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2010-03-28T19:17:00.001-07:00

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They Still Do That Stuff?

2008-10-13T19:44:00.001-07:00

Yeah, apparently so. I found this empty bottle of amyl nitrite on the front lawn of our white trash neighbors five houses down. Even though they’re not gay men from the 70s, I’m confident that that couple snorts ’em up. They have two kids, but clearly they’re mature enough not to care what those little bastards think, considering the cantankerous scraps filled with “Go fuck yourself!” that erupt from that trash house on most nights I walk my dogs by their door.

Thankfully, I must be too early to hear the wild, hog-style fucking that ensues after the poppers are broken out.

This isn’t interesting to you, I realize. I've just never seen poppers in person before. Thanks for hearing me out.

Yes, I Have Apparently Stopped Reading

2008-04-29T15:59:00.001-07:00

It's not that I lost interest — I have a list of about 30 books to get to, all related to the idea of apocalypse, be it zombie fiction, climate change prognosis, or just survival tips. (Here are a couple: guns and gardens.)

But since I was picked in the lottery for the Western States Endurance Run, I haven't been able to relax enough to read. My leisure time is soaked up by television's spongy glow. I've been halfway through Ender's Game for four months.

The stupidest part is that I've been working even less — way even less — than usual, so I know I have the time. But within a few pages of opening any book, my mind starts succumbing to the paranoia that I'm ill-prepared for the race, which even among 100-mile trail races is a pretty tough one.

I'll write some about my training very soon.

No, I Haven't Stopped Reading

2007-10-17T11:01:00.000-07:00

I just haven't been telling you about it. I don't know... I guess I feel like we're drifting. The sex isn't as fulfilling, your eyes -- they look so distant sometimes. So far away.

You still smell like day-old waffles, which I like. I suppose I'll have to hold onto that. Soon, it may be all I have.

The Backyard Beekeeper by Kim Flottum is the definitive reference for the person what is named in the title. The Birdchick Blog contains a lot of good stories about one woman's beekeeping experience, along with copious photos and movies.

When I finally get back into the country, I badly want to get some hives. I also want goats.

And chickens. It's ridiculously enjoyable to watch them cluck around, pecking the ground bugs and seeds. It'd probably be even better with a cooler of beer.

Plus, dozens of heritage breeds exist, each of which has different coloration, different eggs, and a different personality.

Living with Chickens by Jay Rossier details what's necessary to raise your own flock, either in the country or a city backyard. He includes plans for a basic coop and shows how to kill and clean them, if you're into that sort of thing.

Monster Planet finished out David Wellington's trilogy of zombie novels. Fun stories, but Romero's concept of the zombie makes more sense to me than Wellington's mystical version. Recommended anyway.

McSweeney's 23 was the rare issue where every story was on target. There are always standouts and several other good stories, but almost always at least one stinker. I loved every story in this one.

McSweeney's 24 was bound as a very cool double-issue, with one side being stories centering around "trouble", and the other side containing writer's remembrances of Donald Barthelme.

I'm not familiar with Barthelme's work, but the two uncollected stories published here make clear his influence on writers like George Saunders (whose tribute to and analysis of Barthelme is also here). His prose is considered and compact. And unpredictably weird, like Borges.

Another great issue. McSweeney's is always recommended. You really should subscribe.

Oh, Merle. Merle's Door is about the life and death of Ted Kerasote's dog. It's also packed with research that combines with Kerasote's experiences with Merle to form a perspective unique from the prevailing ones about dog behavior and sociology that say dogs require submission to an alpha figure in order to be satisfied. Kerasote believes that the independence Merle was allowed made him a smarter, happier dog with greater logical ability than most domesticated dogs and a more distinct personality. The many studies he quotes seem to back that up.

It's easy for a dog book to be sappy and maudlin, but Kerasote never once falls into that trap even when describing Merle's final weeks. He's fantastic at translating Merle's actions into speech and emotion, and it rarely comes across as anthropomorphization.

