So that leaves me at two As for the semester. I only need 25/30 on my final to get an A in my mystery class. However, I must vent this aspect. The class has been a series of incredibly easy assignments throughout the semester. Read this book, make an observation, answer a question to prove you read it. Oh and read this poorly written "monograph" about an aspect of the mystery genre, and send me five important points about it, and then I'll subjectively give you up to five points without telling you why you are losing points on it (there are six of these and the final grade for them is an average, so I have earned a 4.6 for that grade without knowing where I went wrong.) I'd have complained more, but I have carried an A and it hasn't been stressful. But when I opened the final, it's essentially 4 minimum 2-3 pages papers with quotes and examples expected. Due in one week. Exponentially more work than anything up to this point. It's not a deal breaker or anything, but for Buddha's sake, is it fair to breeze through the entire semester and then drop the hard?
I'd be more worried about it however, if the professor (an English professor, remember) could remember in his writings (including in the final test) could be bothered to italisize the title of the novels we're reading. What a jackoff.
On a more fun note, we got our books for next semester, though Bran still has to wait on one. Fourteen young adultish books for our children's literature class, including Charlotte's Web, Harry Potter and the Sorceror's Stone and The Wizard of Oz, plus a book of fairy tales with literary criticism. My 20th century British lit class only has three books, all written by women and I currently have no idea what they are about or what they are called. i'll probably review these on here as I read them. One is by Virginia Woolf, I know that. And then my third class next semester is Elizabethian drama (eh...why?) and it is just one big, thick, black, library bound collection that weighed $77.00. I used some left over money to get a copy of Dr. Kalamaras's other three books of poetry (I'll list the titles as I read them because I love the titles), The Best American Poetry of 2008 and Sarah Vowell's The Wordy Shipmates. Bran picked up a few interesting books as well.
Currently, I am finally starting The Water Method Man by John Irving after recieving it from Jason for Christmas two years ago. I'm a jerk. I've been writing a lot more since I got the poetry bug, so that's good for me. Bad for my book reading though. This book starts off interesting though, so i'll probably make it through it over break. I want to reread Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, finish Nickled and Dimed and a few other books if I get a chance, but who knows?
Oh, and a final, quick review and recommendation. Out of all the books I read for my mystery class, the one that I think was worth it all was reading Walter Mosley's Devil in a Blue Dress. Mosley's prose is sparse, his dialogue is authentic and you finish reading the book saying, "Wow, Mosley must have done a lot of research into what it was like being a black man after WWII." However, while you're reading it, you are just in that time and space. And digging your nails into the side of the book. I read the book in about two days, and it was great. Mosley concieved a series of "Ten things" articles for The Nation. (Here's a good one called "Ten Things You Need to Know to Live on the Streets" ). He's an awesome writer who happens to write mysteries (though he has stepped out of that genre and written scifi, wierdly), and I look forward to reading more of him.
Today I turned in my final paper for Literary Interpretation. Five pages of critisizing a short story I liked for being sexist with a works cited page with four whole sources. And, due to the fact that Brandi had a hell of a time on her final paper, and feels like her efforts were not up to her high standards, I may actually beat her on the grade for this paper! (hey, I'm not celebrating her suffering. I'm finding a silver lining.)
Then, I had my final conference with my Doctor Kalamaras for Poetry, and he told me I nailed it. He teased me because i used a wonder woman folder for my portfolio (she's hot, okay?). He said, "good thing we have wonder woman here to help us." i replied, "I can use all the help i can get." He said, "Not according to this portfolio, you don't." Turns out I earned a solid A on the portfolio (60% of my grade), which combined with the A I have on everything else, means I am awesome. I admit I softballed my talents with my self-evaluation, so I also got recognized for my humility (I feel that is a wonderful thing to brag about in a blog entitled "I am the greatest") A poem I was unsure of (unsure as in, I didn't even press Bran to read it) turned out to be near perfect, and with minor tweeks the other three are good too. Hot damn! Now if I can just find time to go to readings, and get some subscriptions to magazines and work on getting published. i intend, by next January, to have a much larger catalogue of poetry, of various styles and quality when I take the next level class. Maybe even have submitted a poem or two.
The only downside to my school day today is that my Mystery Lit prof emailed me and said I was missing an assignment that i have done. I emailed him to point out that I had done so, but as of press time he had not answered me. I honestly don't give a shit. If I have to post another observation on a book I've read a million times, then fine, I'll do it again. If I dont', it's only like one point, and I'm rocking something like a 97% in that class. Which I think is an A, anywhere you go.
