A few days ago, a friend linked to this video based on an excerpt from a commencement speech given by David Foster Wallace. I usually sigh and roll my eyes over internet videos longer than 3 minutes or so, but this one is worth every second of its 9 1/2 minutes. I've been thinking about it all week. I can't fathom how I can be so inconstant myself (sometimes deeply in love, sometimes deeply annoyed, sometimes kind, sometimes selfish, sometimes patient, sometimes incredibly short of temper) and yet so unable to remember that other people are no more constant than I. The guy who cuts me off in traffic is no more permanently defined by his moment of selfishness and impatience than I am by mine when I occasionally do the same, and yet I immediately classify him by that action: "Jackass!" If my son learns any obscenities from me, he learns them in the back seat of the car when I'm driving.
These past couple of weeks, I was listening to Alexander Adams read A Farewell to Arms by Ernest Hemingway. Hearing Frederick Henry and Catherine Barkley gush over each other in their small, quiet months together amidst the chaos of the world around them, I felt even more deeply in love with my wife, more grateful for her as a sanctuary. For a time. But a moment later, despite years of history, I am suddenly, disproportionately annoyed as hell by some inconsequential action. Knowing long before it comes just how the story is going to end (because how can it not? But maybe it won't. But how can it not?), I feel closer to my child and the undeserved luck of his healthy birth. But still, I'll snap at him all day long for small irritations. Why?
I also watched God Bless America this week, a mediocre movie that is just as sensationalistic and dehumanizing as the the pop culture that it purports to criticize. While watching it, I thought, "But there are no people that deserve to die!" even while chiding myself that yes, there are some people that deserve to die. Not Kardashians, certainly, but maybe someone that would kidnap teenage girls, keep them captive for years, raping them over and over and over again, yes? Deserve to die? And yet human. With thoughts and feelings and history and circumstances.
I want very much to be a better man, but for some reason, there is no such thing as ever after.
Mr. Wallace, who not insignificantly decided to end his own life, points out that it is a choice to think of others as just as human as yourself, and yet, I can't understand why making that choice is so hard, and never gets easier, day in and day out. It's a choice that must be made again and again, ad infinitum, and so many times in any given day, it's easier, or at least more appealing, to choose dehumanization.
And why is it so much harder to make that choice while driving, or while tediously working one's way through the grocery store?
I don't want to hate you. I really don't. But sometimes, I kind of do.
Showing posts with label Books. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Books. Show all posts
Friday, May 10, 2013
Friday, October 7, 2011
Being a Boy and Being a Man
I grabbed a book to read while Thumper bounced his ass off at Extreme Fun this morning, and because it's been on my shelf for 10 or more years, and I've never read it, I picked Christina Hoff Sommers' The War Against Boys: How Misguided Feminism Is Harming Our Young Men.
Now, before you get worked up over the term "Misguided Feminism," I think the essence of the book, that perhaps the author didn't choose to represent in the title because provocative turns of phrase are just plain good marketing, is that improving the academic standing of girls does not necessarily have to come at the expense of boys, and vice versa.
I bought this book years ago, when I was still thinking about the novel that I started to write but never finished as part of my Honors Program Creative Writing directed study in 1996 or thereabouts, a project I was still thinking about finishing in 2000 or so when I bought the book. The idea occurred to me, through the fervor of political correctness that permeated the University atmosphere throughout the '90's, that men in general, and white men in particular, were the villains of the historic and cultural tale that we were told, and how that indoctrination into our own villainy would affect us in the long term. It was supposed to be a novel about the marginalization of men, the irrelevance of men in family and cultural life.
So, anyway, here I am, 11 or 12 years later, a man in a non-traditional gender role, happily married to a woman who is happy with the value of the contributions that I make to our family, trying to teach my son how to be a good man, (despite the accusations of chauvinism that may now and again be raised against me), and I picked up this book. Having finished only 50 or 60 pages, I'm not in a position to say anything meaningful about the book itself, but it's certainly timely as I try to navigate the rough waters of playground etiquette and aggression.
A couple of weeks ago, Thumper ended a thoroughly pleasant play date by punching his best friend in the face. Most play dates or other excursions to playgrounds, bounce houses, and other places where children gather, involve some discussion, sooner or later, about not hitting, about being nice, about not taking toys from other kids. This, according to the book, is exactly the kind of aggressive behavior inherent in boys that the "shortchanged girls in public school" movement believes must be actively "re-socialized" if women are to make significant progress in this society. Sommers seems to assert that that progress has already been made, and then some, but that's not really the point.
Ultimately, though, I don't think raising a boy is so different from raising a girl, as far as trying to teach them to fit into the social order. Do we not all try to teach our kids to be nice to each other? Maybe for boys it's teaching your son not to punch his friend in the face while for girls it's teaching your daughter not to ostracize, or ridicule, or manipulate, or I don't know, whatever the little girl version of not being nice is. I don't believe in the pathology of masculinity, the idea that without intervention, the average man will likely become a predator of women. I believe in the value of teaching my son to be proud of strength and speed and skill, to work to improve these things in himself, to want to play games where scores are kept and winners declared. And I believe that these things can be taught while also teaching him not to punch his best friend in the face, to remind him that he does not want to be hit, or have toys taken away from him, and so he should not hit, or take toys away from, others.
I do not accept that masculinity is defined as a thirst for power and dominion, and that if it is not quelled early, it will develop into a destructive force.
I also hope that he can get through school without feeling marginalized, undervalued, despised, feared, or ignored.
Now, before you get worked up over the term "Misguided Feminism," I think the essence of the book, that perhaps the author didn't choose to represent in the title because provocative turns of phrase are just plain good marketing, is that improving the academic standing of girls does not necessarily have to come at the expense of boys, and vice versa.
I bought this book years ago, when I was still thinking about the novel that I started to write but never finished as part of my Honors Program Creative Writing directed study in 1996 or thereabouts, a project I was still thinking about finishing in 2000 or so when I bought the book. The idea occurred to me, through the fervor of political correctness that permeated the University atmosphere throughout the '90's, that men in general, and white men in particular, were the villains of the historic and cultural tale that we were told, and how that indoctrination into our own villainy would affect us in the long term. It was supposed to be a novel about the marginalization of men, the irrelevance of men in family and cultural life.
So, anyway, here I am, 11 or 12 years later, a man in a non-traditional gender role, happily married to a woman who is happy with the value of the contributions that I make to our family, trying to teach my son how to be a good man, (despite the accusations of chauvinism that may now and again be raised against me), and I picked up this book. Having finished only 50 or 60 pages, I'm not in a position to say anything meaningful about the book itself, but it's certainly timely as I try to navigate the rough waters of playground etiquette and aggression.
A couple of weeks ago, Thumper ended a thoroughly pleasant play date by punching his best friend in the face. Most play dates or other excursions to playgrounds, bounce houses, and other places where children gather, involve some discussion, sooner or later, about not hitting, about being nice, about not taking toys from other kids. This, according to the book, is exactly the kind of aggressive behavior inherent in boys that the "shortchanged girls in public school" movement believes must be actively "re-socialized" if women are to make significant progress in this society. Sommers seems to assert that that progress has already been made, and then some, but that's not really the point.
Ultimately, though, I don't think raising a boy is so different from raising a girl, as far as trying to teach them to fit into the social order. Do we not all try to teach our kids to be nice to each other? Maybe for boys it's teaching your son not to punch his friend in the face while for girls it's teaching your daughter not to ostracize, or ridicule, or manipulate, or I don't know, whatever the little girl version of not being nice is. I don't believe in the pathology of masculinity, the idea that without intervention, the average man will likely become a predator of women. I believe in the value of teaching my son to be proud of strength and speed and skill, to work to improve these things in himself, to want to play games where scores are kept and winners declared. And I believe that these things can be taught while also teaching him not to punch his best friend in the face, to remind him that he does not want to be hit, or have toys taken away from him, and so he should not hit, or take toys away from, others.
I do not accept that masculinity is defined as a thirst for power and dominion, and that if it is not quelled early, it will develop into a destructive force.
I also hope that he can get through school without feeling marginalized, undervalued, despised, feared, or ignored.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
He Already Knows That Forever Young Would Just Suck
For Christmas, Grandma and Grandpa gave Thumper Modern Publishing's Treasury of Illustrated Classics, a box set of 16 children's versions of classic novels. His set has some different titles than this one on Amazon, including Black Beauty, Moby Dick, The Secret Garden, and Oliver Twist but you get the idea. He has been very interested in looking through the books one by one and asking us questions about the illustrations, but he has resisted actually reading them at bedtime. Last night, though, he decided he was ready.
I have to admit, I'm curious what a children's version of Moby Dick might be like. If they removed all of the bits about whale biology and the history of whaling through the mid 19th-century, it might be just the right length. But instead, what we started with was Peter Pan. I was excited to start his very first chapter book.
We read the first chapter, about the mother's perplexity over the presumably imaginary Peter Pan who manages to leave dried leaves and muddy footprints in the nursery while the Darling children are sleeping, even though the nursery is three stories up and he never uses the door. When we finished the first chapter, I told Thumper we could read more the next night, and he thought that was a good idea. We talked about the characters on the cover and in the couple of illustrations in the first chapter. When I told him that Peter Pan is always a little boy and never grows up into an adult, he furrowed his brow. I asked him if he'd like to be a little boy forever, and he said, "No!" in a tone of voice that clearly communicated that he thought that was the dumbest question I could ever have come up with. Why would anyone want to stay a kid?
I can understand why he feels that way. Being a kid has been tough lately. We're in a near-constant battle of wills these days, and most of the time he winds up on the losing end, though he puts up quite a fight. It's been a struggle for me, too, and I feel like most of my time is spent feeling either angry or guilty. I tell him to do something, and he ignores me. I tell him again and he ignores me. I say it louder, and he growls at me, hits me, throws something at me, or yells, "You keep saying it over and over!" And the next thing I know, we're both yelling at each other until finally he's wailing through a timeout in his room.
Today, though, when he refused to eat his lunch and then threw his spoon at me when I said he couldn't have dessert, I skipped all the yelling and carried him calmly to his room. He wailed, "Daddy! Daddy!" through a 3-minute timeout, and then I sat with him in his rocking chair and quietly explained that all of the yelling makes me feel bad, and I don't want to do it anymore. I'm the Daddy, and it's my job to keep him healthy and safe and teach him how to be polite. He's the kid, and it's his job to listen to me. From now on, he can choose to listen to me and we can keep playing and having fun and getting nice treats sometimes, like dessert, or he can choose not to listen to me and go straight to timeout, but we're not going to do the part where I tell him something, he ignores me, and we yell at each other anymore.
"But I don't like timeouts," he said.
"Then you should think about doing what I ask you to do. Does that sound like a good plan?"
"Yeah."
"I love you."
"Now can I have some dessert?"
I've heard that 4 is sweet. But it's only Tuesday, and 3 is already making me question my resolve not to drink.
I have to admit, I'm curious what a children's version of Moby Dick might be like. If they removed all of the bits about whale biology and the history of whaling through the mid 19th-century, it might be just the right length. But instead, what we started with was Peter Pan. I was excited to start his very first chapter book.
We read the first chapter, about the mother's perplexity over the presumably imaginary Peter Pan who manages to leave dried leaves and muddy footprints in the nursery while the Darling children are sleeping, even though the nursery is three stories up and he never uses the door. When we finished the first chapter, I told Thumper we could read more the next night, and he thought that was a good idea. We talked about the characters on the cover and in the couple of illustrations in the first chapter. When I told him that Peter Pan is always a little boy and never grows up into an adult, he furrowed his brow. I asked him if he'd like to be a little boy forever, and he said, "No!" in a tone of voice that clearly communicated that he thought that was the dumbest question I could ever have come up with. Why would anyone want to stay a kid?
