let's see how fast this thing can go

I decided to stay up tonight and finish "Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs." I couldn't get enough Chuck. I want more. It's like having a conversation, but less annoying. Now I'm going to have to start reading Nick Hornby and Sarah Vowell. I might be a nonfiction believer. I've read nonfiction before, but mostly in a religious or referential context. This wasn't like reading at all. This was like staying up all night and becoming best friends with someone over a beer and a bowl of cereal (not at the same time). It's when shooting the shit turns spiritual, and I caught a glimpse of the brainpower I used to have in high school, that which powered four-hour telephone conversations about nothing. Zack Morris, "Left Behind," Lucky Charms, Adam Sandler. Discuss.

By far, though, my favorite chapter is "All I Know is What I Read in the Papers." Chuck perfectly explains what it is to be a reporter. I've been a reporter. I know that no reporter inserts his opinion into stories. The tone is literally set by the first interviewee to call you back. And the one that could alter everything might just call while you're off blowing your nose for 2.5 minutes. You train yourself to word things like a balance robot. Even if you saw it with your own eyes, certain things are always "alleged." A source can lie to you, and you can print it, but it doesn't make you a liar. They really said that. Chuck almost made me miss being a reporter -- almost. It had its perks, but I lack the drive of nobility required to join that team again. If I'm going to make a pittance, I've got to be doing something I love. The only exception is that I would do something I merely like just because there is no chance in hell I'm leaving New York any time soon.

you wanna take this outside?

Me and Chuck aren't coming to blows, but I have taken issue with his overgeneralization that people who claim to like "all music except country" are "wretched," "boorish and pretentious," and just want hipsters to like them. I've been one of those people plenty of times, not because I wanted to be accepted or because I think I'm better than people who like country, but simply because it's an easy way of saying I like a diverse range of music, with one major exception. And I can say that, too, because I grew up in the South and was exposed to country music 1,000 times more often than any hipster who swears by bands I've never even heard of but claims the same thing. I will admit the phrase is a lazy cop-out, but I can remember using it as far back as elementary school. Before I knew what a hipster was. Before hipsters existed. Before the dawn of time.

And I'll admit, too, that there are a few country songs I do like. Chuck raves about the Dixie Chicks in this chapter, and for good reason. They're probably my favorite country act, and actually probably the only one I can even say I like as a whole. The rest of my country affinities are individual songs. It's possible that I like David Allan Coe -- I have seen him in concert twice and enjoyed myself, but it wasn't my idea to go, nor was it my idea to even begin listening to it. But some songs grew on me. Just like when I was a kid and my dad played country music sometimes, and there was one CD that had some songs I could tolerate. Specifically, "Boot Scootin' Boogie" and "Chattahoochee." And there are a few Reba songs I dig, and maybe a Faith Hill or two, but these are not things I ever choose to listen to, they're just the ones I can tolerate if the situation calls for it. Country just doesn't appeal to me. Johnny Cash doesn't count, either. And while it seems vaguely hipster to say you only like old country music, I can see that it does make a difference. But Johnny Cash is the only one of those I've clung to much yet.

This has nothing to do with people perceiving me in a certain way for my feelings about music. I also don't like jazz. Lots of people love it, but I've never heard a single piece of jazz and thought, "I gotta hear more of this! Who is it?" I just plain don't like it. It doesn't give me the warm fuzzies like my favorite bands do, or even the good old one-hit wonders. I hate country because I don't like the way it sounds. I don't feel it in my heart, my head or my hips. Chuck tells us why hipsters hate country:

"...because it speaks to normal people in a tangible, rational manner. Hipsters hate it because they hate Midwesterners, and they hate Southerners, and they hate people with real jobs."

This makes me laugh because on any given day I can see as many hipsters as I want in Williamsburg, and on the L train that runs through Williamsburg, and in various Manhattan locales, usually on the street. If you ever have trouble defining hipster, get off at Bedford in Brooklyn. You will drown in people who think they are too cool for Earth.