Now, I will go to adult swim's website and master Bible Fight, and attempt to get the low score on Five Minutes to Kill Yourself. School's basically out for me! Hurray! I get to be a parent again!
They're apparently pretty popular here in Fort Wayne. On the side of their building, they have this amazing mural that is a map of Fort Wayne, but all of the landmarks are businesses that at one time were a major part of the community but aren't around anymore.
The poetry section is just past the front door, so i veered left. It was quite stocked, though I'm still a neophyte and unsure what I want to spend money on. (I'm leaning toward collecting the classics while getting anthologies of modern poetry, so I can figure out which current authors I want to admire/hate/copy from.) The science fiction area is downstairs, so bran went down there to look for some Bradbury. I eventually followed. I'm six three, and I'm pretty sure that the lower level of this bookstore was about 5'9". I'm sure I'm exaggerating but still, I'd crawl through a heating duct for books. They had at least five of Bradbury's books I'd never even seen before. Bran limited herself to two cheap paperbacks (about two bucks a piece), so I asked if I could pick up a copy of The Best of the Best of American Poetry: 1988-1997, edited by Harold Bloom. Bran agreed, even though it was more expensive (about $8) and we got in line.
By the registers they had a shelf that said $1 books. On it was a copy of Laurence Block's complete collection of short stories Enough Rope. This book is at least a thirty dollar book that I have checked out from the library a number of times. It weighs like 90 lbs. (I like Block a lot. He created a character named Keller who is a professional assasin who collects stamps, as well as a few other memorable characters. However, I'm not enough of a fan of most short stories to warrent paying that much for a book.) I grabbed the book and said, "Really?" They said "Yes" and I said "MINE!" Apparently it was too thick for them to keep more than one copy on the shelf, so they grabbagged it and I got lucky. However, we were so excited we forgot our 10% student discount.
We only gave ourselves a half an hour, so we came out only spending $12. We'll most likely go back sometime soon. Just what we need right? Another bookstore to frequent? It's like trying to quit smoking while being pelted with unlit cigarettes.
First of all, Deaglan's favorite toy is a Beanie Baby sized Winnie the Pooh. Pooh will occasionally backtalk, misbehave and generally be Deaglan's id. When he talks, it's Deaglan in a high pitched voice. We have long conversations and Pooh will actually contribute to the conversation. yes it's wierd, but he's my kid dammit.
Bran and I were laying on a bed with Deaglan. He had a back scratcher, his little stuffed Pooh Bear and a little keychain sized Pooh he calls Baby Pooh. I had an imaginary magic wand that I was using to resurrect whoever Deaglan stabbed with the backscratcher. We had all died several times at Deaglan's hand. The Poohs were between us.
"I kill them and you help them Dada," Deaglan said.
"Okay," i said.
Deaglan stabs Baby Pooh. Before I can do anything, a high pitched voice says, "YOU CAN'T HURT MY BABY!" and Pooh slams into Deaglan's face. Deaglan plays dead.
I did not expect him to twist the narrative quite like that, and we almost peed ourselves.
This morning I was awakened by a test message by the IPFW emergency system.
Then while I'm in my middle class, this is sent out while my phone is off. An email was also sent. It said :
A message from INDIANA PURDUE FORT WAYNE
Message sent - 11/10/2009
This is an emergency alert from the IPFW Administration. A bomb threat has been
received for Kettler. Anyone in that building may choose to leave. This is an OPTIONAL evacuation and ends at 6:30 P.M.
If I blow up, I'll be sure to post it on Facebook.
- Mood:
quixotic
Anyway, an update on my adventures in studying to be a writer. I've gotten to meet three published poets (my professor counts). The other two are David Lloyd and Linda Pennisi. Lloyd wrote a book called The Gospel According to Frank in which he tells Frank Sinatra's story in an epic manner, and it's awesome. Linda wrote a book called Suddenly, Fruit in which she imagines Persephone from Greek myth in modern settings. She also came to my writing class and discussed her process, and we got a chance to give her feedback on a work of her's in progress. It was an incredible experience, and (shock and dismay) Bran and I bought everything they had for sale and got them signed. Bran naturally gravitated toward the other works. I also learned that if you are at a poetry reading and you like the author, buy the chapbooks. It's the poetry equivilant of a bootleg.
