone (and I do LOVE both Gaiman and Pratchett's works). The only complaint I can imagine is the sometimes cluttered-feeling huge cast of characters. There's Anethema, the modern witch. Adam Young, 11 year old AntiChrist. Warlock, who's supposed to be the AntiChrist. Agnes Nutter, the author of the titular prophecies. The four bikers of the Apocolypse. Several witchfinders. A bevy of rebellious children. The list of major characters takes up two full pages.
The authors notes mentions the lack of a sequel to a book that just cries out for a sequel and alludes that one may very well be forthcoming. Part of my holds my breath, and part of me worries. While Pratchett has sucessfully produced close to twenty books in the Discworld series-- all of which that I've read have been great-- and Gaiman kept the Sandman franchise fresh until the end, I was disappointed by Anansi Boys, the sequel to Gaiman's stupendous American Gods. There's nothing like holding one's breath for a sequel only to have it let you down (she says as she counts down the days to the next Harry Potter and whispers a tiny prayer for brilliance).
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Storm Front (Book 1 of the Dresden Files) by Jim Butcher
I snagged this book from Roommate before he had a chance to read it. He’s not a sci-fi/fantasy fan, but he wants to start reading those genres (“on his own terms,” he says, and I’m not sure what that means). The Dresden files appealed to him because they’re urban fantasy, set in a Chicago where you can find a wizard in the phone book (although only one) and where the CPD has seen fit to create (although understaff, apparently) a special unit to investigate the more unexplainable crimes.
The Dresden Files appealed to me because I knew they’d been turned into a Sci-Fi Channel show, and with the demise of the Sopranos, Studio 60, Jericho (or maybe not) and several other “investment” shows, I have some TiVo space for a new one. And so far, I’ve had good luck with Sci-Fi.
Maybe the television show is better. I was fairly unimpressed with Storm Front, which read muddy and odd, like Butcher had a sloppy editor or perhaps one who’d read several Dresden novels and therefore wasn’t as critical of the holes in the world that Butcher created. I didn’t buy in from the get go.
Harry Blackstone Copperfield Dresden morphs from noir-ish private eye to a Dumbledore-style wizard replete with staff and wand, and the mash-up never feels natural. He’s funny. He’s attractive in a Snape sort of way. I’d date him. But I just don’t “believe in” him. And both fantasy and noir conventions abound. The plucky (and short—always short) female copy exiled to the weirdo crimes division; Murphy’s a cardboard cut-out of the chick cop with the chip on her shoulders and a soft underbelly. Harry has a spirit helper, a pervy troublemaker named Bob, who reads like just about every bumbling Igor. Although Harry is undoubtedly one of the “good guys,” he’s misunderstood by the White Council (the magic guardians) and they have their eyes on him (in the form of the gruff Morgan), and he’s always getting in trouble. Again, is any magical hero ever understood and supported by the powers-that-be? (See another famous Harry)
Some of the plot feels fresh and interesting (a crack-like drug that gives junkies the sort of Third Sight normally only afforded those with supernatural proclivities) and some… not so much (the pizza-loving spirit informant? Too easy.)
Maybe the books get better. I’m already skeptical of TV the series. The cast looks like a Bennetton ad, even though the book creates fairly white-bread characters. Harry is wayyyyy more attractive than he needs to be, likewise Murphy (who’s Hispanic in the series and fairly Irish and stout in the book). Morgan, who has a Highlander-style sword and ponytail in the book, is black and hot. I admire Sci-Fi’s consistent attention to presenting multicultural casts; I’m more freaked by the babe factor.
There are nine books in the series. I’ll probably pick up one more before I make a final decision. There are plenty of serieses that get good a couple books in.
The Dresden Files appealed to me because I knew they’d been turned into a Sci-Fi Channel show, and with the demise of the Sopranos, Studio 60, Jericho (or maybe not) and several other “investment” shows, I have some TiVo space for a new one. And so far, I’ve had good luck with Sci-Fi.
Maybe the television show is better. I was fairly unimpressed with Storm Front, which read muddy and odd, like Butcher had a sloppy editor or perhaps one who’d read several Dresden novels and therefore wasn’t as critical of the holes in the world that Butcher created. I didn’t buy in from the get go.