There was another Chuck quote I liked today in the chapter about movies that question reality: "The strength of your memory dictates the size of your reality." It's so true. My memory is awful, so it's possible that my reality is frequently skewed. That's the other reason writing is so important to me, because it's the only way I remember what happens in life. At work there's a tiny, fat book that's called "The Five-Year Journal." Every day for five years you'd write in it what you did that day. I used to do this in high school, and it was fantastic. I vainly read and re-read my life and color-coded things and used acronyms I'll never remember in order to keep my secrets safe. This is the reference I'll use to write the book of my youth. Too bad if I don't keep it up more, there won't be a sequel.

half-way through

I have two good quotes from Chuck today, and I realized why this book is hard to talk about without just quoting the whole thing. He recalls events and explains things. As simple as that sounds, what I mean is the things he says can't be said any better than he says them. He goes into some pretty deep details, too, so I don't feel there's a heck of a lot I can add to it other than, "This guy is awesome, check out what he said."

"This is why men need to become obsessed with things: It's an extroverted way to pursue solipsism."

"Coolness is always what others seem to have naturally--an unspecific, delicious, chocolately paradigm we must pilfer through subterfuge."

After the chapter that demonstrates how cereal commercials teach kids how to be cool, Chuck presents the 23 questions he asks people that help him decide if he can love them. Following, my answers. Will he love me? Doubt it.

1. No. I'm more impressed by brain power a person is compelled to use for the betterment of humanity than brain power a person was gifted with that bears no importance in the grand scheme of things.
2. No way. I'm pretty sure I'm not strong enough mentally or physically to kick anything to death, no matter who it would save.
3. I'd pick the skull. What if the turtle got sick and died? I'm not afraid of Hitler when he's dead.
4. Hell no. No football player has a chance against a 700-pound gorilla.
5. I love Alice in Chains, but I love all music too much to swallow the pill. I'd just date somebody else. (Assuming that's an option. If not, I'd be willing to put up with it to save their collar bones.)
6. No way. I'd just make it a point to write down my dreams if I wanted to remember them that badly. Nobody needs to know that shit but me.
7. Loch Ness Monster. People have biopsies all the time. It can still be above the fold.
8. Nah, I'd just counteract "The Dark Crystal" with "Wayne's World."
9. It would definitely increase the likelihood of me reading it. I'd take the risk. I can only assume those newfound homosexuals went on to find happiness.
10. I haven't read the book, though it's on a display table at work. I'm inclined to think "Barracuda" is better. That wasn't an amazing opening line. But maybe I'll change my mind if I read the book.
11. I'd go call my mom. If the special effects were that good, I could always sit through the boring plot a second time.
12. If $1 already made a difference, then I'm thinking a little something is better than nothing. How about $5. I'm broke, remember?!
13. I guess I'd talk about myself and how my life has changed over the years.
14. Garfield's a smart cat. I think they'd be OK with him. Dogs, on the other hand, would probably be insulted by Odie.
15. Writing my memoirs.
16. I'd probably watch it for a minute, get bored and decide I'd wait and see how it randomly infiltrated my life later.
17. I trust the man with no past the least, because at least the man with the past has been honest enough to let people know about it.
18. Hands down, a year in Europe. I'd much rather do something that involves living life than just be able to say I did one cool thing one time for 10 minutes.
19. I'd say I was really pissed off about something, and I meant to kick the couch.
20. I almost said the documentary, so I could hear what people said about me, but I really think the artistic interpretation would be more interesting. I already know what really happened. But since I get to see them both anyway, why does it matter?
21. Later. By about two years.
22. I thought this boiled down to whether I wanted to be known as a slut or a thief, but really, I guess the thief option is less troubling because it's not true. You could prove that you didn't really do it.
23. I would definitely be weirded out by the loss of free will, but at least I would know that everything always turns out great in sitcoms. I'm not sure why John Ritter is relevant.

chuck day

I just finished the seventh chapter in "Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs," and yes, that second comma bothers me immensely. To the point, though, I've taken mental notes on a few memorable quotes from the past few days. I wasn't sure what I was going to get with this book, but I've been pleasantly surprised. Chuck is insightful -- he's a guy I'd like to know. He's passionately anti-soccer, which I have mixed feelings about, but he makes some great points, and notes that soccer is basically a sport designed for losers.