I can understand why he feels that way. Being a kid has been tough lately. We're in a near-constant battle of wills these days, and most of the time he winds up on the losing end, though he puts up quite a fight. It's been a struggle for me, too, and I feel like most of my time is spent feeling either angry or guilty. I tell him to do something, and he ignores me. I tell him again and he ignores me. I say it louder, and he growls at me, hits me, throws something at me, or yells, "You keep saying it over and over!" And the next thing I know, we're both yelling at each other until finally he's wailing through a timeout in his room.
Today, though, when he refused to eat his lunch and then threw his spoon at me when I said he couldn't have dessert, I skipped all the yelling and carried him calmly to his room. He wailed, "Daddy! Daddy!" through a 3-minute timeout, and then I sat with him in his rocking chair and quietly explained that all of the yelling makes me feel bad, and I don't want to do it anymore. I'm the Daddy, and it's my job to keep him healthy and safe and teach him how to be polite. He's the kid, and it's his job to listen to me. From now on, he can choose to listen to me and we can keep playing and having fun and getting nice treats sometimes, like dessert, or he can choose not to listen to me and go straight to timeout, but we're not going to do the part where I tell him something, he ignores me, and we yell at each other anymore.
"But I don't like timeouts," he said.
"Then you should think about doing what I ask you to do. Does that sound like a good plan?"
"Yeah."
"I love you."
"Now can I have some dessert?"
I've heard that 4 is sweet. But it's only Tuesday, and 3 is already making me question my resolve not to drink.
Monday, June 14, 2010
Yes, We Read the Grinch, Too, Even Though It's June
This week, in addition to trying to control my calorie intake and workout every day and just generally try to be a better person, I'm trying to remember that despite the ear infections and Terrible Twos and tantrums and the retorts of "no, I'm just tryin' to do this" when I tell him to stop doing something and the several thousand times a day that I say, "Come on. Come on. Come on. Come on." and the throwing of toys and the bashing of various household objects with his officially licensed Texas Longhorns baseball bat, that doing this job really is fun and exactly what I wanted for my life.
Wow, that was a really long sentence.
Tonight, as I was reading him his bedtime books, I thought about what a strange and wonderful experience it is watching him turn into a real person. Anyone who sees my Facebook status updates knows I talk about him a lot, and post ad nauseum all the funny things he says and does as we go about our daily routine. He gets a lot of attention wherever we go. Just as a fer instance, we went jogging Saturday morning, and as we passed the tennis courts, he pointed and yelled, "I want to watch tennis!" So we paused and sat on the little bleachers with a couple of moms who were watching their kids receive tennis lessons. He had an entire conversation with one of the moms, completely independent of me, asking her name, pointing out what a funny name "Dixie" is, telling her his name and age, discussing the hummingbird on her shirt and what exactly a hummingbird is, telling her about his recent haircut and the birthday party he'd be going to later. She told him he didn't get a hair cut, he got 'em all cut, then snorted out a laugh and apologetically told me her humor was about at a two-year-old level. He told her Daddy cut his hair, and she said she bet I'd done it with clippers rather than scissors because that was a lot of ground to cover over his big ol' brain.
When the tennis lesson was over, and Thumper ran out onto the court to help the kids pick up balls and rackets, The mom asked me if he was really two, which we get a lot. She repeatedly marveled at how smart he was and how well he spoke, which we also get a lot. As often as I report encounters like this, and how often I'm reminded of how special he is and how lucky we are, it's still easy to forget and get bogged down in the challenges, the less pleasant aspects of taking care of him day after day.
So that's what I was thinking about while I read him his books. Because I've read all of those books so many times, I began changing We're Going on a Bear Hunt up a bit to amuse myself. I sang the first two sentences; he turned and gave me the Upraised Finger of Discipline, that I apparently use on him, though I'm not aware when I do it, and said, calmly, "No, you don't sing it. You just read it." I began reading from where I left off, and he said, "No, you missed some words." So I started over. Then I began changing some of the words. I turned the thick, oozy mud into thin, squeaky mud. I turned the whirling, swirling snowstorm into stinking, creeping smog cloud. At each point that I wandered from the printed text, he patiently brought me back, explaining that it wasn't woods, it was a forest, it wasn't a squeaky, wooden door, it was a narrow, gloomy cave.
And my heart grew three sizes that day, swelling with love for this remarkable, adorable, maddening kid who knows much more than he should, and who is, after all, only two, and is exactly where he should be, doing what he should be doing, just as I am.
Wow, that was a really long sentence.
Tonight, as I was reading him his bedtime books, I thought about what a strange and wonderful experience it is watching him turn into a real person. Anyone who sees my Facebook status updates knows I talk about him a lot, and post ad nauseum all the funny things he says and does as we go about our daily routine. He gets a lot of attention wherever we go. Just as a fer instance, we went jogging Saturday morning, and as we passed the tennis courts, he pointed and yelled, "I want to watch tennis!" So we paused and sat on the little bleachers with a couple of moms who were watching their kids receive tennis lessons. He had an entire conversation with one of the moms, completely independent of me, asking her name, pointing out what a funny name "Dixie" is, telling her his name and age, discussing the hummingbird on her shirt and what exactly a hummingbird is, telling her about his recent haircut and the birthday party he'd be going to later. She told him he didn't get a hair cut, he got 'em all cut, then snorted out a laugh and apologetically told me her humor was about at a two-year-old level. He told her Daddy cut his hair, and she said she bet I'd done it with clippers rather than scissors because that was a lot of ground to cover over his big ol' brain.
When the tennis lesson was over, and Thumper ran out onto the court to help the kids pick up balls and rackets, The mom asked me if he was really two, which we get a lot. She repeatedly marveled at how smart he was and how well he spoke, which we also get a lot. As often as I report encounters like this, and how often I'm reminded of how special he is and how lucky we are, it's still easy to forget and get bogged down in the challenges, the less pleasant aspects of taking care of him day after day.
So that's what I was thinking about while I read him his books. Because I've read all of those books so many times, I began changing We're Going on a Bear Hunt up a bit to amuse myself. I sang the first two sentences; he turned and gave me the Upraised Finger of Discipline, that I apparently use on him, though I'm not aware when I do it, and said, calmly, "No, you don't sing it. You just read it." I began reading from where I left off, and he said, "No, you missed some words." So I started over. Then I began changing some of the words. I turned the thick, oozy mud into thin, squeaky mud. I turned the whirling, swirling snowstorm into stinking, creeping smog cloud. At each point that I wandered from the printed text, he patiently brought me back, explaining that it wasn't woods, it was a forest, it wasn't a squeaky, wooden door, it was a narrow, gloomy cave.
And my heart grew three sizes that day, swelling with love for this remarkable, adorable, maddening kid who knows much more than he should, and who is, after all, only two, and is exactly where he should be, doing what he should be doing, just as I am.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Ishmael
My mother mailed me a copy of Ishmael by Daniel Quinn, with a note saying that as she read it, she imagined me as the narrator.
I had never heard of this book, and I'm only 79 pages into it right now, but it's kind of aggravating me. What bothers me, aside from the narrator's inability or refusal to see exactly where his teacher's leading questions are leading, is this notion that's been at the heart of much of what I've read, watched, and been taught since I graduated high school in 1990, and a little even before that: that western civilization, particularly European and American cultures, are inherently selfish and evil in a way that other human societies and especially other living creatures are not.
Maybe I'm just sensitive, being a white man whose childhood photos look a bit like the kid on the cover of Rage Against the Machine's album Evil Empire.
OK, to be honest, my brother looked more like that kid than I did. But you know what I mean: brown-haired, blue-eyed white kid. Evil Empire. So I'm a little sensitive.
Wait, what was I talking about again? Oh, yeah. Isn't there something in the genetic mandate that all living things share that's a bit problematic at heart: the drive to successfully reproduce? I mean really, a genetic mandate NOT to reproduce wouldn't be passed on very far, would it?
I'm not saying that the culture whispering in our ears that we are the pinnacle of creation and that the earth is ours to use to our own short-term advantage isn't part of the problem, I'm just saying that I think maybe the cultural story is our way of explaining to ourselves the base biological impulse that we've become so successful in satisfying: spread the seed and do everything you can to see it grow to spread its seed, too. The notion that "a lion or a wombat" wouldn't have "conquered" the earth if a series of accidents in their evolution hadn't given them the massive reproductive advantages that would allow and even impel them to do so seems biased in a "humans are inherently different from animals" sort of way that's precisely the inverse of the one the book rejects. If that makes sense.
I had never heard of this book, and I'm only 79 pages into it right now, but it's kind of aggravating me. What bothers me, aside from the narrator's inability or refusal to see exactly where his teacher's leading questions are leading, is this notion that's been at the heart of much of what I've read, watched, and been taught since I graduated high school in 1990, and a little even before that: that western civilization, particularly European and American cultures, are inherently selfish and evil in a way that other human societies and especially other living creatures are not.
Maybe I'm just sensitive, being a white man whose childhood photos look a bit like the kid on the cover of Rage Against the Machine's album Evil Empire.
OK, to be honest, my brother looked more like that kid than I did. But you know what I mean: brown-haired, blue-eyed white kid. Evil Empire. So I'm a little sensitive.
Wait, what was I talking about again? Oh, yeah. Isn't there something in the genetic mandate that all living things share that's a bit problematic at heart: the drive to successfully reproduce? I mean really, a genetic mandate NOT to reproduce wouldn't be passed on very far, would it?
I'm not saying that the culture whispering in our ears that we are the pinnacle of creation and that the earth is ours to use to our own short-term advantage isn't part of the problem, I'm just saying that I think maybe the cultural story is our way of explaining to ourselves the base biological impulse that we've become so successful in satisfying: spread the seed and do everything you can to see it grow to spread its seed, too. The notion that "a lion or a wombat" wouldn't have "conquered" the earth if a series of accidents in their evolution hadn't given them the massive reproductive advantages that would allow and even impel them to do so seems biased in a "humans are inherently different from animals" sort of way that's precisely the inverse of the one the book rejects. If that makes sense.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Novel
I just finished reading Margaret Atwood's Surfacing and listening to the audiobook version of Anne Rice's Christ the Lord Out of Egypt. The one is a haunting tale of a woman's return to the land of the living after years of self-imposed exile after aborting the product of an affair with a married man. The other is a reborn Catholic's imagining of what it may have been like for the young Jesus to discover his own divinity and God's purpose in having him live a human life. Pretty cool stuff, the both of 'em.
As I was reaching the climactic moments in Surfacing while I got paid to sit quietly by myself in semi-darkness and read (I was posted at the doors of the arena to inform patrons who hadn't heard that the concert had been rescheduled to almost two weeks ago; I only had one couple show up on the wrong day), I pulled out my notepad and wrote this:
The lie is that books, that the fictions within them, are Art, are Truth. The truth is that they are small things, trifles. We tell ourselves they teach us something meaningful, that they help us understand the world around us in a deeper way. But the only things we can see in them are the things we already know to be true. When the tone sounds and vibrates through our souls, it is recognition, it is familiarity, that is the hammer striking the bell. What we seek when we read Art, Literature, is not enlightenment, but only validation that we are right to be who we are. Perhaps this is true for those who write books, as well, for if you can read it and recognize yourself and draw comfort from the recognition, then maybe they are comforted that you recognize them as well.
But no; that's only part of it. All things exist simultaneously and each of them is true.