The account of Merle's death (and that of his best dog friend, Brower) is absolutely heart-crushing. I bawled as if he were my own. The research alone is reason enough to own this book and refer to it frequently, but ultimately Merle's Door is a great biography of a great dog. It shows what potential every dog has and opens a new way to think about our relationships with them. Very highly recommended.

Blogging is Still Gay

2007-09-30T12:11:00.000-07:00

But I had to share this with you. About a week ago, I received the following e-mail:

Interesting blog. I like how you generalize about "Black People" and I wonder how narrow your life must be to even think of something this myopic. You gotta live in some small town, not college educated and work at some bullshit job. Only a person with those characteristics could write something that "I'm with stupid" dumb.

Jay D****

My response follows:

Mr. Dee:

Thank you! I'm glad you like reading my generalizations about "Black People" as much as I like writing them. Also, I'm glad to see that someone else is unable to write the phrase "Black People" without surrounding it in quotation marks, because what are these "Black People" we keep hearing about, anyway? Well, I guess I've always used the term to refer to a group of humans whose dark skin is characteristic of someone of African descent. Perhaps we can agree that that definition encompasses the term fairly concisely, so it no longer requires quotes or indiscriminate capitalization. Now that we've got that nailed down, perhaps someday we can move on to analyzing the etymology of "White People." I know! What are THOSE supposed to be, right?

Jumping back to the subject at hand, however, I should thank you -- yes, again! -- for commenting on something so old that I had to run through my blog's archive to figure out what the hell you were talking about. In doing so, I ended up reading a bunch of my older pieces. Holy cow! I am one funny motherfucker! Sexy, too! Like, H-O-T sexy. It would be dishonest of me not to admit that there were some, ahem, rather steamy bathroom breaks in-between reading sessions.

Anyhow, in rereading that piece, I got the impression I had been writing specifically about the project-dwelling thugs in BIG, WHITE T-SHIRTS who used to glare contemptuously at me as I drove to work every day while I lived in the tiny burg of Atlanta. (Atlanta? Whoops! Huh, Jay?) I also foolishly misinterpreted the opening sentence to be a reference to the lyrics of "White Tee" by Crime Mob. Apparently, I was actually making racist generalizations. I must have bought into the common racist misconception that every Black person in the world wears light-colored, ill-fitting tops. A misconception not too different, incidentally, from the one that all people in the world who run websites named Torso Fever are not incredibly good-looking, well-endowed men who like to eat tomato sandwiches and frequently forget why they walked into a room.

Sadly, I no longer live in Atlanta (where I moved after finishing college -- whoops again! -- in this charming hamlet on the East coast called New York City). I have since taken up residence in Portland, Oregon, where people's shirts tend to fit slightly better. Luckily, they still tolerate the hate speech I apparently spew almost constantly. Even my Filipina wife is okay with it! Can you believe that? Why does she hate herself so much? I don't know! I'm just enjoying it until she wises up and escapes to a more racially tolerant city -- like, say, Nashville -- and shacks up with some caring, thoughtful motherfucker -- like, say, yourself -- and spends the rest of her days receiving long, erotic foot massages.

I'm not going to tell you my profession, but I bet you could guess it if you tried really hard. I assure you, though, I am a very unhappy, petty man, and I randomly lash out at those around me because of it, especially well-meaning critics and "Black People." (Dang it! I was trying really hard not to do that! I swear!)

Thank you for your kind wishes, and thank you for waking me up to my own intolerance. I'm sure if you had a blog, it would give me a lot to think about. I bet I would determine from it that you are a cosmopolitan college graduate with a totally AWESOME job. Also, I may infer from it that just about everyone wants to be you, or at least a member of your classy, erudite entourage.

Good eve and a fine morrow to you, sir. Best of luck in your studies.

Kindly,
Me

P.S. Can you smell that? I just farted in your face, dumbshit.

Pfft.

2007-08-28T22:09:00.001-07:00

Fuck this. I'm done. Blogging is gay.

