brief book update

I've had three books open this month, and none of them fits the usual M.O. First, there was Virginia Woolf's "A Room of One's Own," which took a while to get through because it requires more thought than can be conjured on the subway. But I read at night, during Thanksgiving vacation, and during lunch breaks at work. I made a lot of notes, which I'll share with you soon, but I'm afraid I don't have enough free moments today to do so.

The second book I can't yet reveal because it's actually a gift for someone, but I wanted to give it a gander before i put it in the mail. This book I've been seriously skimming. I definitely think the recipient will appreciate it more than I can without a thorough study. I'm enjoying the book, and it moves pretty fast, but it's a bit like reading Shakespeare because of the language. Plus it's not set up like a "normal" novel ... it's got an inventive style/format. I'm not done with it yet, but I hope to be in the next day or two so I can send it off.

The third book I'm almost done with is David Sedaris's "Holidays on Ice." A customer recommended it very highly to me the other day, so I pounced on it at The Strand, where I also picked up two other Sedaris books and a bunch of other lovelies like "Lolita" and "The Alienist." I have made it quite quickly through the small volume of six essays, but so far the first one has been the only really enjoyable one. Sedaris recounts his days as a Macy's elf, and I can relate, having worked retail. I only have one left, and so far the rest have been (and I hate to say it) kind of boring. It's my first Sedaris, and I'm confident the non-Christmas variety are much more engaging. But for $1, I guess I can't complain. Plus when I finish it this afternoon, I can say I only "wasted" three sittings on it.

a million books to read

People really tried to ruin this book for me. "But it's not true!" they cried when I told them I'd been tearing up. "I couldn't stand the way it was written!" they cringed. I admit it takes some getting used to. Random capitalization, no quotation marks, no paragraph indentations, missing commas, run-ons galore. Voice, people, voice. I know this book is a fabrication. I remember the hoopla. I grazed the Smoking Gun article and decided it didn't matter. I read the book as if it were simply a good story, which it is. I don't care if every detail is true, or even if major plot points actually happened. This book was amazing to read. Once I got past reading every capitalized word with extra emphasis, I tore through it quite quickly, and it's officially on the list of books I love.

"I look up. There are tears running down Lilly's cheek and she is smiling at me. It is a deep smile, not the type of momentary happiness, but the rare kind that comes when something inside without words is woken from slumber and brought forth to live."

More often than not, Frey is saying something profound. You're there, you feel what he feels, you become him. You're dirty and vomiting, you're gorging yourself on cafeteria food, you're dreaming of drugs, you're angry with the system, you don't look yourself in the eye, you're constantly testing yourself. Then you fall in love and you remember that there are reasons to live. You might have done some awful things in your past, but they have made you. They don't have to control you. You can learn to trust yourself.

The near tears came again on the subway. Just as I was on a train pulling into Union Square, I read: "Hey, Kid. You forgot something." I see Lincoln's name in the next paragraph and I have to close the book and my eyes and let it sink in. They've come to help James rescue Lilly. It's fucking beautiful.

Frey wins the award for most cursing in a piece of literature, but it's understandable. When you're trying to hang on and all you've got is cigarettes and coffee, potty mouth is to be expected. There was also a lot of crude description of blood and guts, but I feel like I can handle anything after making it through "The Gargoyle." (Incidentally, I recently hand-sold that to a blind Rastafarian. Go figure.)

I got this book at The Strand for $1, just like "The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time." I've been back twice recently, and here is what I've bought:

Virginia Woolf - "A Room of One's Own"
Siri Hustvedt - "What I Loved"
George Orwell - "Nineteen Eighty-Four"
Rick Bragg - "All Over But the Shoutin'" (I am from Alabama, I should read this.)
Manil Suri - "The Death of Vishnu"
Homer - "The Odyssey" (I already own it but this copy is much more portable.)
Douglas Adams - "The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy"
Lewis Carroll - "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland" (Again, already own a non-portable version.)
L. Frank Baum - "The Wonderful Wizard of Oz"
David Sedaris - "Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim"
Paul Auster - "The New York Trilogy"

I will basically buy any classic I haven't read and any newer stuff that I've seen on our tables at B&N. I did skip over a couple that we have on display that just didn't sound very appealing: "Spartina" and "Being Written." Maybe one day I'll run across "My Friend Leonard," Frey's sequel to "A Million Little Pieces." I've pretty much decided any book I want will end up at The Strand or a Goodwill eventually, so it's hard for me to justify buying anything new. I might indulge, though, during employee appreciation week at work. I've got a running list of things I have noticed at the store:

"The Diving Bell and the Butterfly"
"Play it as it Lays"
"Unbearable Lightness of Being"
"Um"
"I Hate New Music"
"No One Belongs Here More Than You"
"In the Land of No Right Angles"
"Daphne"
"The Gum Thief"

I'd also like to get "When Wanderers Cease to Roam," which is a really cute gifty biography, and the little New York Christmas book. Apparently I love to make lists, so I should probably also get the book of lists as Christmas Gift to Myself.

I've decided I should alternate reading classics and contemporary works, so I'm going to tackle the Virginia Woolf next, followed probably by "Redeeming Love," given to me by my sister, and then "Catch 22," and then "Then We Came to the End." It's the plan for now anyway, and upcoming books will probably also include "Madame Bovary," "The Heart is a Lonely Hunter," Paul Auster and David Sedaris.

P.S. I promise to take more notes and stop glazing over the details.

the curious incident of the blog in the night-time

I've managed to get ahead of myself again! But it happens to be fortunate in that as of only last night do I fully realize the significance of the title of this book. I happened to be watching Sherlock Holmes solve a case on the telly, and out rolled the words from his lips: "The curious incident of the dog in the night-time." And it all made sense. The narrator of this book is an autistic 15-year-old named Christopher who loves Sherlock Holmes and finds himself mystified by the case of a dead poodle.

I won't be able to be too specific in discussing this book because I've read another entire book between the time I finished it and now, and I can't wait to spill that one, too, even though I still haven't been keeping up with quotes recently. It's just too much of a hassle on the subway ...
ANYWAY, (as Chuck used to say), this book did almost make me cry. I didn't know it was a sad book until I was riding the subway one day and reached the part where Christopher finds out his mother isn't dead -- she's in London with her lover.

Anyone attempting to read this book over my shoulder on the train probably thought it was horribly written, but that's because Mark Haddon captures his character's voice so well. You feel like it's written by a 10-year-old genius. Nothing Christopher says is a lie, and none of it is without a significant amount of logical reasoning. Sometimes that reasoning extends to Christopher's favorite pastime, "maths." The book is chock-full of equations and diagrams, and Christopher uses them to explain the world around him. It comforts him to have these constants in his life, because he has a difficult time dealing with emotion, and when things get to complicated, he can close his eyes and recite the prime numbers. It also makes him feel better to think about how people's brains are like computers:
"Also people think they're not computers because they have feelings and computers don't have feelings. But feelings are just having a picture on the screen in your head of what is going to happen tomorrow or next year, or what might have happened instead of what did happen, and if it is a happy picture they smile and if it is a sad picture they cry."

It's nothing short of heart-wrenching to watch this character find out that his mother is alive, and then to watch him become frightened of his own father, the dog killer, and then to watch him become the Brave Little Toaster and hop on a train.

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.