As I was reaching the climactic moments in Surfacing while I got paid to sit quietly by myself in semi-darkness and read (I was posted at the doors of the arena to inform patrons who hadn't heard that the concert had been rescheduled to almost two weeks ago; I only had one couple show up on the wrong day), I pulled out my notepad and wrote this:
The lie is that books, that the fictions within them, are Art, are Truth. The truth is that they are small things, trifles. We tell ourselves they teach us something meaningful, that they help us understand the world around us in a deeper way. But the only things we can see in them are the things we already know to be true. When the tone sounds and vibrates through our souls, it is recognition, it is familiarity, that is the hammer striking the bell. What we seek when we read Art, Literature, is not enlightenment, but only validation that we are right to be who we are. Perhaps this is true for those who write books, as well, for if you can read it and recognize yourself and draw comfort from the recognition, then maybe they are comforted that you recognize them as well.
But no; that's only part of it. All things exist simultaneously and each of them is true.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Infinite Rant
Since my commitment to read more, I've found that I almost always have two books going: one audiobook and one of the more traditional papery type. I've also found that I really enjoy the way each tends to color my understanding of the other. This last go 'round, it was the massive, hard cover copy of David Foster Wallace's Infinite Jest paired with the wonderful ensemble cast reading of Recorded Book's version of Chuck Palahniuk's Rant: An Oral Biography of Buster Casey.
I had never previously read anything by Wallace, though the Mrs. had him as a professor for one class at Emerson College lo, these many years ago. She recalls him as being most critical of "bullshit" in the papers and tests that he graded, marking through great swaths of academic puffery and writing in the margins, "If you don't know, just say 'I don't know.'" Interestingly, one of the characters in Jest has the Mrs.' maiden name. I can't help wonder if she made an impression on him during that time when she was making an impression on me. Anyway, that dislike of bullshit fits the interpretation favored by Matthew Baldwin of defective yeti on the Infinite Summer site that the book is at heart an endorsement of sincerity.
I have read other Palahniuk books, though, including Haunted (that I both hated and loved, and that was also a Recorded Books ensemble production) and (after I'd seen and was completely stunned by the movie) Fight Club.
What struck me as I consumed Jest and Rant simultaneously was how I blurred the distinctions between the two writers. As I read about Hal's visit to what he thinks is an AA meeting, I thought that DFW was sort of rehashing some of his Testicular Cancer Survivors' support group from Fight Club, and then realized that wasn't Wallace, that was Palahniuk. I think Wallace's AFR and that nut job Lenz in particular would also be right at home in Palahniuk's world.
In the end, though, I'm not sure what either really means. The difference between me as a reader now and me as a reader who was majoring in English and writing essays about what he read is, now I read only once and make no notes in the margins. I'm no longer studying literature; I'm just enjoying it. After I finished Jest, I browsed my bookshelf and picked up Seize the Day by Saul Bellow. It looked blessedly thin after the massive Jest, and the cover proclaimed Bellow as a Nobel Prize winner, so I figured I should read it. I was surprised to discover that I had already read it and filled its margins with notes that are unmistakably in my handwriting. I have no recollection of it at all.
So to really talk meaningfully about Jest, I'd have to read through it again, the thought of which only depresses me. I'd have to flip back through it and find specific passages to quote and refer to. Who has the time? I can only say that to me, it seemed mostly about isolation, the inevitability of isolation in a modern world. Everyone has their own neuroses or psychoses, addictions and insecurities, that leave them unable to really connect on a meaningful level with anyone else. Gately ends up in the hospital, maddeningly unable to communicate even his desire to communicate. Hal's unusual isolation is the opening focus of the book. Joelle wears a veil, with no one ever even seeing her face. Avril's carefully composed appearance is thoroughly calculated, and J.O.I., who is obsessed with lenses and optics and the manipulation of the image, is hopelessly unable to connect with either of his two elder sons. Everyone, except perhaps Mario, who seems to be the only genuine person (thus the sincerity themes that Baldwin discusses), is alone and addicted, with technology and addiction making him more alone and sobriety making him only marginally less so.
And Rant? Well, it was hugely entertaining, witty, funny, well-acted, and the most confusing novelization of the philosophy of time travel I've ever read. Or, uh, heard.
Anyway, my considered academic opinion is: read 'em both. They's wicked good.
I had never previously read anything by Wallace, though the Mrs. had him as a professor for one class at Emerson College lo, these many years ago. She recalls him as being most critical of "bullshit" in the papers and tests that he graded, marking through great swaths of academic puffery and writing in the margins, "If you don't know, just say 'I don't know.'" Interestingly, one of the characters in Jest has the Mrs.' maiden name. I can't help wonder if she made an impression on him during that time when she was making an impression on me. Anyway, that dislike of bullshit fits the interpretation favored by Matthew Baldwin of defective yeti on the Infinite Summer site that the book is at heart an endorsement of sincerity.
I have read other Palahniuk books, though, including Haunted (that I both hated and loved, and that was also a Recorded Books ensemble production) and (after I'd seen and was completely stunned by the movie) Fight Club.
What struck me as I consumed Jest and Rant simultaneously was how I blurred the distinctions between the two writers. As I read about Hal's visit to what he thinks is an AA meeting, I thought that DFW was sort of rehashing some of his Testicular Cancer Survivors' support group from Fight Club, and then realized that wasn't Wallace, that was Palahniuk. I think Wallace's AFR and that nut job Lenz in particular would also be right at home in Palahniuk's world.
In the end, though, I'm not sure what either really means. The difference between me as a reader now and me as a reader who was majoring in English and writing essays about what he read is, now I read only once and make no notes in the margins. I'm no longer studying literature; I'm just enjoying it. After I finished Jest, I browsed my bookshelf and picked up Seize the Day by Saul Bellow. It looked blessedly thin after the massive Jest, and the cover proclaimed Bellow as a Nobel Prize winner, so I figured I should read it. I was surprised to discover that I had already read it and filled its margins with notes that are unmistakably in my handwriting. I have no recollection of it at all.
So to really talk meaningfully about Jest, I'd have to read through it again, the thought of which only depresses me. I'd have to flip back through it and find specific passages to quote and refer to. Who has the time? I can only say that to me, it seemed mostly about isolation, the inevitability of isolation in a modern world. Everyone has their own neuroses or psychoses, addictions and insecurities, that leave them unable to really connect on a meaningful level with anyone else. Gately ends up in the hospital, maddeningly unable to communicate even his desire to communicate. Hal's unusual isolation is the opening focus of the book. Joelle wears a veil, with no one ever even seeing her face. Avril's carefully composed appearance is thoroughly calculated, and J.O.I., who is obsessed with lenses and optics and the manipulation of the image, is hopelessly unable to connect with either of his two elder sons. Everyone, except perhaps Mario, who seems to be the only genuine person (thus the sincerity themes that Baldwin discusses), is alone and addicted, with technology and addiction making him more alone and sobriety making him only marginally less so.
And Rant? Well, it was hugely entertaining, witty, funny, well-acted, and the most confusing novelization of the philosophy of time travel I've ever read. Or, uh, heard.
Anyway, my considered academic opinion is: read 'em both. They's wicked good.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Blahsy Blahsy Blue
That's my college roommate's phrase for "blah blah blah." As in, "So we were talking, and blahsy blahsy blue, one thing led to another..." Others of his were, "all that and a bag of chips," and "I wouldn't kick her out of bed for eating crackers."
What was I talking about again? Oh yeah. Nothing much. Just this that and the other. You know, blahsy blahsy blue.
1. I hate when I get that phlebotomist. You know the one who sticks the needle in, and nothing happens, so he "makes an adjustment," and still nothing happens, so he makes another adjustment, and you're really starting to wonder why in the hell you give blood in the first place, and then he calls over the other phlebotomist to "take a look," and she gets it going on the first try? Yeah, that one. I hate it when I get that guy.
2. @gmoyle, it's not really my story to tell, I guess, but I suppose I could just mention that my sister, @badkitty812, drove from Florida, and she brought along her "friend" to "help with the driving," and gave us the impression that her friend knew people in the area and was doing her own thing, but mentioned at the family gathering that her friend was really just waiting for her in the hotel room, so we said, "What? You left her in the hotel room?" So she came out to breakfast with all of us the next morning, and some of us wondered, "So are they...?" And yes, it turns out, when they returned to Florida, @badkitty812 tells us that they're a couple, but she didn't want to come out to us because she didn't know how we'd react, and we didn't care, we were just glad she was happy, and so now I have a sister-in-law-if-the-law-were-just. Her name is @Pirate71, and apparently she's not small, she's fun-sized. And she encourages popsicles, squirt guns, and the playing of catch.
3. It is a story as old as... well, as old as someone born in 1992. Wow. Can you believe that someone born in 1992 would be 17 years old now? Wow. What was I talking about again? Oh yeah. It's a story as old as time: a child who loves Barney, much to the horror and disgust of his parents. One of Aerie's co-workers gave us a bag full of books, one of which is a Barney title in which a little boy named Alex prepares for the arrival of his new baby sister, with Barney's loving support, encouragement, and guidance. There's only one illustration in the whole book where not every single character is grinning a face-splitting grin, and that's when Alex has his one moment of weakness after Mom's too busy putting the baby to bed to play with him and he has to be quiet to keep from waking the baby, and he admits to Barney that maybe being a big brother is not the big steaming pile of fun he thought it would be, and Barney tells him to just wait, it's going to be super-dee-duper! I now have to read this horrifying piece of crap to Thumper every naptime and bedtime. It's drawn as poorly as it's written, but I try to read it with enthusiasm and never let on to the boy how much I despise it. If he knew, he'd make me read it twice as much.
What was I talking about again? Oh yeah. Nothing much. Just this that and the other. You know, blahsy blahsy blue.
1. I hate when I get that phlebotomist. You know the one who sticks the needle in, and nothing happens, so he "makes an adjustment," and still nothing happens, so he makes another adjustment, and you're really starting to wonder why in the hell you give blood in the first place, and then he calls over the other phlebotomist to "take a look," and she gets it going on the first try? Yeah, that one. I hate it when I get that guy.
2. @gmoyle, it's not really my story to tell, I guess, but I suppose I could just mention that my sister, @badkitty812, drove from Florida, and she brought along her "friend" to "help with the driving," and gave us the impression that her friend knew people in the area and was doing her own thing, but mentioned at the family gathering that her friend was really just waiting for her in the hotel room, so we said, "What? You left her in the hotel room?" So she came out to breakfast with all of us the next morning, and some of us wondered, "So are they...?" And yes, it turns out, when they returned to Florida, @badkitty812 tells us that they're a couple, but she didn't want to come out to us because she didn't know how we'd react, and we didn't care, we were just glad she was happy, and so now I have a sister-in-law-if-the-law-were-just. Her name is @Pirate71, and apparently she's not small, she's fun-sized. And she encourages popsicles, squirt guns, and the playing of catch.