also, I got a chance to correspond via email with John Bradley, who is a friend of Dr. Kalamaras and author of Terrestrial Music. I was complimented by the professor for having an insightful and well thought out letter (though I thought I asked stupid questions). I also put a joke in my letter that made the entire class laugh hard, so maybe they weren't so bad after all. I highly recommend Terrestrial Music, btw, because it's political poetry, it's funny at times, beautiful, approachable. I probably read the book thirty times trying to figure out what to ask him. I only read Bran a few of the poems, but that was just because I didn't want to read the whole damn book to her. And of course, the minute I hit send, the question I really wanted to ask (I wanted to know about prose poetry) popped into my head. However, when Linda was talking to us, I asked her about it and got the insight I wanted, so it worked out. Dr. Kalamaras took all of our emails to Mr. Bradley, compliled them into a sixteen page document and we're going over them in class. It's amazing. It's like getting sixteen questions I didn't know I wanted answered answered.
I didn't get into the class that Dr. Kalamaras is teaching next semester. The class filled up in a week, and he had two people on hold ahead of me. He even had to convert grad seats into undergrad seats. Alas, but he is my advisor, and I intend to keep writing poetry, just because it's a way to be writing while waiting for time to formulate a novel. He also teaches it every January, so I'll get in next year. I will hunch over the computer like I'm waiting to get front row tickets to Wrestlemania. He shared a poem of his in class today, which is the first time. That's one of the things I respect about him as a professor, because how easy would it be to use your writing class as a masturbatory exercise? I think for that reason he limits himself to other's work, but since he's my advisor now, and he's giving me insight into getting published, shouldn't I have an idea of what he writes like? So we bought one of his books (Gold Carp Jack Fruit Mirrors) and felt a little like a kiss ass. But I learned today, as well, I'm not the only one who did. I just happened to get the one that's most approachable. So next Tuesday I'll bring my copy in to have him sign.
I could see a thousand celebrities, and a most bands and not give a taco bell shit whether I got thier signature, but if I meet an author who's written something I really like, I squeel like a nine year at a Hannah Montana concert. Oh well. Geekdom rules.
- Location:IPFW
- Mood:
cheerful - Music:a self generated greatest hits album of Live (huzzah MP3s)
My friend Paul Crace auditioned for America's Got Talent in Chicago, and they ended up taking him for a second audition, and they had him recreate his entire waiting process so that they could tape it. Call backs are in January, and it seems to me (hopefully) that he'll be one of the ones called back. This means I'll have another goddamn tv show I'll have to watch, but oh well, it'll be worth it if he can win.
- Mood: complacent
- Music:breaking benjamin "dear agony" album
YES.
And Another Thing. . . starts off with a self deprecating introduction, then goes into the story with a quote from Adams and Tenacious D, and I was laughing out loud. Some authors would have tried to impersonate the author, but Colfer put it together in his own way. It doesn't read like he's playing with Adams' toys, it feels like he went into his backyard and set them up as a shrine. Colfer makes the story work by using a lot of references from the book, and expanding hilariously on them, while adding his own. He takes a minor character from book three (I think) and makes him an important part of the plot. The characters do all the things you figure they would do, given the situations before them. I loved this book. One can also see that Colfer writes YA fiction because YA characters appeal to him, as two teenage characters play an important part in the story, even though I guarantee that this is a grown up book, for fark's sake.
Now I have to go, and rebuy the first five in individual volumes, so I can reread them, and then buy this book.
Worth it. Trust me.
So with some confidence, here is one of my poems. It's a villanelle. I described the form in a previous post, so I won't go into it...just hit previous a couple of time if you're curious. This isn't the version I turned in, but a revision based on my conference. Walt Whitman was editing "Leaves of Grass" on his death bed, so don't bet this is the final version, since I'm no Whitman.
Going With My Sister to Get an Abortion
She would die if she hadn’t come here.
Outside the Fort Wayne Women’s Center, the masses cry
“Save us oh Lord.”
I said I could keep her memory
Of whisky and innocence alive.
She would die if she hadn’t come here,
She says, so I hold her left hand, stroking her bare ring finger with my thumb. The pen
Locks her decision onto the clipboard. I am silent as the believers wail
“Save us oh Lord.”
Evolution’s reversal in her genes
And the fear of stretching her favorite pair
Convince her she would die if she hadn’t come here.
I walk back with her, doubt and fear becoming a pudding,
Thickening as our legs stir the pot.