"America has plenty of outcasts. Some American outcasts are very popular, such as OutKast." (footnote: "And Jake Gyllenhaal.")

"A normal eleven-year-old can play an entire season without placing toe to sphere and nobody would even notice, assuming he or she does a proper job of running about and avoiding major collisions." This after noting that most sports (including the ones I played) are humiliations waiting to happen. Strike out. Get fouled = air ball ("Basketball games actually stop to recognize (a loser's) failure.").

Working backwards, I enjoyed the chapter that compared Pamela Anderson to Marylin Monroe. And it's just the simplest, "Go, Chuck!" points that make me happy, like pointing out that Kid Rock named himself after youth and rock 'n' roll. And that Madonna's greatest two songs are similes: "Like a Virgin" and "Like a Prayer," because "Madonna is like a sexual idol, but that's just the plot for her self-stylized promotional blitz." Thus, Madonna has built her career around trying to be a sexual icon, but she doesn't succeed for that very reason.

I also love that Chuck remembers how one of the soccer moms is angry at him for using the phrase "in and of itself."

I'd go into further detail about what I've read and enjoyed from Chuck the past day or two, but it's super-late and I need sleep. Oh, but I did suggestively sell a copy of this book tonight at work. A chick was looking for something to read on the beach, and she was tired of fiction. Perfecto.

In other news, the second reason I'm too lazy to write much here this evening is because I spent all my juices on the debut post for my food blog, Pickle Hater. Just another outlet.

woman slays devil baby, self after reading vomitous chick lit

So in the time it took for me to remember to write a new blog, I finished reading "Rosemary's Baby" and started on "Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs." I'm really happy with the variety in my reading materials. While "Rosemary's Baby" wasn't nearly as dark and disturbing as I'd hoped it would be, it satisfied my desire to squash cuteness.

I made it through this book so quickly most likely because I wanted to hurry up and get to the good parts, and they never really came until the end. The first half of the book is basically Rosemary and her husband, Guy, moving into a new apartment and trying to have a baby. They know their building has a bad/mystical reputation, but they don't heed the warnings to stay away. The book is written in third person but is told from Rosemary's perspective nonetheless. She's a naive Omaha girl moving to New York City with her actor husband. She gets bad vibes from the neighbors, but it's the 1960s and she has to be polite. Little does she know, her husband is joining a satanic coven with them.

I have a feeling someone could make a great movie out of this. I know one exists, but I'm not sure how old or great it is. In a nutshell, what happens is Guy drugs his wife and subjects her to a satanic ritual in which she is impregnated with a half-breed demon baby. Rosemary has a dim, dream-like recollection of this event, but she remains in denial until the pieces of the puzzle start to come together. Eventually, she figures out what has been going on behind her back with the help of her friend Hutch, who is soon killed off via demonic vengeance. Rosemary seeks help but cannot escape. Once in labor, she is sedated and later informed that her baby died in childbirth. She is kept under watch by the coven, all the while hearing a baby cry and producing weird green breast milk, a byproduct of the "(witches' brew) vitamin drinks" she was forced to consume during her pregnancy. She drugs her attendant one night and busts in on a coven meeting, wielding a large kitchen knife. She sees her demon baby -- horns, claws, yellow cat eyes and all -- and ponders much too briefly tossing it and herself out the window. Instead her maternal instincts take over and she decides maybe she can be this child's mother after all. The end.