3. It is a story as old as... well, as old as someone born in 1992. Wow. Can you believe that someone born in 1992 would be 17 years old now? Wow. What was I talking about again? Oh yeah. It's a story as old as time: a child who loves Barney, much to the horror and disgust of his parents. One of Aerie's co-workers gave us a bag full of books, one of which is a Barney title in which a little boy named Alex prepares for the arrival of his new baby sister, with Barney's loving support, encouragement, and guidance. There's only one illustration in the whole book where not every single character is grinning a face-splitting grin, and that's when Alex has his one moment of weakness after Mom's too busy putting the baby to bed to play with him and he has to be quiet to keep from waking the baby, and he admits to Barney that maybe being a big brother is not the big steaming pile of fun he thought it would be, and Barney tells him to just wait, it's going to be super-dee-duper! I now have to read this horrifying piece of crap to Thumper every naptime and bedtime. It's drawn as poorly as it's written, but I try to read it with enthusiasm and never let on to the boy how much I despise it. If he knew, he'd make me read it twice as much.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Running with Angels
My Mom wrote a book! Some of you may remember her from her brief stint as a blogger named Purelight. She says of her book:
I haven't got my copy yet, but I read it in its pre-published form, and I'm very proud of what she's done. Please help me in supporting an independent author. If you are involved with or know someone who is involved with a group for whom this could be a valuable resource, or if you'd like to talk to her more about her book, drop me a line, and I'll put you in touch with her.
Way to go, Mom! Again, the book is:
Running with Angels by Robbie Haden, with Jennifer Farmer.
It is intended for young-to-mid-teens who are at risk as runaways or who engage in other dangerous behaviors. It offers an engaging story along with hope to these kids, as well as insight to the adults who care about them. My dream is that this book will make its way into the hands of the people who need it.
I haven't got my copy yet, but I read it in its pre-published form, and I'm very proud of what she's done. Please help me in supporting an independent author. If you are involved with or know someone who is involved with a group for whom this could be a valuable resource, or if you'd like to talk to her more about her book, drop me a line, and I'll put you in touch with her.
Way to go, Mom! Again, the book is:
Running with Angels by Robbie Haden, with Jennifer Farmer.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Uggy Buggy
For those of you keeping a scorecard at home, Uggy Buggy is the sister-in-law formerly known as Social Worker Sister-in-Law ("SWSL"). She once, in her trademark high voice, yelled "Lovey Buggy!" when she saw Thumper, and he's called her Uggy Buggy ever since, even when he sees her picture when I'm on Facebook.
I picked my current book selection (God's Grace by Bernard Malamud) because Uggy Buggy wanted to take Thumper to Book People to buy him some books, and I went downstairs to let them consult with each other on what titles might be best (the signed edition of Don't Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus! by Mo Willems was particularly entertaining. As a result, Thumper likes to say, "Dive da bus? Noooooooooooooooo. Peeeeeeeze? Noooooooooooo."). God's Grace was the one on the sale rack that caught my eye.
So, thanks, Uggy Buggy, ya big lurker!
I picked my current book selection (God's Grace by Bernard Malamud) because Uggy Buggy wanted to take Thumper to Book People to buy him some books, and I went downstairs to let them consult with each other on what titles might be best (the signed edition of Don't Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus! by Mo Willems was particularly entertaining. As a result, Thumper likes to say, "Dive da bus? Noooooooooooooooo. Peeeeeeeze? Noooooooooooo."). God's Grace was the one on the sale rack that caught my eye.
So, thanks, Uggy Buggy, ya big lurker!
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Kavalier and Clay
When I finished In the Woods by Tana French, I went looking for other Edgar Award winners. I saw that Michael Chabon's The Yiddish Policemen's Union had been nominated. I had seen Michael Chabon's name in audiobook lists, had somehow formed the opinion that he was a formulaic detective story author, and had dismissed him and his work out of hand. Awhile back, I had seen a regular feature on the local news in which the local book store recommends a book of the week, and the book that week had been The Yiddish Policemen's Union. I had not at the time connected the author's name to the impression that I had created of Michael Chabon, the third-rate mystery writer.
So I went to the library to give the Yiddish Union a try. But they didn't have it. But they did have The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay, which rang a bell somewhere in my mind, so I checked it out. The bell turned out to be defective yeti. Back when I had a full-time job and nothing much better to do with my cubicle-dwelling time than screw around on the internet, I had read through defective yeti's archives. All of them. And in May of 2002, he talked about this book.
I won't re-hash the plot, but I will say it's not a formulaic detective story. I enjoyed it almost as much as The Time Traveler's Wife (and no, I don't select all of my reading material from defective yeti's book reviews). It could have felt very foreign to me: it begins in Nazi-occupied Prague; it ends 19 years before I was born; its characters are chain-smoking New York Jews encountering the likes of Salvador Dali and Orson Welles; and I've never read superhero comics, only the graphic novels Watchmen, V Is for Vendetta, and Sin City, which, in the novel's world, interestingly, are exactly the kinds of works purportedly influenced by the pioneering art of Joe Kavalier.
Despite how far out of my own experience it falls, it drew me in. I loved every minute of the long, slow climb toward perfect happiness that the threesome of Joe, Sam, and Rosa make. I knew that happiness couldn't last, but I still didn't see it coming when it withers at the precise moment that it was coming to fruition. I was intrigued by the threesome; at first I assumed it would be the typical scenario of a man, his love, and his friend: destruction by jealousy. But while Sam is jealous of Joe and Rosa in another way, it becomes clear that he's not capable of wanting her for his own. Then the threesome breaks, and Sam does take Joe's place, coming around at last to the fulfillment of what was inevitable but in an entirely unexpected, and deeply sad, way.
Joe himself is also a roundabout fulfillment of an old storytelling tradition: the man who loses what's most important to him, withdraws into a long, self-imposed, guilt-ridden exile, and then allows himself to be drawn back into the world by a new embodiment of that which he lost in the first place. But this tradition, too, becomes new because Joe doesn't lose his beloved wife, and he doesn't learn to love again when a quirky and charming new woman comes into his life. Sam and Rosa go into their own forms of exile, though not in the same way as Joe, and their rebirths can only come in concert with his.
All in all a beautiful book. Thanks, dy and Edgar and Tana French!
So I went to the library to give the Yiddish Union a try. But they didn't have it. But they did have The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay, which rang a bell somewhere in my mind, so I checked it out. The bell turned out to be defective yeti. Back when I had a full-time job and nothing much better to do with my cubicle-dwelling time than screw around on the internet, I had read through defective yeti's archives. All of them. And in May of 2002, he talked about this book.
I won't re-hash the plot, but I will say it's not a formulaic detective story. I enjoyed it almost as much as The Time Traveler's Wife (and no, I don't select all of my reading material from defective yeti's book reviews). It could have felt very foreign to me: it begins in Nazi-occupied Prague; it ends 19 years before I was born; its characters are chain-smoking New York Jews encountering the likes of Salvador Dali and Orson Welles; and I've never read superhero comics, only the graphic novels Watchmen, V Is for Vendetta, and Sin City, which, in the novel's world, interestingly, are exactly the kinds of works purportedly influenced by the pioneering art of Joe Kavalier.
Despite how far out of my own experience it falls, it drew me in. I loved every minute of the long, slow climb toward perfect happiness that the threesome of Joe, Sam, and Rosa make. I knew that happiness couldn't last, but I still didn't see it coming when it withers at the precise moment that it was coming to fruition. I was intrigued by the threesome; at first I assumed it would be the typical scenario of a man, his love, and his friend: destruction by jealousy. But while Sam is jealous of Joe and Rosa in another way, it becomes clear that he's not capable of wanting her for his own. Then the threesome breaks, and Sam does take Joe's place, coming around at last to the fulfillment of what was inevitable but in an entirely unexpected, and deeply sad, way.
Joe himself is also a roundabout fulfillment of an old storytelling tradition: the man who loses what's most important to him, withdraws into a long, self-imposed, guilt-ridden exile, and then allows himself to be drawn back into the world by a new embodiment of that which he lost in the first place. But this tradition, too, becomes new because Joe doesn't lose his beloved wife, and he doesn't learn to love again when a quirky and charming new woman comes into his life. Sam and Rosa go into their own forms of exile, though not in the same way as Joe, and their rebirths can only come in concert with his.
All in all a beautiful book. Thanks, dy and Edgar and Tana French!
Monday, November 24, 2008
Goddammit
There's spoilers ahead, if you have any intention of reading this massive volume. Just so's you know.
I just moments ago finally finished The Crimson Petal and the White by Michel Faber. And the feeling that overwhelmed me as I turned the last page was:
Goddammit.
This is precisely the same feeling I get when I've committed two or two-and-a-half hours to a (usually artsy "independent") movie only to reach an ambiguous ending that answers none of my questions. Only this time it wasn't a couple of hours. It was seven weeks. Seven weeks of my life reading a 900-page book, and what did I learn? Is Agnes dead? Maybe. Probably. Does William bleed to death from his injuries, or is he perhaps robbed and murdered before he can make it home? I don't know. Does Sugar escape and make a new life and a new family? One would think so, knowing what we do about her resourcefulness and her financial situation. But maybe not. It's not a kind world to an unmarried woman.
So yes, it was a compelling ride, and yes, he was an able writer who evoked an engaging world that sucked me in so much that I committed two (Two!) entire naptimes in a single day to finish it.
But what do I get for my commitment? A tongue-in-cheek afterword and fifteen "Readers Group Guide" questions to properly direct my thinking about this book.
And no, I thought I knew where we were going with the title, but I didn't, really. I mean, yes, generally, I get the whole "the good and the bad," "the moral and the immoral" implications. But who are the crimson and the white? William and Agnes? William and Edward? Sugar and Emmeline? William and Sugar? Sugar and Sophie? Sugar and Caroline? William and Caroline? All of the above?
Eh, whatever. That was a long way to go.
Oh yeah, and while I'm at it, who wrote the blurb on the back of the book? Did they even read the goddamned thing? Probably not, since it's freakin' 900 pages long. It says:
"Meet Sugar, a nineteen-year-old prostitute in Victorian London who yearns for escape to a better life. From the brothel of the terrifying Mrs. Castaway, she begins her ascent through society. Beginning with William Rackham, a perfume magnate whose lust for Sugar soon begins to smell like love, she meets a host of lovable, maddening, unforgettable characters as her social rise is overseen by assorted preening socialites, drunken journalists, untrustworthy servants, vile guttersnipes, and whores of all kinds."
What? Rackham makes his pitch for Sugar on page 180, and he's nowhere near a "perfume magnate" at the time. And she leaves his house on page 868, no higher in her "ascent through society" than a (slightly higher class) servant in his household. Maybe this was an effective blurb as far as marketing goes, but man, it misses the actual book by at least as many inches as the book is thick. I wonder if the author scoffed audibly the first time he read it.
So there you go. There's my literary analysis of the book, one that would make the professors who shepherded me through my English major proud: it was pretty good. I liked it. But the ending kind of pissed me off. The end.
I just moments ago finally finished The Crimson Petal and the White by Michel Faber. And the feeling that overwhelmed me as I turned the last page was:
Goddammit.
This is precisely the same feeling I get when I've committed two or two-and-a-half hours to a (usually artsy "independent") movie only to reach an ambiguous ending that answers none of my questions. Only this time it wasn't a couple of hours. It was seven weeks. Seven weeks of my life reading a 900-page book, and what did I learn? Is Agnes dead? Maybe. Probably. Does William bleed to death from his injuries, or is he perhaps robbed and murdered before he can make it home? I don't know. Does Sugar escape and make a new life and a new family? One would think so, knowing what we do about her resourcefulness and her financial situation. But maybe not. It's not a kind world to an unmarried woman.
So yes, it was a compelling ride, and yes, he was an able writer who evoked an engaging world that sucked me in so much that I committed two (Two!) entire naptimes in a single day to finish it.
But what do I get for my commitment? A tongue-in-cheek afterword and fifteen "Readers Group Guide" questions to properly direct my thinking about this book.
And no, I thought I knew where we were going with the title, but I didn't, really. I mean, yes, generally, I get the whole "the good and the bad," "the moral and the immoral" implications. But who are the crimson and the white? William and Agnes? William and Edward? Sugar and Emmeline? William and Sugar? Sugar and Sophie? Sugar and Caroline? William and Caroline? All of the above?