Save us oh Lord--
Are souls like fines on overdue books
Or are they the books themselves?
She would die if she hadn’t come here.
Save us oh Lord.
So I'm lost somewhere in a haze of ouch and glee. I spent the weekend working on a paper and a poem. The paper will first be my discussion. We read the novel Bless Me, Ultima by Rodolfo Anaya for class, and we're learning about cultural and psychoanalytical criticism. This weekend consisted of punching out a rough draft. BTW, the novel was very entertaining. It was actually something I could read for fun. I have issue with the fact that it has so much obvious symbolism, but I guess that would be the reason why it is being used for our purposes in class. But from a reader standpoint, it doesn't have any long descriptive paragraphs, and it has an interesting magical realism/mythology to it, and there is actually enough conflict and action in it to push the plot forward.
However, I thought I was good at this sort of thing. The idea of a short thesis based paper is an easy one for me, in theory, because I used to write two a day at the academy. Not a problem, right? Well, I got the first one back with a B- on it. Brandi spends a week on her paper, screaming at the heavens about how bad she is at papers, and not only gets an A, but gets asked by the professor to let him use it as an example for future classes. Ahhhh! I managed to put some shit on paper, but my thesis is way tooo broad.
Two weeks ago, I threw a poem together for class, thinking it was good, only to have it come back marked up with mixed metaphors and cliches. This is after I wrote in a self-assessment that it was one of my favorites so far, and that I felt that I was rocking at least a solid B. We then end class that day workshopping another student's poem, which is so good another woman in class begins to cry like her baby ate her puppy. These are not encouraging developments for our intrepid hero. So I spent the weekend working on a rough draft that wouldn't suck too badly, and on a villenelle for poetry class. (A villenelle is a poem of nineteen lines, five stanzas of three lines and a four line stanza at the end, but the first and third line of the first stanza alternate as the last line of the next four stanzas, and then are the last two lines of the poem. It's often used for love poetry or ellergies, but is also used to express obsession, since it repeats itself.) Two hours sleep.....zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
Strangely, my poem is entitled "Going With My Sister to Get an Abortion," which terrified me to hand in to class. I haven't felt embarassed or wierded out by something I wrote in a long time, if ever. I don't know if it's because my last poem ate it so badly or if it was just the subject matter is a strange and uncomfortable one for me. But all over campus the local pro-life group has written quotes on the sidewalks condemning abortion, so it's a wierd feeling seeing the future.
Thankfully, everyone in both my classes lost a lot of sleep this weekend, and they didn't have to do both, so I'm one up on that front. And I'm actually kind of proud of this poem, but we'll see how Dr. Kalamaras feels about it. The plus side is, he scheduled a three week break in the middle of class to symbolize the dreamy period of being a writer, which coincides with fall break. Maybe I'll write a sestina (google it if you haven't had a migraine in while and you miss the feeling.) I have a twenty minute meeting with him Thursday, which is when I will attempt to officially change my major.
My next cool assignment is to read a book of poetry called Terrestrial Music, which 1) is political and 2) our assignment is to read it, then come up with two engaging questions to email to the author, who will then respond to one of them.
Bran and I are a wierd couple. That goes without saying, but in all honesty, both of us would have forgotten about our anniversary if we didn't have to answer our relatives when they ask. I caught her peeking at the embroidery she made while she was telling her mom the date. She also had the cutest self assurance in her voice, like she hadn't just had to look it up. "Of course I know when my anniversary is." It's not that important to us. And i don't mean that in a "it's not important to me, so I don't notice that my wife is saddened by my lack of concern." it is a shared lack of concern.
I'm supposed to be excited about the fact that four years ago, we woke up ten minutes before our appointment, neglected to shower, and made it to the courthouse just in time to sign some paperwork? The most romantic thing about the day wasn't our vows. It was my mother-in-law and my best friend both showing up despite our insistance that no one show up, to be fair to all who couldn't be there.
Our waiter at Applebee's begging our boss to buy us dinner so we could have money to stay in a hotel that night. that was more romantic.
It's not the ring, or the vows, or the words "I do" that matter. It's the fact that every day, we decide to keep it going. that no matter how much I can't stand things about her, or her me, we know we are a pair, and if you fuck with one of us, you fuck with both of us.