The Book-a-Week Project, Book 22

2007-08-06T14:11:00.000-07:00

Your Disgusting Head: The Darkest, Most Offensive and Moist Secrets of Your Ears, Mouth and Nose
Dr. Doris Haggis-on-Whey

Yeah, it's a children's book. So what? It ain't called The Novel-a-Week Project, is it? Besides, it's written by Dave and Toph Eggers, so it's absurd and therefore also appealing to adults. The design accurately apes the style of the thin volumes about gems and historical characters that, as a child, I'd take from the shelves of my grandparent's house when I couldn't fall asleep on Christmas Eve. The writing is almost stream-of-consciousness weirdness most of the time. It's funny. And kids would probably like it. I guess. Good for them.

The Book-a-Week Project, Week 21

2007-07-08T11:19:00.000-07:00

The Columnist
Jeffrey Frank

This is the second book I've read because it was recommended by David Sedaris. The first was the miserable Jenny and the Jaws of Life by Jincy Willett. I need to consider and remember that because an author is influential doesn't mean she's similar, because while I've rarely met anyone who found David Sedaris anything less than knee-slappingly funny, Jincy Willett would only be funny to someone who, like the lead singer of Barenaked Ladies, is the kind of guy to laugh at a funeral. A clown's funeral, perhaps, but not just any funeral. Not me.

The Columnist is also very different from Sedaris' humor, but in a different way from Willett's book. It's a fictional autobiography narrated by a self-aggrandizing newspaper columnist, detailing his manipulative relationships -- romantically, professionally, and socially -- calculated to gain him public influence and prominent social status. His pomposity and obliviousness to his own motives is amusing, but not much more than that and not for very long. If I'm going to read stories narrated by a pretentious ass, I prefer the blunt egotism of The Neal Pollack Anthology of American Literature or the madcap recklessness of P.G. Wodehouse's Bertie Wooster. Don't you? Yes, it turns out you do.

The Columnist was a waste of time. We hate it, don't we? Yes, it turns out we really, really do. But we still love David Sedaris in spite of his poor taste.

The Book-a-Week(?) Project, Week 20

2007-07-07T12:03:00.000-07:00

In Persuasion Nation: Stories
George Saunders

If George Saunders were Willy Wonka, I would have already ballooned up like a gigantic blueberry or gotten my fat ass sucked up the chocolate pipe. This is his most recent book, and the best. These stories have urgency to them that didn't seem so desperate in previous collections. Death pops up more frequently ("Brad Carrigan, American"). Humans are at their cruellest, both to other humans ("CommComm") and to animals ("The Red Bow" and the somewhat puzzling inclusion "93990", which details LD50 experiments that one primate is mysteriously unaffected by).

The joy remains, however. When George Saunders loses hope, the world is truly irredeemable.

Next, maybe The Columnist by Jeffery Frank, or Your Disgusting Head by Dr. Doris Haggis-on-Whey.

Incidentally

2007-07-07T11:47:00.000-07:00

I own an American flag and it resides in a box of dried opium poppy stalks. It's not a statement about the American government's drug trade complicity or addiction or nationalism or cardboard boxes. It just fell in there and I never bothered to take it out.

McSweeney's

2007-06-15T11:08:00.000-07:00

Oh, that's why you're so excited! You're excited because McSweeney's is having a huge sale to make up some losses from a distributor bankruptcy. You're thrilled that their entire backlist of books is 50% off and most else is 30% off! Well, that's certainly understandable, considering you can get some amazing books for cheap and contribute to a worthwhile cause.
Oh? You're also excited by having discovered the McSweeney's Recommends section of the site? That makes sense, too, since you're bound to find many things you realize you should have known about and will now keep in your mind-pocket like that worthless foreign coin that you occasionally rub for good luck because it's left over from that crazy, fantastic summer you spent in Europe.

The Book-a-Week Project, Week 19

2007-06-14T22:01:00.000-07:00

To the Edge: A Man, Death Valley, and the Mystery of Endurance Kirk Johnson

Badwater is probably the most infamous legitimate ultramarathon in the United States. It starts in Death Valley, at the lowest point in the United States, and proceeds 135 miles to the portal of Mt. Whitney. In early years, it ran to the summit of that mountain, but regulatory complications make that impossible now. Some competitors head to the summit on their own, but the race officially ends at the portal.