Eh, whatever. That was a long way to go.
Oh yeah, and while I'm at it, who wrote the blurb on the back of the book? Did they even read the goddamned thing? Probably not, since it's freakin' 900 pages long. It says:
"Meet Sugar, a nineteen-year-old prostitute in Victorian London who yearns for escape to a better life. From the brothel of the terrifying Mrs. Castaway, she begins her ascent through society. Beginning with William Rackham, a perfume magnate whose lust for Sugar soon begins to smell like love, she meets a host of lovable, maddening, unforgettable characters as her social rise is overseen by assorted preening socialites, drunken journalists, untrustworthy servants, vile guttersnipes, and whores of all kinds."
What? Rackham makes his pitch for Sugar on page 180, and he's nowhere near a "perfume magnate" at the time. And she leaves his house on page 868, no higher in her "ascent through society" than a (slightly higher class) servant in his household. Maybe this was an effective blurb as far as marketing goes, but man, it misses the actual book by at least as many inches as the book is thick. I wonder if the author scoffed audibly the first time he read it.
So there you go. There's my literary analysis of the book, one that would make the professors who shepherded me through my English major proud: it was pretty good. I liked it. But the ending kind of pissed me off. The end.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Cosmopolis
I thought that I would really dig Don Delillo's Cosmopolis. I read White Noise in a Contemporary Fiction class in college and loved it. And here is the blurb on the inside cover of Cosmopolis that somehow made me think I'd love it too: it describes a "billionaire asset manager" on a day-long odyssey in his custom limo, an odyssey to "get a haircut across town." It describes his obstacles: a presidential motorcade, the funeral of an iconic rapper, a "violent political demonstration." It describes the book as "funny and fast-moving," and mentions that "[s]ometimes he leaves the car for sexual encounters and sometimes he doesn't have to." Sounds like an engaging read.
In the end, though, I don't think this book was for me. It's too edgy. It's too artistic. The main character is inscrutable and unapproachable. The dialog is hard to follow because it's largely unattributed. The characters understand each other's inexplicable actions with barely a word passing between them, and I am left on the outside wondering if it's all pretentious or if I'm obtuse.
I think another me would have loved this book just as I loved White Noise. The me that I thought I would be by now when I was 19 would have taken notes as he read, would have drawn lines and connections, would have identified large themes and small incidents that contributed to them. The me that didn't drop out of Emerson College after a year because the money ran out. The me that got a graduate degree and a teaching position and eventually a doctorate. The me that published witty and intricate novels and became tenured. That guy would have loved this book.
In the end, though, I don't think this book was for me. It's too edgy. It's too artistic. The main character is inscrutable and unapproachable. The dialog is hard to follow because it's largely unattributed. The characters understand each other's inexplicable actions with barely a word passing between them, and I am left on the outside wondering if it's all pretentious or if I'm obtuse.
I think another me would have loved this book just as I loved White Noise. The me that I thought I would be by now when I was 19 would have taken notes as he read, would have drawn lines and connections, would have identified large themes and small incidents that contributed to them. The me that didn't drop out of Emerson College after a year because the money ran out. The me that got a graduate degree and a teaching position and eventually a doctorate. The me that published witty and intricate novels and became tenured. That guy would have loved this book.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Walking with the Spirits
I didn't think I'd like Hank Wesselman's Spiritwalker: Messages from the Future. Mom loaned it to me with very little comment, just as she did with Celestine Prophecy awhile back. I read C.P. thinking that it was an Important Book to her, a book that she Wanted Me to Read. After I read it and was agonizing over how to tell her that as a novel it seemed like it was written by a tenth grader, I found out that she wasn't that keen on it either. She was just curious what I'd think of it. So I didn't have the pressure of thinking that she was married to Spiritwalker or that she thought it was a book that would Change My Life.
Because she didn't say much about it, I opened it thinking it was going to be a kind of how-to manual. When I discovered it was written with chapters that alternate between fantasy novel, anthropology lessons, and musings on spiritual discovery, I was a little put-off. As I read on, though, I began to enjoy the fantasy novel; the anthropology lessons were engaging; and the spiritual musings didn't get in the way too much. In the end, though, the fantasy novel's plotline just sort of trails off, which is a little disappointing, and I was ready for the book to be finished long before I turned the last page.
I like to listen to audiobooks in the car, so now that I'm reading actual paper books in addition, it makes for interesting point-counterpoint. I had the Avery Brooks-read version of Alex Haley's Roots coloring my perception of Ken Kesey's Sometimes a Great Notion, for example. And for Spiritwalker, and now for Don DeLillo's Cosmopolis, I have Barack Obama reading his own Audacity of Hope. It was kind of a cool juxtaposition, with Wesselman's assurances of the collapse of at least the United States, Canada, and Mexico and the end of metal-based technology against Obama's assurances that if we all just act like reasonable people, everything will be fine.
I could say more about my impressions of Wesselman himself, but I'm trying to be less snarky these days. Oh, all right, since you twisted my arm. I was amused by his glossing over of the ethical issue of entering the body of another man without, at least at first, his knowledge or permission, even during his most personal and private moments, like lovemaking. Wesselman says on the one hand that he felt a little guilty about it, but hey, what can you do, he can't control these episodes, and besides, the Hawaiian 5,000 years in the future that he's possessing is probably his own descendant and perhaps even a reincarnation of himself, so really, there's no dilemma. On the other hand, he says repeatedly that traveling in the spirit world is a matter of intention and clearly wants to and tries to re-establish his contact with Nainoa even before he comes to the conclusion that he is or may be both himself and his own descendant.
So there's that. And there's his unapologetic and to me, inappropriate, attraction to Nainoa's woman, whom he essentially shags while in Nainoa's body. And to the chick at the Buddhist retreat whose sleeve he stares up to get a look at her boob. Nice!
I guess the real question of the book, though, is: do I believe his story? I don't know. I have no experience in my own life that would lead me to believe that what he did is possible, but I have no experience in my own life that would lead me to believe that what Olympic athletes accomplish is possible either. It does seem more than a little convenient, though. With no experience, training, or intention, he stumbles into an ability that he himself says requires a lot of work, a lot of practice, and very focused and specific intention. He explains it by saying that, hey, sometimes the spirits just give this stuff to those that deserve it. Maybe so, but I guess the spirits don't hold humility in very high esteem.
So, not great, not bad. I guess after I take a little break with a couple of novels, I'll try another of his books that may be more of the how-to manual I thought this one was going to be. But Wesselman also warns us not to go messing around in the spirit world out of curiosity, though he did just that. The spirits, he says, do not take kindly to that kind of thing, so one should have a reason and a destination, though he at first had neither. So help me out, internets, where should I go? On a cross-millenial booty call?
Because she didn't say much about it, I opened it thinking it was going to be a kind of how-to manual. When I discovered it was written with chapters that alternate between fantasy novel, anthropology lessons, and musings on spiritual discovery, I was a little put-off. As I read on, though, I began to enjoy the fantasy novel; the anthropology lessons were engaging; and the spiritual musings didn't get in the way too much. In the end, though, the fantasy novel's plotline just sort of trails off, which is a little disappointing, and I was ready for the book to be finished long before I turned the last page.
I like to listen to audiobooks in the car, so now that I'm reading actual paper books in addition, it makes for interesting point-counterpoint. I had the Avery Brooks-read version of Alex Haley's Roots coloring my perception of Ken Kesey's Sometimes a Great Notion, for example. And for Spiritwalker, and now for Don DeLillo's Cosmopolis, I have Barack Obama reading his own Audacity of Hope. It was kind of a cool juxtaposition, with Wesselman's assurances of the collapse of at least the United States, Canada, and Mexico and the end of metal-based technology against Obama's assurances that if we all just act like reasonable people, everything will be fine.
I could say more about my impressions of Wesselman himself, but I'm trying to be less snarky these days. Oh, all right, since you twisted my arm. I was amused by his glossing over of the ethical issue of entering the body of another man without, at least at first, his knowledge or permission, even during his most personal and private moments, like lovemaking. Wesselman says on the one hand that he felt a little guilty about it, but hey, what can you do, he can't control these episodes, and besides, the Hawaiian 5,000 years in the future that he's possessing is probably his own descendant and perhaps even a reincarnation of himself, so really, there's no dilemma. On the other hand, he says repeatedly that traveling in the spirit world is a matter of intention and clearly wants to and tries to re-establish his contact with Nainoa even before he comes to the conclusion that he is or may be both himself and his own descendant.
So there's that. And there's his unapologetic and to me, inappropriate, attraction to Nainoa's woman, whom he essentially shags while in Nainoa's body. And to the chick at the Buddhist retreat whose sleeve he stares up to get a look at her boob. Nice!
I guess the real question of the book, though, is: do I believe his story? I don't know. I have no experience in my own life that would lead me to believe that what he did is possible, but I have no experience in my own life that would lead me to believe that what Olympic athletes accomplish is possible either. It does seem more than a little convenient, though. With no experience, training, or intention, he stumbles into an ability that he himself says requires a lot of work, a lot of practice, and very focused and specific intention. He explains it by saying that, hey, sometimes the spirits just give this stuff to those that deserve it. Maybe so, but I guess the spirits don't hold humility in very high esteem.
So, not great, not bad. I guess after I take a little break with a couple of novels, I'll try another of his books that may be more of the how-to manual I thought this one was going to be. But Wesselman also warns us not to go messing around in the spirit world out of curiosity, though he did just that. The spirits, he says, do not take kindly to that kind of thing, so one should have a reason and a destination, though he at first had neither. So help me out, internets, where should I go? On a cross-millenial booty call?
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
A Few Thoughts on SIP '08-'09. And a Book Review.
After completing 4 weeks of my Self-Improvement Project, I met my workout goals in 3 of the 4 weeks, and exceeded them in 2 of those weeks. I didn't meet my drinking goals any of the 4 weeks, but I did drink less. I reduced my TV watching and increased my reading, but I didn't finish the book in two weeks as I intended. I was still snarky now and again, but I did feel really guilty about it. So, all in all, not a great success, but showing signs of improvement.
Meeting my exercise goals and not losing weight leads me to believe that, in addition to working harder on the drinking goal, I need to put diet into the equation after all. I like to eat. I mean, I really like to eat. I've been resistant for years to counting diets, whether counting calories or measuring food or counting points. With the success that Aerie's had with Weight Watchers, though, I'm considering it. I think portion size is a big problem for me, and maybe a few months of paying very close attention to portion size and calorie content will help train me to behave better. Anyway, no promises, because it's probably more money than I want to spend, but I'm thinking about it. I never did unsubscribe from those "Your Baby This Week" emails from the hospital, and this week's contained this sentence: "The parents' weight was the biggest predictor of a child becoming overweight." I don't want that for Thumper, so I want to work harder, for him and for me.
Oh yeah. And the book. I read Ken Kesey's Sometimes a Great Notion many years ago, and re-read it as the first book on my SIP '08-'09 reading list. It was, predictably, a very different experience this time around. In my post-adolescence, when I (most likely) read this book the first time, I was much more sensitive to the fraternal relationship issues. I grew up feeling weaker, more cowardly, and far less cool than Big Brother. I blamed a lot on him. And while Big Brother never slept with my mother in the room next to mine knowing I was watching through a hole in the wall as Hank did Leland's (they are actually half brothers), I demonized him as a bully who emasculated me and treated me cruelly when what he actually did was behave very much as a normal big brother.