Bran and I were both stressing about the literary interpretation paper we needed to write last night. rough draft due today. We workshopped with classmates, and ours were better than our respective partners. This is a major accomplishment for Bran, seeing as she didn't have to write three a day for two years. As a matter of fact, she did all the prework, had bullet points, made notes. She was so organized that it wasn't until she went to bed that I remembered that I don't do that. I sit at the computer with the poem in front of me and write out of my ass, then revise. She shamed me accidently. At least she had a relatively easy time with that paper. Her international studies paper brought her to tears. she ended up writing a paper trying to explain the Iraq War from a liberal point of view, and her understanding of the theories--and the fact that she knows that what we were given isn't what was real--didn't support the view without going political. She broke into tears so I suggested Deaglan give her a hug. He walked over and gave her a big hug and the cutest kiss, saying "It'll be okay mommy." he's a natural.
My sister is now addicted to The Colbert Report on the internet because she has a lot of time on her hands.
I learned through the power of Wikipedia what song it was when I went to see Breaking Benjamin they said they "fucking hated." It's a song called "Skin". I saw a bunch of bands I'd never seen before at that show, and I'd later develop a love for BB, but at the time i'd only heard their first album once. That statement was the only thing I remember from that show that wasn't Godsmack, who BB was opening for.
Incubus does an amazing cover of Prince's "Let's Go Crazy."
The lead singer of Paramore is super hot.
I'm just rambling at this point.
- Music:John's singalong Rocktacular!
It took exactly five minutes of fucking with it for the fear to set in. i managed to find three seperate woman who, in the past, ripped my young stupid heart out, and the thought of running into them again fills me with a terror that not even Incubus can abate.
However, it took me fifteen minutes of searching to locate my three current best friends, who I proceeded to send a friend request to and fill in the annoying "you haven't confirmed your account yet" thing. Go figure.
However, I look forward to confirming it, and sending requests out, because it did find a few people I'm not entirely sure how it knew I knew.
There is strange magic at work. What demon powers this Facebook? Be it good, or eviL?
- Location:computer lab
- Mood:assclenching terror
- Music:Incubus-Pardon Me
And now, I take the words were given to me and comment on what they mean to me. I got phrases, because I'm such a dynamic guy that one word statements just won't do.(HA!)
My words were PPV nite, writing, Edgewood, Spanish, beer connoiseurship
PPV nite Brings me pleasant memories of a good friend being home, and drinking beer with my family and watching sweaty men grope each other. I'll find myself torn by the storyline of the wrestling show, and the conversations going on. It mostly depends on how big of a stick I have in my ass that Sunday, or how much Deaglan is being annoying, or how drunk I need to be to relax. I am unfortunately, kinda high strung, and it's on days like PPV nights that I can show that side (that side being I'm one of the biggest assholes in the world). But most of my memories (and I hope the ones of most of my loved ones) are of joking around and similtaneously goofing on the dumb and being entranced by the awesome. It always endears me that we are some of the smartest people around, and we can get mesmorized by something that is often written off as a male soap opera (though I'll gladly wax poetic about why a smart person shouldn't feel guilty about enjoying wrestling...just not to an idiot.)
Writing means putting my money where my mouth is. Good writing, bad writing, good story, stupid story. I grew up reading <i>Star Trek</i> novelizations. These can be some of the corniest, poorly written pieces of shit you'll ever pick up. But some of them are a bag of awesome. Even the badly written ones can have moments that are funny. But then I started reading things where the author didn't have automatic shortcuts, or prepackaged characters that you already know everything about, and realized that there is a craft to writing.
I have to tell you, the minute I figured out that authors and writers (there's a difference) just get paid to make shit up, I was hooked. And I've studied writing ever since. I want to do it well enough that someday someone reads something I've made up and said, "That was so awesome!" And then they go out and make something that I can drool over.
Not surprisingly, the fact that my wife loves the way I write means as much to me as the fact she gave me a son. And the fact that I can be so astronomically critical about a story is a challenge. "You think you can do better? Prove it."
Edgewood is the middle school I went to. I have almost no memories of it. I have a guilty soul about a moment in the lockers where some guys were making fun of the autistic girl next to my locker. I didn't say anything cause i was worried they'd make fun of me. I think a lot of my opinions in life stem from that guilt: fear is no reason to not do what's right. I always hope that if faced with that choice again, I'll do what's right.
I also remember having an awesome honors Engish teacher, and I think I met akujunkan there, but I don't remember because school was something that I slept through with my eyes open.