It is nonetheless a motherfucker. Aside from the distance, the temperatures hover around 130 degrees in the shade. Since the entire race is run on asphalt with no protection from the sun except for nightfall, the perceived temperature is closer to 200 during the day.

To run the course today, entrants must have at least one 100-mile race under their belt, but typically they're more seasoned, running multiple such races in the same year. In 2000, when Kirk Johnson ran, requirements were apparently more relaxed. He had two 50-milers and a few marathons on his resume, nothing more.

He was writing about the race for the New York Times and initially planned to drop out partway through, but later decided to attempt the whole course. Much of the book is weighed down by explorations of the reasons for his older brother's suicide and fears of marital discord. Once the race starts, his story thankfully veers away from his misgivings and feelings of inadequacy to the emotional breakdown, hallucinations, and psychedelic epiphanies that are the interesting part of Badwater.

It's a treat to finally hear about this race from someone who can write. The only other accounts I've read are from Pam Reed, in The Extra Mile: One Woman's Personal Journey to Ultra-Running Greatness, and Dean Karnazes, in Ultramarathon Man: Confessions of an All-Night Runner. Reed and Karnazes are both far more accomplished runners than Johnson -- both have won the race multiple times -- but their books are packed with flaws.

The primary flaw of The Extra Mile is that it was written at all. Reed writes like a seventh-grader and even in her own words comes across as an immensely unlikable asshole. Her anorexia and inability to be faithful to her husband keep popping up throughout the book. (What? A narcissistic, manipulative anorexic? Who'd have thought?)

Karnazes is a marketer and his life is devoted to marketing himself. Ultramarathon Man makes clear that he would happily drop his running career and family if he could trade them for a clone of himself with which he could spend the rest of his life dancing, romancing, and fucking, fucking, fucking. After a while, his book becomes a series of brags told by a self-aggrandizing frat boy who's cornered you at a party you didn't want to go to in the first place.

If Badwater sounds interesting, the best place to start is Running on the Sun, a documentary that was filmed in 2000, the same year Johnson ran the race. It's surprisingly easy to find.

Next: Sadly, the only thing by George Saunders I haven't yet read: In Persuasion Nation.

The Book-a-Week Project, Week 18

2007-06-14T21:08:00.001-07:00

CivilWarLand in Bad Decline: Stories and a Novella
George Saunders

Saunders kindly presents us with another collection of stories written with such incredible skill as to seem effortless. He further explores passivity and consumerism, and features more failing theme parks marketing specific American historical periods to gullible tourists. The novella, "Bounty", about a mutant's journey cross-country to save his sister, is brilliant, brilliant, brilliant.

These stories are not as overtly humorous as most of his others, but still just as enveloping and sharp. If you're not a bad person, you should be reading George Saunders' output. And loving it.

The promotional site for his most recent collection, In Persuasion Nation, lets you download a chapbook titled A Bee Stung Me So I Killed All the Fish, filled with stories mostly concerning the big war that everyone's talking about. God damn it's good. Now you are thankful.

I already finished it, but if I wasn't so fucking behind on these reviews, the next book would have been To the Edge: A Man, Death Valley, and the Mystery of Endurance. It's about Badwater, one of the toughest footraces on the planet. I fantasize about having done it, but not doing it.