What kind of ending is that? What did the demon baby grow up to be? How did it terrorize Earth? How did Rosemary go on living with the coven? Did she just tell her family that the baby died? How can she live with herself? I'm not saying I hated this book, or that I even disliked it. I just want a sequel! I don't think the story's finished. What's that? There is one? It's called "Rosemary's Son"!!! Happy day. Stay tuned for the potentially titillating conclusion! Unless of course, it got worse reviews than the first! One reader recommends avoiding just the last two pages of "Rosemary's Son." Ugh. I think I'll skip it. I'm glad I read it -- I love some classic horror -- but perhaps these days we're all just a little too desensitized to violence and demonic mayhem to be frightened by the glossing over of ritual rape, odorous (albeit cursed) trinkets and 65-year-old cultists named Minnie and Laura-Louise.

As for "Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs," so far so good. Laughter, cynicism and a definition of solipsism? I think we're on the right track, 50 pages in. I was quickly over the "Real World" analogy, but the Sims bit was interesting. We've moved on to analyzing Billy Joel. I'll be sure to mark some quotes.

I browsed the opening chapters of a couple chick-lit novels, to see if there was anything I'd want to send to Angie, who is tiring of romance novels. "Confessions of a Shopaholic" was beginning to make me gag. Bridget Jones minus a few million brain cells plus a credit card. "Milkrun" I might could handle, and I think I will. Some nice writing there, comparatively speaking. At least some good "huh" points. Other books I might have to wolf down to send to Angie? "The Other Boleyn Girl" (good luck, it's huge!) and "Chocolat."

As suggested by two now, I will probably read "The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time" next.

"The mere habit of learning to love is the thing" -- JA

Today I said goodbye to "The Jane Austen Book Club." It was a pretty good read, and it did make me want to crack open an Austen. But it won't make the ranks of favorites. I liked it enough to send it to Angie, who is a huge Jane Austen fan. But I haven't read one since high school, so I skipped over the "Response" section at the back. Great for English majors who like to analyze literature. I think I'd enjoy it if I'd read them recently. It's like "Jane Austen's family and friends comment on 'Mansfield Park,' opinions collected and recorded by Austen herself."

As the book closed, I could see more how it might make an OK movie. More things began to happen in the present, and somehow they attributed their success to Jane Austen: "We let Austen into our lives, and now we were all either married or dating." I guess it makes sense in that "success" to Austen's characters was love and marriage, but in the end all I can say is that this was a cute little novel. Not profound, but cute. Next I need to switch to something darker. Maybe "Rosemary's Baby." I can only take so much cuteness (they refurbished a Magic 8 Ball into an Ask Austen Ball -- need I say more?).

out of the ordinary

Not that I have "ordinary" novels to read, but I picked my latest read on quite a whim. I spoiled myself with "The Gargoyle," and so I chose something exactly the opposite: "The Jane Austen Book Club." Light, easy, quick. All of those it is, although I wouldn't recommend it to my mother. There are a few details included that I'm afraid would make her blush.

This is a nice novel so far, and I'm half through with it. It's not fantastic, but it's not bad. It's actually about what I thought it would be, but I was secretly hoping to be pleasantly surprised. A few women I work with asked what I was reading, and seemed to share the same view: the book is just OK. The inclusion of random French phrases is usually fine in a book if they are translated or explained, but there have been several parts I have not been able to fully appreciate simply because I have no idea what the sentence said. Luckily these are fairly sporadic. Just as sporadic but much happier are the sentences the author, Karen Joy Fowler, surprises me with. Every now and then, she'll actually throw in a rather profound statement. Unfortunately, I haven't been marking these to post. You'll just have to take my word for it.

The book claims New York Times bestsellerdom, and I suppose the concept is deserved. Jane Austen is a much-beloved author, and I was forced to read one or two in high school. I've always been more attached to the Bronte sisters, but I might read an Austen again soon. I think I have "Emma" and "Mansfield Park" with me here. I did the other day rearrange my bookcase. Of the three shelves (oh, hush, I have many more than that, but most are in storage) the top shelf is books I plan to read soonest. Middle shelf is books I'm on the fence about, but one might jump at me if the mood strikes. The lowest shelf contains books I've already read, recently or not, and those I know I won't make it around to for a good while, like "The Stand."