So I entered the book remembering Leland as the avenging hero. I remembered him as the main character. I remembered what his act of vengeance was, but I didn't remember the ultimate outcome. I remembered, too, the sad fate of the most likeable character in the book and dreaded its approach, but found that it didn't, probably because of all my anticipation, carry nearly the emotional punch that I remembered and expected. I didn't remember, either, the way that Kesey spins the narrative point of view like a top, shifting again and again, and sometimes in mid-sentence, from the first-person perspective of one character then another, then back to the third-person omniscient narrator. He does much the same with chronology. I stumbled through the first fifty pages or so before I became accustomed to it again and my eyes were able to focus on the richness of the world he was creating.
But this time around, Leland wasn't the main character, and Hank was much more human and much more admirable than I remembered him. What struck me now was not the drama of Hank's fierce independence and determination to win win win, the whole town and the whole world be damned. It was Hank's weariness at always having to stand up to the town's challenges and his knowledge that the town needed him to keep on standing up. And it was Leland's liberation when he finally stands up, too.
In the last thirty pages or so, when Hank and Leland are finally face to face days after Leland exacts his revenge, they fight. Leland, despite the loud voices in his head telling him to RUN FOR YOUR LIFE!, finally stands and fights. And that's the only thing that can stop Hank from beating him to death, and not because Hank can't outfight him.
Reading it, I thought of all the times my brother pinned me down and spit on me, or made me smell his armpits. I thought of getting pantsed in front of girls, and a dozen other humiliations. And I thought about how afraid of a fight I was. I was terrified of getting punched, of getting beaten. I remember David Duran in junior high, and how my smart mouth had pissed him off such that I spent an entire school year avoiding him rather than letting him follow through on his insistence that we were going to fight. I remember my pure gratitude that he moved the next summer. And I remembered all the self-loathing that went with that fear and that gratitude.
I remember, too, my brother recently talking about the one time that I said or did something, probably said with my smart mouth, and pissed him off so bad that he was determined to beat the tar out of me. And somehow, I got the upper hand enough that I stood over him, pushing him down again and again as he tried to get up. He spoke about it with what sounded like pride. Pride that I'd finally stood up to him? At the time, I was terrified and only hoped to keep him off his feet until Mom could intervene and save me from that beating. I don't recall it as standing up to him.
That's what I thought of as I finished the book. I wasn't weak and cowardly because my evil big brother made me so with his insurmountable superiority. I never tried because I was afraid. He would have been proud of me if I had. And so would I. The fear is inside me, to be overcome; it's not poured onto me by other people out there in the world. Which also made me think of this, which is really, really long, and came via this. Honestly, I didn't even read the whole thing, but several of the "Actual reasons that people do not like you" touched a nerve.
So, anyway. In conclusion. Sorry, Big Brother, for holding it against you all these years. I wished I'd kicked you in the nuts a few times more, at least. And also, I enjoy books that have likeable characters, even if they get the shit end of the stick. And I like it when books mean something on a personal level. The End.
Meeting my exercise goals and not losing weight leads me to believe that, in addition to working harder on the drinking goal, I need to put diet into the equation after all. I like to eat. I mean, I really like to eat. I've been resistant for years to counting diets, whether counting calories or measuring food or counting points. With the success that Aerie's had with Weight Watchers, though, I'm considering it. I think portion size is a big problem for me, and maybe a few months of paying very close attention to portion size and calorie content will help train me to behave better. Anyway, no promises, because it's probably more money than I want to spend, but I'm thinking about it. I never did unsubscribe from those "Your Baby This Week" emails from the hospital, and this week's contained this sentence: "The parents' weight was the biggest predictor of a child becoming overweight." I don't want that for Thumper, so I want to work harder, for him and for me.
Oh yeah. And the book. I read Ken Kesey's Sometimes a Great Notion many years ago, and re-read it as the first book on my SIP '08-'09 reading list. It was, predictably, a very different experience this time around. In my post-adolescence, when I (most likely) read this book the first time, I was much more sensitive to the fraternal relationship issues. I grew up feeling weaker, more cowardly, and far less cool than Big Brother. I blamed a lot on him. And while Big Brother never slept with my mother in the room next to mine knowing I was watching through a hole in the wall as Hank did Leland's (they are actually half brothers), I demonized him as a bully who emasculated me and treated me cruelly when what he actually did was behave very much as a normal big brother.
So I entered the book remembering Leland as the avenging hero. I remembered him as the main character. I remembered what his act of vengeance was, but I didn't remember the ultimate outcome. I remembered, too, the sad fate of the most likeable character in the book and dreaded its approach, but found that it didn't, probably because of all my anticipation, carry nearly the emotional punch that I remembered and expected. I didn't remember, either, the way that Kesey spins the narrative point of view like a top, shifting again and again, and sometimes in mid-sentence, from the first-person perspective of one character then another, then back to the third-person omniscient narrator. He does much the same with chronology. I stumbled through the first fifty pages or so before I became accustomed to it again and my eyes were able to focus on the richness of the world he was creating.
But this time around, Leland wasn't the main character, and Hank was much more human and much more admirable than I remembered him. What struck me now was not the drama of Hank's fierce independence and determination to win win win, the whole town and the whole world be damned. It was Hank's weariness at always having to stand up to the town's challenges and his knowledge that the town needed him to keep on standing up. And it was Leland's liberation when he finally stands up, too.
In the last thirty pages or so, when Hank and Leland are finally face to face days after Leland exacts his revenge, they fight. Leland, despite the loud voices in his head telling him to RUN FOR YOUR LIFE!, finally stands and fights. And that's the only thing that can stop Hank from beating him to death, and not because Hank can't outfight him.
Reading it, I thought of all the times my brother pinned me down and spit on me, or made me smell his armpits. I thought of getting pantsed in front of girls, and a dozen other humiliations. And I thought about how afraid of a fight I was. I was terrified of getting punched, of getting beaten. I remember David Duran in junior high, and how my smart mouth had pissed him off such that I spent an entire school year avoiding him rather than letting him follow through on his insistence that we were going to fight. I remember my pure gratitude that he moved the next summer. And I remembered all the self-loathing that went with that fear and that gratitude.
I remember, too, my brother recently talking about the one time that I said or did something, probably said with my smart mouth, and pissed him off so bad that he was determined to beat the tar out of me. And somehow, I got the upper hand enough that I stood over him, pushing him down again and again as he tried to get up. He spoke about it with what sounded like pride. Pride that I'd finally stood up to him? At the time, I was terrified and only hoped to keep him off his feet until Mom could intervene and save me from that beating. I don't recall it as standing up to him.
That's what I thought of as I finished the book. I wasn't weak and cowardly because my evil big brother made me so with his insurmountable superiority. I never tried because I was afraid. He would have been proud of me if I had. And so would I. The fear is inside me, to be overcome; it's not poured onto me by other people out there in the world. Which also made me think of this, which is really, really long, and came via this. Honestly, I didn't even read the whole thing, but several of the "Actual reasons that people do not like you" touched a nerve.
So, anyway. In conclusion. Sorry, Big Brother, for holding it against you all these years. I wished I'd kicked you in the nuts a few times more, at least. And also, I enjoy books that have likeable characters, even if they get the shit end of the stick. And I like it when books mean something on a personal level. The End.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Juuuuuuuuuuuuice
I was going to use the following as a title, but it seemed too long, and you can't put hyperlinks in a title:
Young Thumper's Blossoming Verbal Skills, As Evidenced by the Deepening of His Understanding of Sandra Boynton's But Not the Hippopotamus
Too long, right?
It was nearing naptime this morning, and I suddenly realized it was very quiet. I found the boy in our bedroom. He had pulled from the dresser to the floor the clothes that his mama had laid out to exercise in later. He was laying on top of a bra, cuddling a sock against his face, and sucking his thumb. So I scooped him up, read him the tale of the self-ostracizing hippo, and put him to bed.
I love this book. When buying other books of hers, I told one Borders employee (I had a coupon!) and one Goodwill employee that we were fleshing out our Sandra Boynton collection because the boy's mama loved But Not the Hippopotamus. And while that's true, I'll admit that I kinda dig it too. And while What's Wrong, Little Pookie? is pretty damn cute, The Going to Bed Book, Horns to Tails, The Belly Button Book, and Doggies really cooled my ardor and slowed my acquisition of the entire Boynton catalog. But Not the Hippopotamus really does it for me, though.
I think it's because I am the hippopotamus, and I love that she overcomes her own social anxiety in the end, albeit with a great deal of help from her friends. Thumper loves it, too. As many times as we've read it, he always breaks out in a huge grin at her climactic moment of rebirth into the circle of friends. He spares barely a glance for that poor armadillo, though. Last week, while babysittin' at the cousins house, I had no book to read him before his nap, so I recited But Not the Hippopotamus in its entirety from memory, which was surprisingly easy after reading it two or three times a week for six months or more. As I recited, he stared off into the middle distance, picturing, I believe, the pages that correspond to the words. And he lit up with joy again at the hippo's triumph.
Since Thumper loves a good balloon, whenever we read it, I always point out the balloons that the bear and the hare, who've been to a fair, are carrying. He always repeats it, boo or bo or bo-bo or ball. Today, though, he pointed them out to me, without prompting. And though I've never emphasized the moose and the goose and the juice they're enjoying together, he reiterated the importance of the juice to me today. Since his throat ailment, and the doctor's suggestion that we give him plenty of fluids, he's had constant access to a sippy cup full of watered down Pedialyte that we call juice, so he has a new context for what we read, and demonstrates his understanding of what that moose and goose are doing: "Juuuuuuuuuuice!" He doesn't yet have a contextual understanding of what it means to cavort in a bog, but juice? That he gets. His "juice" and his "cheese" may sound remarkably alike, but still, I am quite sure that he understood that the moose and the goose were not sitting down to a lovely cheese board, with perhaps some artisan breads and fresh fruit.
Young Thumper's Blossoming Verbal Skills, As Evidenced by the Deepening of His Understanding of Sandra Boynton's But Not the Hippopotamus
Too long, right?
It was nearing naptime this morning, and I suddenly realized it was very quiet. I found the boy in our bedroom. He had pulled from the dresser to the floor the clothes that his mama had laid out to exercise in later. He was laying on top of a bra, cuddling a sock against his face, and sucking his thumb. So I scooped him up, read him the tale of the self-ostracizing hippo, and put him to bed.
I love this book. When buying other books of hers, I told one Borders employee (I had a coupon!) and one Goodwill employee that we were fleshing out our Sandra Boynton collection because the boy's mama loved But Not the Hippopotamus. And while that's true, I'll admit that I kinda dig it too. And while What's Wrong, Little Pookie? is pretty damn cute, The Going to Bed Book, Horns to Tails, The Belly Button Book, and Doggies really cooled my ardor and slowed my acquisition of the entire Boynton catalog. But Not the Hippopotamus really does it for me, though.
I think it's because I am the hippopotamus, and I love that she overcomes her own social anxiety in the end, albeit with a great deal of help from her friends. Thumper loves it, too. As many times as we've read it, he always breaks out in a huge grin at her climactic moment of rebirth into the circle of friends. He spares barely a glance for that poor armadillo, though. Last week, while babysittin' at the cousins house, I had no book to read him before his nap, so I recited But Not the Hippopotamus in its entirety from memory, which was surprisingly easy after reading it two or three times a week for six months or more. As I recited, he stared off into the middle distance, picturing, I believe, the pages that correspond to the words. And he lit up with joy again at the hippo's triumph.