Harry Blackstone Copperfield Dresden morphs from noir-ish private eye to a Dumbledore-style wizard replete with staff and wand, and the mash-up never feels natural. He’s funny. He’s attractive in a Snape sort of way. I’d date him. But I just don’t “believe in” him. And both fantasy and noir conventions abound. The plucky (and short—always short) female copy exiled to the weirdo crimes division; Murphy’s a cardboard cut-out of the chick cop with the chip on her shoulders and a soft underbelly. Harry has a spirit helper, a pervy troublemaker named Bob, who reads like just about every bumbling Igor. Although Harry is undoubtedly one of the “good guys,” he’s misunderstood by the White Council (the magic guardians) and they have their eyes on him (in the form of the gruff Morgan), and he’s always getting in trouble. Again, is any magical hero ever understood and supported by the powers-that-be? (See another famous Harry)
Some of the plot feels fresh and interesting (a crack-like drug that gives junkies the sort of Third Sight normally only afforded those with supernatural proclivities) and some… not so much (the pizza-loving spirit informant? Too easy.)
Maybe the books get better. I’m already skeptical of TV the series. The cast looks like a Bennetton ad, even though the book creates fairly white-bread characters. Harry is wayyyyy more attractive than he needs to be, likewise Murphy (who’s Hispanic in the series and fairly Irish and stout in the book). Morgan, who has a Highlander-style sword and ponytail in the book, is black and hot. I admire Sci-Fi’s consistent attention to presenting multicultural casts; I’m more freaked by the babe factor.
There are nine books in the series. I’ll probably pick up one more before I make a final decision. There are plenty of serieses that get good a couple books in.
Friday, June 22, 2007
Briga-DOOM!: A Kate London Mystery by Susan Goodwill
See the full disclosure statement from Getze's Big Numbers. I don't know Goodwill as well, but she's part of the same posse.
You know, I am pretty sure if I caught my future husband, the mayor, caught with his pants down making whoopie to the town bitch, I would probably mow down his porta-potty with my golf cart, too. I'm just hoping that my local judge wouldn't send me to anger management with the off-her-gourd Dr. Al.
So what if Mayor Ass turns up dead in the trunk of my car, right? I can handle it. And so can Kate London.
I really enjoyed this breezy mystery featuring Kate London, newly returned to home town Mud Lake to be closer to Aunt Kitty. Kitty, formerally a B-movie bombshell, is the real star of the show with her Kool-Aid hair colored hair topped with a fez, her passion for musical theater and bongos, and her side-kick, the equally whacky Verna.
Goodwill is a great writer with an excellent knack for humor and pushing the limits of "just how bad can it get?" The book is really well crafted and moves along at a strong clip. The interwoven mysteries had me guessing until the end. I wish the love-connection hadn't been made so early on, especially because this is a series and I know the second book is in the can. I'd be more than willing to wait through two or more new books before Kate gets her Man.
I think I am supposed to refrain from calling this chick-lit, but it's hard to not go there. If Kate mentioned her Jimmy Choos one more time. . . but see, that's just a personal peeve of mine. I dig some good ol' chick-lit now and again, and this was more mystery than girl fare, but Lordy, am I the only woman in the world who's happy as can be in Payless?
Damn damn damn Carrie Bradshaw and the fact that she made "loves expensive shoes" shorthand for being feminine. Kate had it in spades before the shoe obsession.
You know, I am pretty sure if I caught my future husband, the mayor, caught with his pants down making whoopie to the town bitch, I would probably mow down his porta-potty with my golf cart, too. I'm just hoping that my local judge wouldn't send me to anger management with the off-her-gourd Dr. Al.
So what if Mayor Ass turns up dead in the trunk of my car, right? I can handle it. And so can Kate London.
I really enjoyed this breezy mystery featuring Kate London, newly returned to home town Mud Lake to be closer to Aunt Kitty. Kitty, formerally a B-movie bombshell, is the real star of the show with her Kool-Aid hair colored hair topped with a fez, her passion for musical theater and bongos, and her side-kick, the equally whacky Verna.