Spanish is a language I love, but it is also something that frustrates me. I'd love to master it, but to do so conflicts heavily with my life choices. And now I want to learn Japanese, because I can see myself going to Japan more often than I can see myself going to any of the Spanish speaking countries. Spanish is just fun because it makes it easier to get a good margarita. Viva tequila!
My final word is beer connoiseurship, which proves that my friend is smarter than me because that word is a whore to spell. I love beer. I hate wine. Stupid people (at least around here) love beer. and hate wine. So I decided I would have to be a snob. Yes, if faced with no beer or cheap lite beer, I'll take a lite beer. But i love to know that there is a complexity to my beer. And I totally dig the fact that if someone offers me a new beer, and he can tell me the style that it was brewed in, I'm gonna know if it's something I can like. Insider information is a weakness of mine. And the people I cherish drinking with like good beer. Getting drunk is a lot of fun, but I like to do it with a guided missle, not a carpet bomb. Besides, any monkey can eat. I want to taste.
So those are my words. lalalala. Now what?
- Location:IPFW
- Mood:
cold - Music:Green Day-21st Century Breakdown
These are books that I feel are must owns. They may not be the greatest books ever. But they are ones that I wish I had if I don’t have them, and if I were to lose everything, I would be struggling to replace them. I also was trying hard to cover as much territory as possible, so I avoided listing all the books of an author, and used the first book for a series. Mostly, these are great books I could think of in one evening, without making myself too depressed about my lack of culture. An asterisk denotes ones I don’t yet own.
1. The Big Sleep by Raymond Chandler Chandler hated pulp fiction as much as anyone, and wrote an essay called The Simple Art of Murder in which he rips his own genre a new one.
2. A Catskill Eagle by Robert B. Parker: Parker's PI Spenser cooks, loves beer, loves Susan, is fiercely loyal and honorable and quotes literature regularly. And he's a smart ass. This is one of the books where he's stretched to the limits of his soul, and where he's forced to choose between love and honor. I'm a sap, remember? Still, it's a hell of a read.
3. The Maltese Falcon by Dashell Hammet
4. The Spellman Files by Lisa Lutz*
5. Tourist Season by Carl Hiaasen Start here, read them all in order. I love reoccuring characters, especially if the books are stand alones. It makes it feel like the author is creating a world instead of a series.
6. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas by Hunter S. Thompson* Strangely, I credit Thompson as much for getting me into politics as much as I credit my mom. I also blame the Bush administration for his death.
7. Gardens of Stone by Nicholas Proffitt* A book that anyone who protests a war or fights in one should be forced to read.
8. Watchmen by Alan Moore
9. Winnie-the-Pooh and The House on Pooh Corner by A. A. Milne
10. House of Stairs by William Sleator* This was possibly one of the creepiest books I've ever read, be it YA or Adult.
11. On Writing by Stephen King
12. Starship Troopers by Robert Heinlein The movie had the same characters but was nothing like the book. This book is more a story about why someone would be in the military.
13. Job: A Comedy of Errors by Robert Heinlein This book helped me realize that religion should be parodied, and that it was possible that my faith might not be as fair as I thought.
14. Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury
15. The Illustrated Man by Ray Bradbury
16. Lamb by Christopher Moore There are two Chris Moores. The first is the heavily researched, heavily thought out book. This is my favorite of those.
17. The Stupidest Angel by Christopher Moore The second Chris Moore is the one that throws a good entertaining novel together, and this is my favorite of those.
18. Small Gods by Terry Pratchett The end of this book made me ball with joy. It's a sad state of affairs that an atheist understands the point of religion better than most religious people.
19. So Long and Thanks for All the Fish by Douglas Adams
20. The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis I like the idea of an antihero. Lewis tells his story from the opposite side very well, and doesn't get caught up in too much doctrine.
21. A Modest Proposal by Jonathon Swift* I laughed all the way through this, while the girls in our class were horrified that we had to read it. One of the few times I felt really really smart at the Academy.
22. The Hobbit by J.R.R. Tolkien I read this in first grade for the first time, and in second grade my teacher read it to us, so I took my copy in and followed along.
24. The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger
25. To Kill A Mockingbird by Harper Lee
26. The Great Gatsby F. Scott Fitzgerald Anytime I feel poor and miserable and wish I had money I think about how miserable and pathetic the characters in this book are and I feel much better.