Torrents Are Totally Sweet

2007-05-24T09:20:00.000-07:00

I’m not here to explain what they are or how they work, but here are two reasons to find out post fucking haste:

browntracker.net -- Endless tons of Ween shit. The pick of the tremendously huge litter is the four-disc set of b-sides, demos, and rarities. Their unused shit is forty-seven times better than what sits on most of the CDs you used to enjoy before you discovered Ween. Ooh! Their new album doesn’t release until fall, but an EP (of stuff that won’t be on the full-length) will be available June 8! Aren’t you excited?! And speaking of that -- ?! -- did you know that a punctuation mark exists that melds the question mark and exclamation point into one? It’s called the interrobang, and is rarely used. Also, it was devised by an American advertiser in 1962, so that’s three points against its use right there. Typophile has a lengthy, interesting discussion about its legitimacy.

myspleen.net -- Now the best way to download Mystery Science Theater 3000 episodes. They have a poopload, many of which are the excellent-quality Digital Archive Project DVDs. On mainstream torrent sites you can download a torrent that contains every single MST episode EVER, each of which is an AVI of about 600 megabytes. When viewed on a television, the quality is similar to an EP videotape, which is fine with me. You need space for it, though. The damn thing weighs in at 136 gigabytes.

The Book-a-Week Project, Week 17

2007-05-23T15:16:00.000-07:00

Thank You, Jeeves
P.G. Wodehouse
Read by Alexander Spencer

Yeah, it's an audiobook. I made a weekend trip to California (don’t go) with my girlfriend, and Wodehouse is excellent for car listening due to the simple plots and wordplay. I’ve heard other Wodehouse books in audio form that were narrated better, mostly because the narrator used a different voice for each character and nailed the nasal whine that Bertie certainly has. They may have been narrated by someone else, or maybe Spencer had just honed his craft in later novels.

Thank You, Jeeves is the first Jeeves story, but you wouldn’t know it. Wooster makes offhand reference to close to a dozen incidents that occur in other Jeeves novels, and every recurring character is already fully developed in this story. The book begins with Jeeves quitting Wooster’s employ due to Wooster’s constant, unrepentant practicing of the banjolele. There are romantic entanglements, misunderstandings, and somehow Jeeves sets everything right by the end and opens the door to dozens of the funniest books in history (not including the Holy Bible, of course). As brilliant as ever. The Jeeves series is hilarious from the very start.

Next, more George Saunders: CivilWarLand in Bad Decline.

The Book-a-Week Project, Week 16

2007-04-27T14:53:00.000-07:00

The R. Crumb Handbook
R. Crumb and Peter Poplaski

I’m not a huge fan of R. Crumb’s work, but I am a fan of R. Crumb’s personality. I like his neuroses and his fascination with ragtime music and large women. I like his illustrative style, but I never get giddy when I read his comics. I’d much rather watch Crumb, the documentary. The Handbook is good that way. It contains samples of his work collected in thematic chapters and interspersed with writing from Big R. himself.

The definite highlight is the inclusion of a CD with ragtime covers from bands Crumb has been in over the past thirty years. It’s all really good. “My Baby’s Pussy” stands out.

The Book-a-Week Project, Week 15

2007-04-18T20:07:00.000-07:00

The Brief and Frightening Reign of Phil
George Saunders

George Saunders is so brilliant you should be intimidated. But you must not be intimidated. His writing is consistently warm -- critical but not cynical. Reign of Phil is a short novella (although the longest thing I’ve read by Saunders) about war. It is funny and odd. The accompanying illustrations are terrible. They look like the graphics on hipster t-shirts.

Saunders received the MacArthur Fellowship grant last year (as did John Zorn). Let’s hope he uses the time it buys him to write a massive novel, or at least several hundred more short stories.

Are you ready? Okay, take your hand in mine as I take mine in yours. Now hope, little one. Hope with all your might, god damn you!

A Thick Slice of Portland

2007-04-17T15:41:00.000-07:00

My next door neighbor is a white, mousy lesbian with Buddhist prayer flags hanging all round her front porch. She doesn’t drive a car, but her girlfriend does: a Prius. If one of them had dreadlocks, everything would be perfect.

The Book-a-Week Project, Week 14

2007-04-17T13:22:00.000-07:00

Monster Nation: A Zombie Novel
David Wellington

Wellington’s first novel in this series, Monster Island, describes a world overrun by zombie hordes and the desperate attempts by the few remaining living to resist them.

Monster Nation is the prequel, focusing on the cause and initial spread of the zombie epidemic. As in Monster Island, it follows a couple characters integral to the struggle, one alive and one undead. Due to the circumstances of her infection, the undead character is, as with Island, capable of logic and speech, unlike typical zombies.