Goodwill is a great writer with an excellent knack for humor and pushing the limits of "just how bad can it get?" The book is really well crafted and moves along at a strong clip. The interwoven mysteries had me guessing until the end. I wish the love-connection hadn't been made so early on, especially because this is a series and I know the second book is in the can. I'd be more than willing to wait through two or more new books before Kate gets her Man.
I think I am supposed to refrain from calling this chick-lit, but it's hard to not go there. If Kate mentioned her Jimmy Choos one more time. . . but see, that's just a personal peeve of mine. I dig some good ol' chick-lit now and again, and this was more mystery than girl fare, but Lordy, am I the only woman in the world who's happy as can be in Payless?
Damn damn damn Carrie Bradshaw and the fact that she made "loves expensive shoes" shorthand for being feminine. Kate had it in spades before the shoe obsession.
Sunday, June 3, 2007
Lou Used to Read a Lot More
Nothing like a trip down memory lane to make you both weepy and thrilled.
Lou used to read a lot more. Back before Katrina turned my brain into an ADD-plagued California Raisin, reading was pretty much my raison-d'etre. For a year after Katrina, I merely stacked books on my bedside table as I started and abandoned them. It's really only been in the last six months or so that I've been "able" to read.
And that's where Lou Reads comes in. Once upon a time, I used to keep a log (before blogs) of every book I read. Mostly, I did it for myself, but I also published it on my old school's website so that my technology-crazed students could see the handiwork of an old-fashioned reader. Now that I'm reading again, I thought I would pick up where I left off-- in a more public and more thorough form.
So I've revisited and published my old reading list for your skimming pleasure. I stopped counting at 100 books. And what a gas it was to revisit my entries from some of my favorite books like Empire Falls and Life of Pi and Adventures of Kavalier and Klay. Re-reads of classics like Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy and The Princess Bride. Surprises like Chang and Eng and A Year of Wonders.
Every book stirs a memory of a time and place in my life. I read the bulk of Love Warps the Mind a Little in the bed of the man that I thought I would spend the rest of my life with. I bought Lady Gregory's Toothbrush in a small bookstore in Sligo, Ireland. The only books I was able to devour post-Katrina were genre pulp fiction like Tom Corcoran's Gumbo Lindo and Dean Koontz's Frankenstein.
And so it goes, right?
Today would have been the 81st birthday of Allan Ginsberg. When I was a fresh freshman in college, I tried to join the college radio station staff (and now, with my crazy passion for all things NPR, I'm so sorry that I wigged out). My first assignment: to interview Ginsberg at after a reading he was doing at the Blue Note with Ray Manzarak of the Doors. Ginsberg attended my college and was a rather unhappy alum. When I approached him with my tape recorder, he granted the interview, but proceeded to answer every question with, well, let's just say the kind of answers that one cannot broadcast on any radio station. He was, in short, mean and vulgar. After listening to the absolutely unusable interview the following morning, I went to the station, turned in my press card and my tape recorder and called it a day.
So I've never been a big fan.
Today, a local guy I vaguely know decided to make it his mission to travel around to all the coffee shops in the neighborhood and read Ginsberg poetry in honor of the birthday. He'd studied with Ginsberg at the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poets. It annoyed me at the time-- I was on the phone with my roommate trying to get the skinny on why his stepfather had been admitted to the hospital with an egregiously high heart rate-- but in retrospect, it's just another reason that Louisville is a neat place. That being said, my still-bruised-after-fifteen-years ego wanted to ask the guy, "But was he mean to you?"
I'm still not a big fan. After having spent this year teaching American Lit, I realize all the more that he doesn't wear well over time. Whitman sang the body-- even the naughty bits-- with more worship. Thoreau actually built the cabin in the woods rather than just dreamed of it. Even Bukowski, who was a contemporary, got to the piss and shit of mundane life in a more honest way.
But happy birthday and RIP anyway. Any poet who inspires people to spend their day wandering town like a troubadour is all right by me.