27. Cat’s Cradle by Kurt Vonnegut I don't care if it's not his best one. I dig Bokononism, and it was also the first book of Vonnegut's I ever read. It's not like the girl I lost my virginity to. I still love it (and like it).
28. Keeper by Greg Rucka This one makes the list because when I was living in Bedford, IN, looking to make a place for myself, this was the only author over that summer that I discovered randomly. I cried halfway through this book, and I wasn't expecting to. Also he writes comics.
29. Eats, Shoots and Leaves by Lynn Truss
30. Breathers by S.G. Browne
31. Gregor the Overlander by Suzanne Collins
32. It’s Not About the Bike by Lance Armstrong A great book, whether you care about sports or not. Also, it's a great primer for learning about cancer. Tym loaned it to me when we started getting close, and it saved him a lot of explaining.
33. A Midsummer Night’s Dream by William Shakespeare* Had to put something by Shakespeare down. Once, I watched this with a friend from Ball State who was majoring in English literature, and I explained a lot to her. I like to feel smart sometimes.
34. The Caves of Steel by Isaac Asimov
35. Night Passage by Robert B. Parker* I really liked this book, though the series kind of blew for the next seven books.
36. Edenville Owls by Robert B. Parker Some authors write a YA book, and it seems like they are dumbing down what they have already done. (Hoot felt that way to me, though by the time Scat came out Haaisen had it down.) Parker wrote a book that felt like a shorter version of one of his adult novels. The only difference to me was that the main characters were fourteen or so.
42. Persepolis by Marjane Satripi
43. Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte
44. The Eyre Affair by Jasper Fforde It was a lot of fun reading these two together.
45. Breakfast of Champions by Kurt Vonnegut
46. The Year of Living Biblically by A.J. Jacobs
47. Tom Sawyer by Mark Twain
48. Mister Monday by Garth Nix
49. The Monster at the End of this Book by Jon Stone
50. Those Who Walk in Darkness by John Ridley* This made the list because I love the way that Ridley writes: he's funny, he riffs on race relations from multiple points of view, and he's really smart. This one made it because it's a superhero story with a twist, and he created a two female characters (one of which you learn more about in the sequel, What Fire Cannot Burn) who are badasses, and for which the typical female heroine syndrome doesn't apply. The character flaws they exhibit are realistic, and they don't exist as a foil for the male characters (which are actually all secondary characters).
Okay, I'll comment on other ones at a later date. I have something I want to write for number 49, but I have to find a back issue of a magazine for a quote because it is awesome.
He gave us a handout this morning for our first assignment, and when I got the assignment for my second class, it was the same thing. So after class I ask him what he wants me to do. He looked torn for a second, like he was balancing in his mind what was fair, but he's also a guy who doesn't want to waste an opportunity. He said, "Go ahead and turn in two copies..." and I responded with "And write the first one with the perspective of poetry from an interpretation standpoint and the second from the POV of writing poetry." and he smiled and said, "You're gonna learn a lot in this class."
Happiness.
Also on the pet front, about two weeks ago, Bran and I put Deaglan to bed and went out for a cigarette. We were both reading, leaning our books against the railing when I heard a rustling. You don't really expect a rustling on a second story balcony, so I jumped, and out from between the beams of our porch crawls a little black cat with a little white patch on her stomach. She had climbed up the one wooden beam that supports the balcony. She just starts mewing all cute like, rubbing her ears on us, walking around the porch, investigating our deck chairs. We fall in love, but we're also cheap, so Bran asks, "What do we do?" I'm about to suggest we could walk her out the front door when she jumps five feet in the air and nimbly lands on Brandi's shoulder, purring into her ear.
We named her Yoruichi.
Fucking. Stupid. Warsaw.
Here's my last (hopefully, knock on wood) ever post about a Chucky Fight Club novel.
The name of my last torture is Snuff. It is about three guys waiting to be told by a girl that it is their turn to bang a porn star named Cassie Wright. She’s attempting to set a record of six hundred dudes. Picking up this book, the first question that came to mind was: “How can anyone write a two hundred page book about a porn shoot?” The answer turns out to be a paternity soap opera with a suicide insurance scam thrown in. There is also a weak feminist lament from Cassie and Sheila, but I think that’s just part of the scam.
In a completely irrelevant font criticism, the font is brown. It was annoying and off putting. Why would you do that?
Further details are in the characters. The story is told from the first person point of view of four people, and these stories overlap rather inconsistently. The author used subtle nuanced language to differentiate between characters. Thankfully each chapter starts with the alias of the character in big letters at the top.