Since Thumper loves a good balloon, whenever we read it, I always point out the balloons that the bear and the hare, who've been to a fair, are carrying. He always repeats it, boo or bo or bo-bo or ball. Today, though, he pointed them out to me, without prompting. And though I've never emphasized the moose and the goose and the juice they're enjoying together, he reiterated the importance of the juice to me today. Since his throat ailment, and the doctor's suggestion that we give him plenty of fluids, he's had constant access to a sippy cup full of watered down Pedialyte that we call juice, so he has a new context for what we read, and demonstrates his understanding of what that moose and goose are doing: "Juuuuuuuuuuice!" He doesn't yet have a contextual understanding of what it means to cavort in a bog, but juice? That he gets. His "juice" and his "cheese" may sound remarkably alike, but still, I am quite sure that he understood that the moose and the goose were not sitting down to a lovely cheese board, with perhaps some artisan breads and fresh fruit.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Oh, You Know, This and That
This morning I finally hit ten pounds lost since the boy was born. A pound a month isn't a great rate, but it's better than nothing. And better than gaining. I didn't, as I hoped, get to the point before summer arrived where I'm not self-conscious about taking off my shirt at the pool. Thumper loves the pools, as do Freckles and Robert McGee, so we'll be spending a lot of time at them this summer. I guess I have to keep trying, and also try to get to the point where I don't worry about what other people think. It's not like everybody else out there is a swimsuit model.
I gave Thumper his first haircut last night. It was hanging over his ears. The Mrs. and I periodically mentioned that we should do something about it, but it seemed like it would be hard to accomplish on a squirming infant, so we never followed through. I told her I could just buzz it all off like I do with my own, but she wasn't keen on that idea. So last night, I had a few drinks, took the sharp, steely, slicing implement in shaking fingers, and let fly. Just kidding; I only had one drink. I trimmed over his ears and straightened out his bangs where his widow's peak made them uneven. Actually, they're still uneven. It's hard to cut a squirming infant's hair. I kind of regret doing it now; I think I Delilahed his Samsony cuteness. He looks like he's moved a bit down the scale from babyish to boyish.
I haven't been blogging or twittering much. I've just kinda been laying low. I've been thinking a lot about the portions of What the Fuck Do We Know? that deal with shaping one's own reality and about how people repeat the same behaviors because they've established neural net patterns and they're addicted to the brain chemicals that result from those behaviors. I've also been playing a lot of Scarface. These two things don't exactly go together very well, but when I found out that the latest in my beloved Grand Theft Auto series, GTA IV will not be available on Playstation 2, and simultaneously realized that I have no interest in purchasing a PS3 or XBox, or Wii, or whatever else, I used the last trade-in credits that I was saving for GTA IV on the closest thing I could find: Scarface. Last night I folded some diapers, then killed the Diaz brothers with a chainsaw. After that, I folded some more diapers, then took over the coke warehouse. It's cathartic, but not very New Agey.
I thought I was going to blog about What the Fuck Do We Know?, but by now I think it's gone the way of the review I was going to write for The Time Traveler's Wife: by the time I got around to it, the moment had passed.
I also thought I was going to blog about what Now Me thinks of 1995 Me and the paper he wrote, but it turns out I don't have that much to say. It was a paper written five months before I was married and twelve years before I actually became a househusband. The part about the fear of being perceived as gay is a little stupid, but I guess the movement from "househusband" = "less manly," to "less manly" = "gay" makes sense in a way. I do feel awkward being the only dad sometimes, but I don't feel a loss of respect, but it is twelve years later, and I doubt that it could still be said that "[s]tatistically, few men enter into the role of househusband completely voluntarily." I get Tracey's thoughts on gender socialization and how I omitted any consideration of same-sex couples, but I think it was outside the scope of the paper since it focused on reversing gender roles in heterosexual couples that had previously embraced more traditional gender roles. I also think it's part of her template to be ever-vigilant for racism/sexism/homophobism. And in my opinion, her illustrative boy being raised by lesbians mothers is still likely be socialized toward traditional male gender roles by one or the other of those mothers anyway. At least, that's what my experience with lesbian couples leads me to believe. But perhaps that's homophobic to say. Still, I'm glad she read it and had something to say about it. Thanks, Tracey!
We'll be at the Brushy Creek Lake Park water playscape around 12:30 today. Stop by and say hello. It's a good time.
I gave Thumper his first haircut last night. It was hanging over his ears. The Mrs. and I periodically mentioned that we should do something about it, but it seemed like it would be hard to accomplish on a squirming infant, so we never followed through. I told her I could just buzz it all off like I do with my own, but she wasn't keen on that idea. So last night, I had a few drinks, took the sharp, steely, slicing implement in shaking fingers, and let fly. Just kidding; I only had one drink. I trimmed over his ears and straightened out his bangs where his widow's peak made them uneven. Actually, they're still uneven. It's hard to cut a squirming infant's hair. I kind of regret doing it now; I think I Delilahed his Samsony cuteness. He looks like he's moved a bit down the scale from babyish to boyish.
I haven't been blogging or twittering much. I've just kinda been laying low. I've been thinking a lot about the portions of What the Fuck Do We Know? that deal with shaping one's own reality and about how people repeat the same behaviors because they've established neural net patterns and they're addicted to the brain chemicals that result from those behaviors. I've also been playing a lot of Scarface. These two things don't exactly go together very well, but when I found out that the latest in my beloved Grand Theft Auto series, GTA IV will not be available on Playstation 2, and simultaneously realized that I have no interest in purchasing a PS3 or XBox, or Wii, or whatever else, I used the last trade-in credits that I was saving for GTA IV on the closest thing I could find: Scarface. Last night I folded some diapers, then killed the Diaz brothers with a chainsaw. After that, I folded some more diapers, then took over the coke warehouse. It's cathartic, but not very New Agey.
I thought I was going to blog about What the Fuck Do We Know?, but by now I think it's gone the way of the review I was going to write for The Time Traveler's Wife: by the time I got around to it, the moment had passed.
I also thought I was going to blog about what Now Me thinks of 1995 Me and the paper he wrote, but it turns out I don't have that much to say. It was a paper written five months before I was married and twelve years before I actually became a househusband. The part about the fear of being perceived as gay is a little stupid, but I guess the movement from "househusband" = "less manly," to "less manly" = "gay" makes sense in a way. I do feel awkward being the only dad sometimes, but I don't feel a loss of respect, but it is twelve years later, and I doubt that it could still be said that "[s]tatistically, few men enter into the role of househusband completely voluntarily." I get Tracey's thoughts on gender socialization and how I omitted any consideration of same-sex couples, but I think it was outside the scope of the paper since it focused on reversing gender roles in heterosexual couples that had previously embraced more traditional gender roles. I also think it's part of her template to be ever-vigilant for racism/sexism/homophobism. And in my opinion, her illustrative boy being raised by lesbians mothers is still likely be socialized toward traditional male gender roles by one or the other of those mothers anyway. At least, that's what my experience with lesbian couples leads me to believe. But perhaps that's homophobic to say. Still, I'm glad she read it and had something to say about it. Thanks, Tracey!
We'll be at the Brushy Creek Lake Park water playscape around 12:30 today. Stop by and say hello. It's a good time.
Monday, May 12, 2008
Fast, Day One
I've been thinking about saying something about Dave Egger's A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius since I finished it a few days ago. I can't think of much to say, though. I think I should. I think this book should be important to me, should say something fundamental about me. I hope that it doesn't.
I found it on my bookshelf not long ago, and I was unable to recall how it got there. I had a suspicion that Big Brother had loaned it to me, probably several years ago, and that I had shelved and promptly forgotten it. The night that I went out with Biggest Brother and him, I asked him about it, and he confirmed that he had indeed passed the book into my hands. He also reminded me that he hadn't done so with a ringing endorsement, but more of an idea that "maybe you could get something out of it." He'd read it with ambivalence and shared it with a caveat.
As a 2001 Pulitzer Prize finalist, and of course as a heartbreaking work of staggering genius written by a white male only two years my senior who also grew up in the suburbs of a large American city, I thought this book would speak about me. Or at least to me. I came to adulthood through the end of the eighties and the beginning of the nineties. I left those suburbs for the Cosmopolitan Coastal City. I felt for a time that vague sense that We, the Youth of America, Were on the Cusp of Greatness, that We Were Going to Straighten All This Mess Right Out, Though the Details of How Were a Little Bit Hazy. Our music was new, our art was new. We had piercings and tattoos. This book should speak to me. But it didn't. I didn't passionately like or dislike it. I was surprised that I got through it as quickly as I did, because I never felt that burning need to pick it up and get in a few more chapters.
I could say more about it, but there's no need to. The author has already covered every avenue of criticism in the several preceding sections. He gives us "Rules and Suggestions for Enjoyment of This Book," in which he more or less tells us not to read it, or at least not to read very much of it. In Acknowledgements, he covers all criticisms of himself that might be brought about by the title. He also provides his own analysis of 26 different aspects of the book. He criticizes the book. He criticizes himself. He criticizes himself for criticizing himself and the book. Before the reader has even reached the first chapter, he's already buried at least six layers deep in irony and has no hope of ever having an honest emotional or intellectual reaction to any of the characters or events to follow.
It made me sad. If this book says anything about me, or about My Generation (Generation X, or the Pepsi Generation), it says that we are painfully insecure and overly educated. Our grand idea of how to change the world was to ridicule it. Irony was the highest art. We made fun of everything and everyone, including ourselves. Especially ourselves. We made fun of everyone for making fun of everything. We accomplished nothing. We made fun of those who did. And we watched a lot of TV.
I found it on my bookshelf not long ago, and I was unable to recall how it got there. I had a suspicion that Big Brother had loaned it to me, probably several years ago, and that I had shelved and promptly forgotten it. The night that I went out with Biggest Brother and him, I asked him about it, and he confirmed that he had indeed passed the book into my hands. He also reminded me that he hadn't done so with a ringing endorsement, but more of an idea that "maybe you could get something out of it." He'd read it with ambivalence and shared it with a caveat.
As a 2001 Pulitzer Prize finalist, and of course as a heartbreaking work of staggering genius written by a white male only two years my senior who also grew up in the suburbs of a large American city, I thought this book would speak about me. Or at least to me. I came to adulthood through the end of the eighties and the beginning of the nineties. I left those suburbs for the Cosmopolitan Coastal City. I felt for a time that vague sense that We, the Youth of America, Were on the Cusp of Greatness, that We Were Going to Straighten All This Mess Right Out, Though the Details of How Were a Little Bit Hazy. Our music was new, our art was new. We had piercings and tattoos. This book should speak to me. But it didn't. I didn't passionately like or dislike it. I was surprised that I got through it as quickly as I did, because I never felt that burning need to pick it up and get in a few more chapters.
I could say more about it, but there's no need to. The author has already covered every avenue of criticism in the several preceding sections. He gives us "Rules and Suggestions for Enjoyment of This Book," in which he more or less tells us not to read it, or at least not to read very much of it. In Acknowledgements, he covers all criticisms of himself that might be brought about by the title. He also provides his own analysis of 26 different aspects of the book. He criticizes the book. He criticizes himself. He criticizes himself for criticizing himself and the book. Before the reader has even reached the first chapter, he's already buried at least six layers deep in irony and has no hope of ever having an honest emotional or intellectual reaction to any of the characters or events to follow.
It made me sad. If this book says anything about me, or about My Generation (Generation X, or the Pepsi Generation), it says that we are painfully insecure and overly educated. Our grand idea of how to change the world was to ridicule it. Irony was the highest art. We made fun of everything and everyone, including ourselves. Especially ourselves. We made fun of everyone for making fun of everything. We accomplished nothing. We made fun of those who did. And we watched a lot of TV.