Lou used to read a lot more. Back before Katrina turned my brain into an ADD-plagued California Raisin, reading was pretty much my raison-d'etre. For a year after Katrina, I merely stacked books on my bedside table as I started and abandoned them. It's really only been in the last six months or so that I've been "able" to read.
And that's where Lou Reads comes in. Once upon a time, I used to keep a log (before blogs) of every book I read. Mostly, I did it for myself, but I also published it on my old school's website so that my technology-crazed students could see the handiwork of an old-fashioned reader. Now that I'm reading again, I thought I would pick up where I left off-- in a more public and more thorough form.
So I've revisited and published my old reading list for your skimming pleasure. I stopped counting at 100 books. And what a gas it was to revisit my entries from some of my favorite books like Empire Falls and Life of Pi and Adventures of Kavalier and Klay. Re-reads of classics like Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy and The Princess Bride. Surprises like Chang and Eng and A Year of Wonders.
Every book stirs a memory of a time and place in my life. I read the bulk of Love Warps the Mind a Little in the bed of the man that I thought I would spend the rest of my life with. I bought Lady Gregory's Toothbrush in a small bookstore in Sligo, Ireland. The only books I was able to devour post-Katrina were genre pulp fiction like Tom Corcoran's Gumbo Lindo and Dean Koontz's Frankenstein.
And so it goes, right?
Today would have been the 81st birthday of Allan Ginsberg. When I was a fresh freshman in college, I tried to join the college radio station staff (and now, with my crazy passion for all things NPR, I'm so sorry that I wigged out). My first assignment: to interview Ginsberg at after a reading he was doing at the Blue Note with Ray Manzarak of the Doors. Ginsberg attended my college and was a rather unhappy alum. When I approached him with my tape recorder, he granted the interview, but proceeded to answer every question with, well, let's just say the kind of answers that one cannot broadcast on any radio station. He was, in short, mean and vulgar. After listening to the absolutely unusable interview the following morning, I went to the station, turned in my press card and my tape recorder and called it a day.
So I've never been a big fan.
Today, a local guy I vaguely know decided to make it his mission to travel around to all the coffee shops in the neighborhood and read Ginsberg poetry in honor of the birthday. He'd studied with Ginsberg at the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poets. It annoyed me at the time-- I was on the phone with my roommate trying to get the skinny on why his stepfather had been admitted to the hospital with an egregiously high heart rate-- but in retrospect, it's just another reason that Louisville is a neat place. That being said, my still-bruised-after-fifteen-years ego wanted to ask the guy, "But was he mean to you?"
I'm still not a big fan. After having spent this year teaching American Lit, I realize all the more that he doesn't wear well over time. Whitman sang the body-- even the naughty bits-- with more worship. Thoreau actually built the cabin in the woods rather than just dreamed of it. Even Bukowski, who was a contemporary, got to the piss and shit of mundane life in a more honest way.
But happy birthday and RIP anyway. Any poet who inspires people to spend their day wandering town like a troubadour is all right by me.
Are you going to let your emotional life be run by
Time Magazine?
I'm obsessed by Time Magazine.
I read it every week.
Its cover stares at me every time I slink past the corner candystore.
I read it in the basement of the Berkeley Public Library.
It's always telling me about responsibility. Business-
men are serious. Movie producers are serious.
Everybody's serious but me.
It occurs to me that I am America.
I am talking to myself again.
-- From "America" by Allan Ginsberg
Big Numbers by Jack Getze
Full disclosure: I’ve known Jack Getze for around five years. He’s a dear friend for whose writing career I’ve been a big cheerleader. I can’t even pretend to be unbiased about this book. Heck, I’m even mentioned in the acknowledgements. “Lou Reads” isn’t meant to be a forum to promote my friends’ books, but I just got back from dropping in at Writers Retreat Workshop, where I caught up with a bunch of folks, many of whom have published books since I last saw them. So I’ll most likely be tackling some Friends-of-Lou’s books in the coming weeks.
I’m still a little unclear as to what a “full-boat grin” is. I just Googled it and came up with a blog entry about Big Numbers. Indiana Jones has his whip and Luke Skywalker has his light saber, but for Austin Carr, the hero (or antihero) of Jack Getze’s first book, Big Numbers, the “full-boat Carr grin” is his weapon of choice.