Number 600: This guy is a douche bag homophobic old school porn star. Way to tell it’s him: every male pronoun he uses is replaced with dude. You learn he’s most likely a rapist, most likely the mystery kid’s father.
Number 137 is a washed up actor. We never really learn why his show went under, but I guess that’s not important. Probably gay, maybe was molested, but not sure himself. Overdoses on Viagra, but the side effects conveniently wait until he’s blown his load. You can tell it’s him mostly because he recounts the same Tinsel Town trivia as Sheila, but without hating men. He knows Cassie’s entire catalogue.
Number 73: Dude is nineteen and believes himself to be the porn star’s son. He confusingly becomes obsessed with Cassie, wanting to see non-sexual pictures first, and then working odd teenage jobs to save money for a replica blowup doll. His adopted mother bursts in on him and tells him that the blow up doll is his birth mother, but if he ever tries to meet with her, they’ll throw him out. He goes anyway, and in a surprise twist that isn’t surprising, he turns out to not be her kid. But even when he is convinced that she is his mother, he’s willing to fuck her.
Sheila: Here’s an easy way to tell it’s her: she says “true story” about every one of the nine thousand goddamn stories she recounts. It’s through her that we learn about Cassie as a “person.” Cassie and Sheila and Number 137 drop celebrity trivia in a ham handed way of relating this porn stars fuckfest to other things actresses and actors have done to themselves throughout the history of Hollywood. Also, she replaces every male pronoun with a creative masturbation euphemism. It’s only mildly distracting and annoying, in the same way that Rush Limbaugh is only a little racist and stupid. Also, she’s nineteen and amazingly able to orchestrate and manipulate this gang bang pretty much as a con to kill off Cassie.
In case you’re wondering, I was being sarcastic about the nuance. Each of the characters read the exact same. It’s like he knows a lot about literature, and aspires to it, but doesn’t have the chops to pull it off. He does know his history. Part of me wants to research what he says about things and see if they are true or not. There were a few positives. It wasn’t as fatalistic as his other books. It was an easy read. It was a little funny. But it reminded me of an episode of Spongebob. (Stay with me for this.) The episode is where Spongebob rips his pants, and everyone laughs. So he keeps doing it until it stops being funny. There’s a game where you take the title of a movie or classical piece of literature and turn it into a porn title, like American History Sex, The Cooncock Saints, or The Firm (these are mine not his.). He does this as well as creating euphemisms for masturbation ad nauseum. Funny, but it stops being funny pretty quickly and starts being painful to read. You know how you read something and you can see how the author as straining in front of his computer like he’s trying to shit into the keyboard?
My conclusions about this book are as follows: For a gay man, he hates men worse than the angriest bull dyke at an all girls S&M party. This book almost made me never want to have sex ever again. Or watch Porn. But I do want to kill people. It was very stupid, but I can’t really say why. Just trust me.
If you take out all the disgusting things out, like the setting, the brazenly ridiculous character motivations, the disgusting metaphors (I have never, no matter how drunk, wiped back to front on accident. Life is not like that at all.), all you have is a soap opera paternity issue. All Pygmy turned out to be was a teenage sex comedy with action scenes. The only original thing about this author is his ability to be vile. Goddamn it, is it wrong to assume that just because you hate your job, you don’t necessarily hate everyone who comes around? Maybe if any of the characters had a redeeming quality as readily as they have a scar or a tick, I could swallow all the hateful bullshit. But just like Harry Potter is flawless and depthlessly good and always right, Chuckie Fight Club’s characters are so unredeemable that they have no depth. Every good thing they try to do fails, but it doesn’t matter because the motivations for that singular act are selfish anyway.
Is it possible that his books are a satire in a Jonathon Swift manner, by advocating the worst possible things to highlight what’s wrong with the world? If that is the case, I have to say he’s not real good at that either.
Maybe his books are popular because he twists the plot so much. You think you know what’s going on, but then he takes away that assumption and replaces it with something else. But the problem with this theory is I see all the twists coming, until the end. It seemed like it was 150 pages of buildup for a forty page pop. Maybe that was the goal. Maybe it was symbolic for what porn is really like.
But it’s assumptions about men anger me.
It’s a shame most of the ones I currently interact with fit the description.
Thank God no one reads my journal, especially none of the members of “The Cult.”
And Finally, I am done with that reprehensible author.
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