The zombies in Monster Island have psychic connections with each other. In Nation, they also have the ability to see the life force of the living (appearing as something like molten gold). Wellington’s zombie mythos is heavily influenced by non-specific forms of magic and mysticism.

An oddity in his zombie world that makes no sense to me is the existence of non-human zombies. One of the main characters kills a bear who reanimates moments later. Another character is turned into a zombie after zombie sheep eat his arms while he’s unconscious. I'm not aware of any zombie animals in George Romero’s films, and Max Brooks’ hypothetical Solanum virus dies within hours of killing any non-human host, making it impossible for reanimation to occur. Also, zombie animals are inconsistent with the tendency of zombies to serve as metaphors for the worst aspects of humanity. It makes some sense for zombies to kill animals, but not for those animals to then join the horde.

Small gripes, however. Ultimately, Monster Nation is a fun, well-told story that adds to the genre. Though his attempts at colloquial speech are occasionally clumsy and sterotypical (that of the white suburban thug is particularly bad), Wellington writes believable characters. I can’t wait for Monster Planet.

I also can’t wait for The Brief and Frightening Reign of Phil by George Saunders.

One Foot, Two Foot, Red Foot, Dumbshit

2007-04-17T12:28:00.000-07:00

The Boston Marathon was yesterday. You don’t care, but that’s okay. Neither, apparently, does most of the rest of the United States, which is why only two marathons are annually broadcast live -- Boston and New York. Tens of thousands of hours of sports broadcasting is devoted to steroid-jacked idiots slamming into each other. Six is devoted to marathons.

And even with that little time, the marathon itself is apparently not interesting enough, because the last two Boston Marathons (at least) have shared airtime with the Iraq Boston Marathon. Huh? Yeah! It's the Boston Marathon, except that it happens to be run by American soldiers in Iraq. Which -- hey, wait a minute! -- makes it not the Boston Marathon at all! It kinda sorta makes it the Iraq Marathon!

Here is why: Doing one thing at the same time as another thing does not make you part of that other thing. See, when I’m on the couch beating off to porn, I'm not actually having sex with a Latvian tranny named Seductra.

Were it not for that confusion, though, it wouldn't allow the producers of the marathon broadcast to insert good-natured well-wishes from various Hollywood actors who they cornered on some red carpet. Even the effervescent Tara Reid found time to thank the soldiers for defending America and wish them good luck in their space-and-time-traversing marathon. Then her titty popped out.

Another Boston Marathon run somewhere completely fucking unrelated to Boston was completed by an astronaut, who did it on a treadmill with her official bib taped to the front. God Bless Us.

The reason you will never see more marathons on TV is that they are usually won by non-Americans. And non-American is just another word for un-American.

The Book-a-Week Project, Week 13

2007-04-04T10:07:00.000-07:00

Jenny and the Jaws of Life: Short Stories
Jincy Willett

I've always had a feeling that subtlety and wit were fated to be eternally just out of my grasp, and this book proves it. I read only half the stories, and here's what they were about: a marriage that slowly and painfully dissolves after an argument about the existence of ghosts makes the couple realize they don’t actually know anything about each other; a woman’s rape and the cold distancing of herself from everyone around her afterwards; a man trying to deal with the murder of his sister (with a shotgun to the back of the head) by the couple's children; a man cheating on his wife who has a breast tumor; a woman who deliberately attempts to hurt her father by withholding any demonstration of affection.

These are the story premises of a book that David Sedaris (its cover blares) called “just the funniest collection of stories I’ve ever read”. Kirkus Reviews called it “first-rate comic writing”. Those accolades, in addition to numerous mentions of her wit, force me accept that I must not get something about the stories. To me, they seem morbid and depressing. Willett’s language is precise and complex, for sure, but it seemed to be used to tell stories that are about nothing more than the character’s emotional distance from everyone they know and ultimately themselves. I expected to laugh or smile somewhere and kept searching for the story that held that trigger. I found “Résumé”, which is a short proposal to God for eternal life in exchange for nothing. Funny for its four and a half pages, but not worth the slog through so much sadness.