(Is it full-boat, as in a fishing charter captain’s grin when he’s happy to have a full boat? Or full-boat, as in the grin’s so big it looks like a boat? Full boat almost sounds like a poker term.)
Big Numbers opens with Carr in trouble. Big trouble. On a boat duct-taped to a fishing pole with a 600 lb giant tuna at the other end of the line kind of trouble. Mr. Blabbermouth apparently wants to kill Carr with a bit of panache. Just as Carr’s about to go sailing over the rail, we flash back to the events leading up to his big nap with the fishies. And no surprise—it’s hard-boiled thriller, after all—it’s a redhead.
Carr is a down-on-his luck Jersey Shore stockbroker who’s $58K behind on his child support payments. His wife has issued a restraining order until Carr can make the payments. In the meantime, he’s living out of a rusty camper in the parking lot of Luis’s Mexican restaurant—a convenient back yard for a man who likes his tequila shots doubled and in the morning—when he finds out that his “monster” client is terminally ill and has a red-headed knockout girlfriend who would rather not wait for her inheritance. Trouble ensues.
One can only hope that Carr has hellagood health insurance with Shore Securities. He makes no fewer than four trips to the hospital during the course of the book.
Big Numbers is funny and dark. Getze has a ton of fantastic zinger lines that make me so proud to know him. I have a soft spot for assholes, and Carr is a narrator who is both conflicted and decidedly wrong-headed (and downright shitty) at times. And while to some degree he’s almost a caricature (Getze cites Bugs Bunny and Vince Vaughn as inspirations), more often his serious and nearly-fatal flaws make him feel real.
It’s a quick read, a perfect beach book. I read the last half in a single sitting. And—I say this with no bias at all—Big Numbers was published by a relatively small press and the book is not getting the attention it deserves. It’s easily as good as most of the series mystery/thrillers that my family devours by the dozens. The book looks deceptively like the self-published crap you find in local bookstores. It’s a shame; what’s inside is first-rate stuff.
Visit Jack Getze's website.
I’m still a little unclear as to what a “full-boat grin” is. I just Googled it and came up with a blog entry about Big Numbers. Indiana Jones has his whip and Luke Skywalker has his light saber, but for Austin Carr, the hero (or antihero) of Jack Getze’s first book, Big Numbers, the “full-boat Carr grin” is his weapon of choice.
(Is it full-boat, as in a fishing charter captain’s grin when he’s happy to have a full boat? Or full-boat, as in the grin’s so big it looks like a boat? Full boat almost sounds like a poker term.)
Big Numbers opens with Carr in trouble. Big trouble. On a boat duct-taped to a fishing pole with a 600 lb giant tuna at the other end of the line kind of trouble. Mr. Blabbermouth apparently wants to kill Carr with a bit of panache. Just as Carr’s about to go sailing over the rail, we flash back to the events leading up to his big nap with the fishies. And no surprise—it’s hard-boiled thriller, after all—it’s a redhead.
Carr is a down-on-his luck Jersey Shore stockbroker who’s $58K behind on his child support payments. His wife has issued a restraining order until Carr can make the payments. In the meantime, he’s living out of a rusty camper in the parking lot of Luis’s Mexican restaurant—a convenient back yard for a man who likes his tequila shots doubled and in the morning—when he finds out that his “monster” client is terminally ill and has a red-headed knockout girlfriend who would rather not wait for her inheritance. Trouble ensues.
One can only hope that Carr has hellagood health insurance with Shore Securities. He makes no fewer than four trips to the hospital during the course of the book.
Big Numbers is funny and dark. Getze has a ton of fantastic zinger lines that make me so proud to know him. I have a soft spot for assholes, and Carr is a narrator who is both conflicted and decidedly wrong-headed (and downright shitty) at times. And while to some degree he’s almost a caricature (Getze cites Bugs Bunny and Vince Vaughn as inspirations), more often his serious and nearly-fatal flaws make him feel real.