I should be able to finish my current selection pretty quickly, and then maybe I can revisit the two I began recently. Then maybe I can move on to the ones I began a while back and never finished. But, the process will be delayed if my coworker brings me her copy of "Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs" as promised. I need to add some non-fiction to my list.

I will say at first I wasn't sure if I would even make it through "The Jane Austen Book Club," but I forced myself to continue, and it's been enjoyable enough. You really don't have to know the Austen novels to appreciate it, because the author has included synopses of them as an appendix. And, as one of the book's cover blurbs says, the book might make a good introduction to them. I also found out that they actually made a movie of this book, though I can't exactly see how it would go, considering the book is full of flashbacks of the club's members. I can't imagine reading it and thinking it would make a good movie. Maybe I'll change my mind by the end.

i hope it's in this lifetime

So after making it 14 pages into a 185-page book, and maybe 29 pages into a 246-page book, I halted to devour "The Sirens of Titan," at 319 pages, followed by the 465 breathtaking pages of "The Gargoyle," by Andrew Davidson. I like that I'm expanding my reading to include male authors, because I feel I've relied too heavily on females for my favorites in the past. I can safely say "The Gargoyle" is approaching favoritism. Although I usually say that after reading anything good. Sometimes they fall in favor, like "The Witch of Portobello," which I believe was basically just OK, although I enjoyed reading it.

"The Gargoyle" was given to me during SPI, so I've been carrying the ARC back and forth along the subway, which is where most of the reading of it was done. However, I did just finish it at home. I honestly couldn't put this book down. I literally wanted to have to wait for the train a long time, because it meant I could read more. I would be in the middle of a suspenseful scene when I reached my stop and be thoroughly irritated that I couldn't walk and read at the same time, though I've seen it done by others. I even read a good portion of this book standing up on the subway, which is funny for two reasons. This is a decent-size book and not nearly as easy to handle standing up as a mass-market. Also, I can remember conversing with my fellow SPIers that we would never be able to read on the subway, let alone in the standing position. Now I can't imagine being on the subway without something to read, even when it's way too crowded and I have to turn pages and hold the book with one hand as the train sways and jolts and disturbs my balance.

I intend to return to "How to Talk About Books You Haven't Read," but I can't say I agree that reading books isn't always necessary. I am so glad I read "The Gargoyle." And I'm impressed that it's a debut novel. I'm sort of intrigued by Dante's "Inferno" now, as it is discussed much within the novel. I never had to read more than a bit or piece of it in school, so I'm sure I didn't catch all the relevance, but the author did a fine job of explaining everything as far as I could tell.

The beginning of the book is graphic and gruesome, describing the narrator's experience in a car accident in which he is burned nearly to death. He meets an intriguing stranger as he recovers in the hospital, and she reveals to him through fascinating stories how the two were lovers in a previous lifetime. She also incorporates other love stories that prove symbolic, and the chapters alternate between her bedside tales and the narrator's current-life burn recovery. Their love is rekindled, though he remains convinced that Marianne is just a schizophrenic sculptress. She claims to be doing penance by giving "hearts" to the gargoyles she sculpts, saving her last heart for her lover. The narrator is self-aware as the author of a memoir, so my only regret is that Marianne didn't show more appreciation for her lover's writing as her presented her with his written versions of her stories. She really couldn't spend her time on Earth in this particular life as much of a physical lover to the narrator, and we just have to accept that their love transcended one minuscule lifetime and is fully realized later, presumably in heaven.

I'm really overwhelmed by the number of books I want to read next. Perhaps I should suck it up and finish the two I've already started. There are a few that I'd like to buy ... but considering the small number that represents my bank balance and the sheer number of unread books on my shelf, I guess they can wait.