Stop complainin’

I’ve wanted to read Frank McCourt’s memoir, Angela’s Ashes, ever since I saw him on The Colbert Report. He was promoting his new book, Teacher Man, the third volume of his memoir. The man impressed me with his wit and kindness; if I remember correctly, Stephen Colbert didn’t even try to give him a hard time, but instead kicked back and enjoyed the moment. Unfortunately, YouTube doesn’t have the interview.

I have to admit to some shallowness, though. The title, Angela’s Ashes, sounded like chick lit. And then, when I found out it was a memoir of his early childhood, I figured the title referred to the death of his mother or grandmother (it doesn’t), and that put me off. While in Orlando, I decided to stop procrastinating and buy the book, and . . . wow.

I’m the sort who likes to revel in his awful childhood, so I’m impressed when someone out-awfuls me. Not only does McCourt out-awful me, I may never complain again. (Or at least I’ll stop complaining until I feel like complaining, and then I’ll undoubtedly hear McCourt’s voice in the back of my mind telling me to grow a spine already.)

During the Great Depression, Frank McCourt and his brother Malachy are born in New York City to two Irish immigrants. The death of Angela McCourt’s daughter pushes her into a deep depression, and her relatives decide the thing for her is to move children and husband back to Ireland. Trouble is, Ireland is in even worse straits than America. What follows is an eye-opening tale of survival in the face of crushing poverty, a story that would have been depressing were it not for McCourt’s clear, strong voice.

McCourt has been compared to Joyce, but I found his journalistic spareness and lack of sentimentality more reminiscent of Hemingway (minus the machisimo). Angela’s Ashes seems uncompromisingly honest. McCourt reports the facts, even — especially — when they reflect poorly on him.

I was struck by this comment from the publisher:

Wearing shoes repaired with tires, begging a pig’s head for Christmas dinner, and searching the pubs for his father, Frank endures poverty, near-starvation and the casual cruelty of relatives and neighbors — yet lives to tell his tale with eloquence, exuberance and remarkable forgiveness.

Forgiveness? Really? For me, the most fascinating part of McCourt’s story is his relationship with his mother. Perhaps there will be a rapprochement in McCourt’s second book, ‘Tis, but Angela’s Ashes ended on an unsettled if not hostile note. And for the father who abandons his wife and children, McCourt shows no inclination to forgive.

I think I’ll have my son read this as part of his schoolwork (the joys of homeschooling — we set the curriculum). Then, whenever he kvetches, I’ll tell him, “Stop complainin’. You coulda grown up with nothin’ to eat but bread and tea.”

***
I’m outa here. See you next Saturday for live blogging 😉
D.

PS: There’s a movie (I haven’t seen it), a documentary, and a memoir by Frank McCourt’s brother, Malachy.

SBD: Ellora’s Cavepeople

For today’s Smart Bitches Day, I bring you:

Ellora’s CAVEMEN
Dreams of the Oasis, Vol. IV

A few of my beta readers know that my romance-in-progress began its days as an Ellora’s Cave wannabe. I launched into it as ignorant as could be, my erotica knowledge limited to Pauline Reage’s Story of O, Anais Nin’s Delta of Venus, and Anonymous’s Deva-Dasi (hot writer, that Anonymous). But after I was two, three, four chapters into it — and no flesh — my betas informed me I was writing romance, not erotica. Oh, well.

So I was delighted when Kris Starr asked me to read “Virtuosity,” her story in Dreams of the Oasis, Volume IV. Maybe now I would have a clearer idea of what goes into modern erotica.

Here’s the setup. You’re in the faaaar future. Three years after her husband was killed in a surprise Korgon attack, Commander Dillon Walker needs to get her groove on – and her friends know just the thing. Whackin’ off in the HoloSuite! Because, face it, HoloSuites were invented for meaningless, no-strings-attached, no-risk-of-STDs, non-stop, HOT SEX. (You just know that between episodes, Jean Luc Picard was getting a computer-simulated Counselor Troi to give him some o’ dat “around the alpha quadrant” action. And Worf? That Klingon was such a sub. You don’t want to know.)

Enter Aidan. Or perhaps the appropriate syntax is, “Aidan, enter. Several times, please.” Aidan is Dillon’s dream squeeze. He may be a hologram but he’s solid man-flesh, and you know those holocreations can’t be bargained with. They can’t be reasoned with. They don’t whine, fart in bed, or come in your mouth (unless you ask them to), and they absolutely will not stop, ever, until you are satisfied.

It occurs to me that if George W. Bush had taken the money wasted on the Iraq War and used it for basic research, not only would we have true energy independence, but each and every family would have its own HoloSuite. Damn him, damn him to hell!

Rest assured, Dillon is well and truly satisfied by the story’s end; she’s moved beyond the death of Dear Hubs, and a surprisingly human (i.e., not computer generated) prospect looms hornily on her horizon.

How’s the sex? Chick friendly, but what do you expect — this is Dillon’s fantasy, after all. I had hopes for something a tad S&M when Aidan, in 21st Century police officer’s garb, told Dillon she needed to be punished, and followed that with a surly, “Spread your legs, ma’am,” but no tasers, no cuffs, no hot baton action (unless you count what Dillon does to Aidan’s baton in the next scene . . .) Thorough rogering is the name of the game.

It occurs to me that I’m not writing my sex scenes with women in mind. I’m spare on the foreplay, heavy on the genital action, and probably too clinical in my descriptions. If Kris’s story is representative, I need more kissing, breast-groping, and nipple-strumming. My counter-argument is that my protagonists are horny 25-year-olds. Do they have time for foreplay? No! They don’t even have enough time to sleep!

By the way, you know those back-cover author photos? I have just the one for Kris. Here she is with her friend Rella downing shots of Krugy. Note third Krugy comfortably lodged in the author’s cleavage.

I gotta love two gals who swallow my Krugys.

D.