It’s a quick read, a perfect beach book. I read the last half in a single sitting. And—I say this with no bias at all—Big Numbers was published by a relatively small press and the book is not getting the attention it deserves. It’s easily as good as most of the series mystery/thrillers that my family devours by the dozens. The book looks deceptively like the self-published crap you find in local bookstores. It’s a shame; what’s inside is first-rate stuff.
Visit Jack Getze's website.
Friday, June 1, 2007
A Dirty Job: A Novel by Christopher Moore
There’s no way in Hell Mike Rowe would take on Charlie Asher’s dirty job, not even if there was a free baseball cap involved. Which there isn’t. In fact the only things Charlie seems to get for free in exchange for his services as a “Death Merchant” are a couple of hellhounds to protect his toddler Sophie from the Sewer Harpies, a copy of the Great Big Book of Death, and some excellent deals on the estates of dead people for his thrift store in San Francisco.
And actually, with the exception of a few bloody run-ins with the Sewer Harpies and various ancient incarnations of Death, the job isn’t all that dirty in the Mike Rowe sense of the word.
Christopher Moore remains among my favorite contemporary writers. As a reader (and a writer) who surfs between literary and genre, I am satisfied by Moore on both fronts. Many people can tell an engaging and amusing genre story, but few can tell one with such literary panache.
I haven’t read the entire Moore catalogue, but A Dirty Job has taken its place at #2 on my list of Moore books, just under Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ’s Childhood Pal. You don’t get much better than Lamb for linked humor and profundity, and while A Dirty Job was thick with “I’ve got to read that line again” humor and there were a few moments of touching sorrow, it didn’t plumb the same philosophical quandaries as Lamb.
More importantly, A Dirty Job’s ending left me unsatisfied. Another book “ruined” (it’s hardly ruined so much as sullied) by a token romance tossed in as what seemed to be an afterthought. The romance, accompanied by its 14-inch high skull-faced squirrel minions, read like a hurried and chaotic response to some editor saying, “Chris, the book’s good, but it’s a downer for widowed Charlie to not have a love interest. Funny books should be uplifting.” The romance is neither funny nor uplifting, and it casts Beta Male Charlie in a decidedly shallow light. Really, Charlie? The hot redhead? You’ve got to be kidding me.
The one-dimensional redhead aside, you can’t beat Moore for “I wish I’d written that” characters and zingers. A Dirty Job is no exception. And perhaps readers less cynical than I—perhaps the ever-hopeful Beta Male readers— would consider the romance Charlie’s long overdue just reward.
And actually, with the exception of a few bloody run-ins with the Sewer Harpies and various ancient incarnations of Death, the job isn’t all that dirty in the Mike Rowe sense of the word.
Christopher Moore remains among my favorite contemporary writers. As a reader (and a writer) who surfs between literary and genre, I am satisfied by Moore on both fronts. Many people can tell an engaging and amusing genre story, but few can tell one with such literary panache.
I haven’t read the entire Moore catalogue, but A Dirty Job has taken its place at #2 on my list of Moore books, just under Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ’s Childhood Pal. You don’t get much better than Lamb for linked humor and profundity, and while A Dirty Job was thick with “I’ve got to read that line again” humor and there were a few moments of touching sorrow, it didn’t plumb the same philosophical quandaries as Lamb.
More importantly, A Dirty Job’s ending left me unsatisfied. Another book “ruined” (it’s hardly ruined so much as sullied) by a token romance tossed in as what seemed to be an afterthought. The romance, accompanied by its 14-inch high skull-faced squirrel minions, read like a hurried and chaotic response to some editor saying, “Chris, the book’s good, but it’s a downer for widowed Charlie to not have a love interest. Funny books should be uplifting.” The romance is neither funny nor uplifting, and it casts Beta Male Charlie in a decidedly shallow light. Really, Charlie? The hot redhead? You’ve got to be kidding me.
The one-dimensional redhead aside, you can’t beat Moore for “I wish I’d written that” characters and zingers. A Dirty Job is no exception. And perhaps readers less cynical than I—perhaps the ever-hopeful Beta Male readers— would consider the romance Charlie’s long overdue just reward.
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