If I had a blurb on the book, it would say, “Miserable, depressing, and very smart.”

Thankfully, David Wellington’s Monster Nation awaits me at the library. It’s the sequel to Monster Island. Wellington is nowhere near as skilled a writer as Jincy Willett, but his subject matter is much closer to my heart: MOTHERFUCKING ZOMBIES.

Butt-Ass Crazy

2007-03-30T14:58:00.000-07:00

How can you not want to see Grindhouse after reading this review on Ain’t It Cool News? I’ve never read or heard more enthusiastic appraisal for anything, even crack.

The Book-a-Week Project, Week 12

2007-03-30T14:05:00.000-07:00

The Littlest Hitler: Stories
Ryan Boudinot

With a title like that, I looked forward to a collection of crass, over-the-top stories. The title story, even with its funny, weird premise of a fourth-grader going to school as Hitler for Halloween, isn't over the top. When the popular girl comes as Anne Frank, the story becomes a meditation on cliques, family, and the awkwardness of trying to manage life in the strange social environment of grade school.

For the most part, the remaining stories function similarly; a piece of weirdness is injected into an otherwise banal situation and watched. In “Bee Beard”, the beard of bees a woman wears to work destroys her burgeoning romance with a co-worker. Other stories feature suburban cannibalism, state-enforced parricide, and packs of hopped-up, murderous salesmen. Despite their premises, the stories in The Littlest Hitler are (mostly) subtler than one would anticipate, and far more striking because of it.

Now if I can just finish Jenny and the Jaws of Life by Jincy Willett before the week is out, I'll be back on track.

The Book-a-Week Project, Week 11

2007-03-26T17:00:00.000-07:00

The Final Solution: A Story of Detection
Michael Chabon

The Final Solution is a compact and satisfying detective novella composed with writing so deft that it initially appears effortless. Sometimes it requires rereading passages to discover how meticulously each word is placed.

Some writers make me want to write. Some writers force me to realize how hopeless is that fantasy. Michael Chabon is among the latter.

Another writer whose prose has that effect on me is Joe Coomer. His Southern heritage is obvious from the first page, as he begins to set his novels’ slow, lingering pace. He spends so much time swirling each moment around in his glass that in some cases (Beachcombing for a Shipwrecked God) it becomes boring. Mostly his examination and reexamination effectively shines the writing to a point that it’s worth the wait. Most likely, you’ll find that after the first fifty pages, you’ll lose your impatience. Apologizing to Dogs is the perfect example of that. Follow with The Loop, then A Flatland Fable.

I’m still behind in my reading, but since I’m the only one who reads this, I’m the only one to whom I need apologize. And I refuse your apology, sir. Stay the course and all will right itself in time, I say. Perhaps read a collection of short stories titled The Littlest Hitler by Ryan Boudinot, I say. What ho, I say.

The Book-a-Week Project, Week 10

2007-03-19T19:38:00.000-07:00

The Shroud of the Thwacker: A Novel
Chris Elliott

Ah, hell. I'm behind already. I owed this review a week and a half ago. Here's the hurried version:

Funny people can not necessarily write funny. Steve Martin’s The Pleasure of My Company is plenty evidence of that. It’s an unfunny, unpolished novel that wouldn’t have been published were Steve Martin not a celebrity.

The Shroud of the Thwacker is different, because Chris Elliott is a funny, talented writer. He writes as a character similar to the dopey, doughy idiot he played on Get a Life (which, by the way, is one of the best sitcoms ever) who’s researching the odd murders of Jack the Jolly Thwacker that took place in nineteenth-century New York. It contains fat albinos, dwarves, Teddy Roosevelt, and time travel. The extremely ridiculous sense of humor can be overwhelming in large doses, but it’s usually just very, very funny.

Next (but really currently: The Final Solution by Michael Chabon. Mostly because it’s short.