Monday, February 18, 2008
My Media Week
anniemcq tagged me, and hey, why not? I actually got some answers for this one.
BOOKS
I was slogging through The Complete Stories of Truman Capote, but last night I finally gave it up at about the halfway point. No engaging plotlines, no likeable characters, no emotional punch at all. So I donated it to the Dick Paxton Memorial Library, the odd assortment of reading material shared among the ushers. I don't know who Dick Paxton was, but I guess he must've liked a good read. I'm sorry to dump this crap on you, my coworkers. I picked it up because I had a Book People gift card from my birthday and Capote on the cover looks exactly like the French professor in whose class Mrs. Rodius and I met.
I don't know if this counts as a book or as a "what I'm listening to," but I'm counting it as a book. And it's a fantastic book. When I finish it, I think I'll do a whole review, because I love, love, love it: The Time Traveler's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger.
In place of Capote, I just started Last Seen in Massilia by Steven Saylor, which I also picked up with the gift card because it was on sale and finished off the balance on the card nicely. By the first page and a half, I don't think I'm going to dig it much, but sometimes I'm wrong about these things.
MOVIES
My last three Netflix returns:
Oldboy, which should've been right up my alley, but somehow wasn't. Very strange, very violent, very sad. Maybe if they make a big budget American remake, I'll dig it. The twist was a little icky for me.
Brick, which also should've been right up my alley, but also somehow wasn't. It had Claire from Lost, Eden from Heroes, and Tommy from 3rd Rock from the Sun. It also had an annoyingly pretentious dialog style that presumably was supposed to anchor it firmly in the film noir style by reminding us of hip '40's slang that might be rattled off by the likes of Humphrey Bogart. But coming out of the mouths of 21st century high school students, it just sounded stupid. And the nicknames were pretentious, too. Brain. The Pin. Tugger. Eh, not bad. But not great either.
'Allo, 'Allo!, Season One. It's not really a movie, but it was a DVD on Netflix, so I'm counting it. Screwball physical comedies are sort of out of character for me, but this one was a nostalgic choice. When I was in jr. high and high school, Pops and I used to spend every Sunday night watching British comedies on PBS together, and this was one of them. It wasn't as funny as I remembered it, but nothing ever is. It was fun reliving it again, though.
MUSIC
Lemon Jelly. I have '64-'95, LemonJelly.KY, and Lost Horizons. I don't know anything about this group, even that they were British or a duo, until I just linked to the Wikipedia article. I heard "Space Walk" on Paul Oakenfold's compilation, Perfecto Chills, and absolutely loved it. So when I saw some more Lemon Jelly, I grabbed it. Now, of course, "Space Walk" is a Friskies cat food commercial, which makes me very, very sad. It's not the greatest workout music I've ever heard, but it is hypnotic and beautiful. And when you don't really like working out very much, hypnotic can be helpful.
BOOKS
I was slogging through The Complete Stories of Truman Capote, but last night I finally gave it up at about the halfway point. No engaging plotlines, no likeable characters, no emotional punch at all. So I donated it to the Dick Paxton Memorial Library, the odd assortment of reading material shared among the ushers. I don't know who Dick Paxton was, but I guess he must've liked a good read. I'm sorry to dump this crap on you, my coworkers. I picked it up because I had a Book People gift card from my birthday and Capote on the cover looks exactly like the French professor in whose class Mrs. Rodius and I met.
I don't know if this counts as a book or as a "what I'm listening to," but I'm counting it as a book. And it's a fantastic book. When I finish it, I think I'll do a whole review, because I love, love, love it: The Time Traveler's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger.
In place of Capote, I just started Last Seen in Massilia by Steven Saylor, which I also picked up with the gift card because it was on sale and finished off the balance on the card nicely. By the first page and a half, I don't think I'm going to dig it much, but sometimes I'm wrong about these things.
MOVIES
My last three Netflix returns:
Oldboy, which should've been right up my alley, but somehow wasn't. Very strange, very violent, very sad. Maybe if they make a big budget American remake, I'll dig it. The twist was a little icky for me.
Brick, which also should've been right up my alley, but also somehow wasn't. It had Claire from Lost, Eden from Heroes, and Tommy from 3rd Rock from the Sun. It also had an annoyingly pretentious dialog style that presumably was supposed to anchor it firmly in the film noir style by reminding us of hip '40's slang that might be rattled off by the likes of Humphrey Bogart. But coming out of the mouths of 21st century high school students, it just sounded stupid. And the nicknames were pretentious, too. Brain. The Pin. Tugger. Eh, not bad. But not great either.
'Allo, 'Allo!, Season One. It's not really a movie, but it was a DVD on Netflix, so I'm counting it. Screwball physical comedies are sort of out of character for me, but this one was a nostalgic choice. When I was in jr. high and high school, Pops and I used to spend every Sunday night watching British comedies on PBS together, and this was one of them. It wasn't as funny as I remembered it, but nothing ever is. It was fun reliving it again, though.
MUSIC
Lemon Jelly. I have '64-'95, LemonJelly.KY, and Lost Horizons. I don't know anything about this group, even that they were British or a duo, until I just linked to the Wikipedia article. I heard "Space Walk" on Paul Oakenfold's compilation, Perfecto Chills, and absolutely loved it. So when I saw some more Lemon Jelly, I grabbed it. Now, of course, "Space Walk" is a Friskies cat food commercial, which makes me very, very sad. It's not the greatest workout music I've ever heard, but it is hypnotic and beautiful. And when you don't really like working out very much, hypnotic can be helpful.
Friday, January 4, 2008
Gay Angels!
Beware of the Golden Compass spoilers...
If I had not heard of the controversy surrounding Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials trilogy, the first book of which is The Golden Compass, I might never have listened to the audiobooks. It seems like religious groups that find certain things objectionable would have learned by now to shut the hell up about them because the controversy inevitably increases the popularity of the objectionable music, movie, book, etc. If I hadn't heard that Christian groups are outraged over a novel, and now a movie, in which two children set out to kill God, I probably never would have listened to the entire trilogy. Of course, the movie's got Nicole Kidman in it, who's on my list of female actors who, as anniemcq put it, I'd watch read the phone book. So I'd have seen the movie eventually, and if it engaged me enough, I might have read the books. Or maybe not. But kids killing God? One, I figured it had to be an oversimplification, an unfair characterization of the actual plotline, and two, I wondered how exactly you write a story like that it. So I burned through all three books as quick as I could and enjoyed nearly every minute of it. Thanks for the tip, fundamentalists!
Top Ten Things Fundamentalists of All Faiths Might Find Offensive:
10. The wisest, kindest, most spiritual people in the series are a kind of invertebrate elephant-gazelle that tear around at high speed on wheel-shaped seed pods like they're Hell's Angels.
9. Part of the three-part nature of humans (body, soul, and spirit), the spirit, is physically manifested as an animal, a kind of familiar, known as the person's dæmon. Apparently, this is pronounced exactly like "demon," so I was unaware until today that it was spelled differently. Granted, there's a significant difference between "dæmon" and "demon," but whatever. I still think it's funny that the human spirit is a demon.
8. Only some of the witches are bad guys. The rest are heroic! It's almost as bad as Harry Potter here!
7. There are an infinite number of universes, and in presumably an infinite number of those, humanity is not the supreme life form.
6. The Kingdom of God keeps the dead in a horrible prison camp known as the World of the Dead. No "good guys to Heaven; bad guys to Hell." Essentially everyone goes to Hell, do not pass Go, do not collect $200. Heaven's a lie they've told us to keep us meek.
5. The dead are set free and allowed to drift away into their basic atomic components to re-enter the world and become air and trees and PVC pipe again, or whatever. This release is a supreme joy to them.
4. The children may or may not "do it" at the end. Yep, you heard me. Premarital sex! Underaged premarital sex, even!
3. One of the major projects of the Church is to figure out how to separate children from their spirits by using a kind of guillotine. The process renders the children catatonic, but at least they're free of the burden of Original Sin!
2. A pair of male angels are deeply and passionately in love with each other. Yes, in that way.
And the most offensive plot element of the series is:
God is himself completely helpless and senile. He is kept in a crystal box by his one-time lieutenant, an angel who was once human, and who apparently named himself after a Transformer (More Than Meets the Eye!). When the children accidentally kill him by opening his box, he is relieved and grateful. And to add insult to injury, the scene is really only a minor incident in the story.
But behind all of that offensiveness, the truly ironic thing is, the central message is as conservative as you can get: the children learn that they must be kind, be cheerful, study and work hard. The end. Revolutionary stuff, that.
If I had not heard of the controversy surrounding Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials trilogy, the first book of which is The Golden Compass, I might never have listened to the audiobooks. It seems like religious groups that find certain things objectionable would have learned by now to shut the hell up about them because the controversy inevitably increases the popularity of the objectionable music, movie, book, etc. If I hadn't heard that Christian groups are outraged over a novel, and now a movie, in which two children set out to kill God, I probably never would have listened to the entire trilogy. Of course, the movie's got Nicole Kidman in it, who's on my list of female actors who, as anniemcq put it, I'd watch read the phone book. So I'd have seen the movie eventually, and if it engaged me enough, I might have read the books. Or maybe not. But kids killing God? One, I figured it had to be an oversimplification, an unfair characterization of the actual plotline, and two, I wondered how exactly you write a story like that it. So I burned through all three books as quick as I could and enjoyed nearly every minute of it. Thanks for the tip, fundamentalists!
Top Ten Things Fundamentalists of All Faiths Might Find Offensive:
10. The wisest, kindest, most spiritual people in the series are a kind of invertebrate elephant-gazelle that tear around at high speed on wheel-shaped seed pods like they're Hell's Angels.
9. Part of the three-part nature of humans (body, soul, and spirit), the spirit, is physically manifested as an animal, a kind of familiar, known as the person's dæmon. Apparently, this is pronounced exactly like "demon," so I was unaware until today that it was spelled differently. Granted, there's a significant difference between "dæmon" and "demon," but whatever. I still think it's funny that the human spirit is a demon.
8. Only some of the witches are bad guys. The rest are heroic! It's almost as bad as Harry Potter here!
7. There are an infinite number of universes, and in presumably an infinite number of those, humanity is not the supreme life form.
6. The Kingdom of God keeps the dead in a horrible prison camp known as the World of the Dead. No "good guys to Heaven; bad guys to Hell." Essentially everyone goes to Hell, do not pass Go, do not collect $200. Heaven's a lie they've told us to keep us meek.
5. The dead are set free and allowed to drift away into their basic atomic components to re-enter the world and become air and trees and PVC pipe again, or whatever. This release is a supreme joy to them.
4. The children may or may not "do it" at the end. Yep, you heard me. Premarital sex! Underaged premarital sex, even!
3. One of the major projects of the Church is to figure out how to separate children from their spirits by using a kind of guillotine. The process renders the children catatonic, but at least they're free of the burden of Original Sin!
2. A pair of male angels are deeply and passionately in love with each other. Yes, in that way.
And the most offensive plot element of the series is:
God is himself completely helpless and senile. He is kept in a crystal box by his one-time lieutenant, an angel who was once human, and who apparently named himself after a Transformer (More Than Meets the Eye!). When the children accidentally kill him by opening his box, he is relieved and grateful. And to add insult to injury, the scene is really only a minor incident in the story.
But behind all of that offensiveness, the truly ironic thing is, the central message is as conservative as you can get: the children learn that they must be kind, be cheerful, study and work hard. The end. Revolutionary stuff, that.
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