With a hat tip to Julie :)
And to think: when Jake asked where babies come from — at age 5 or 6, mind you — I just told him. He said, “Oh,” and we were quite done with the topic. Ms. Sweeney would have done well to take such a direct approach.
D.
Someone tell me if I should give this book another 800 pages of my life
Am reading:
I'm still waiting for the bird.
Susanna Clarke is certainly a competent author, which is probably why I’ve made it through the first 100 pages. But really, I’m having trouble coming up with reasons to keep reading, chief among the few being “It’s taking up space on my Nook so I had better read it, hadn’t I?” Which goes to show how intolerant I am of books that lack narrative drive.
There are a few basic tricks of novel-writing which allow the author to hook the reader at chapter’s-end, compelling him to read on. Susanna Clark carefully avoids doing anything of the kind. Often the only indication I have that I’ve arrived at the end of the chapter is the sudden appearance of micro-font footnotes, most of which do nothing more than remind me how much I miss the hilarious footnotes of Jonathan Stroud’s Bartimaeus trilogy. And how much I miss Bartimaeus in general. One of the reviews of Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell made reference to the Harry Potter series; as much as I despise Rowling’s lack of technique, I miss her bitchiness and her slavish loyalty to fan service. She gives us some magic, is what I’m saying. Hundred pages into JS & MN (or at least it feels like I’m 100 pages into it) and all I’ve got are some talking bits of plaster and a forgetfulness spell. Talk about keeping your powder dry.
I do realize that Clarke is weaving a comedy of manners, as do I realize that comedies of manners are meant to stimulate the “Oh ho ho, isn’t she the clever one” smirks rather than the snort-your-coffee laughs that some of my other favorite authors manage as a matter or routine. And I’m fine with that. I knew what I was getting myself into. I simply wasn’t counting on so little happening.
So tell me, ye who have read this book: does it get better? Life is only so long, after all, and 800 pages (at the rate I read) is not an insignificant chunk.
D.
You know who else was a gamer? Hitler.
I’m sorry, but this never gets old.
My son asks what games would Hitler play if he were around (and not as old as Adam) today?
D.
No Country for Old Liberals
As many have pointed out, Ronald Reagan, patron saint of today’s Republican party, would be too liberal to survive in the current political climate. America seems to be swinging far to the right, even in the midst of a Democratic administration. If you’ll grant me that each Republican administration’s excesses have been greater than the ones preceding it, what will the next one bring?
We toyed with the idea of moving to Canada during the dark, dark Bush years. Now, well into Obama’s first term, we still have Guantanamo, rendition, and two (soon to be three) wars in the Middle East. But I suspect we’ll stick it out here, at least until it comes time for me to retire. My current job is just too great to consider making the change.
My son, on the other hand — now, there’s a different story. His whole life is ahead of him. So here’s the question: if you were a teenager and could do anything or go anywhere, what would you do?
We were trying to think of what sort of career (A) paid well and (B) provided the individual with a great deal of mobility. The best I could come up with was international law. Or Jake could become CEO of a multinational corporation, but I think I may be guilty of a little over-reach on that one. Medicine provides a certain amount of mobility, too, but he doesn’t have any obvious interest in medicine. (But you never know. Children of doctors tend to stay in the biz.)
What do you think?
D.
Qaddafi Strikes Back
According to Colonel Jack Jacobs, Libyan strong man Moammar Qaddafi’s “forces have been systematically routing the rebels.” The Empire has won this round; will the plucky rebels find the necessary allies to turn the tables?
Follow me on this. In the third* Star Wars movie, the rebels found a band of small, furry, feisty Ewoks who allied with them to defeat the numerically and technologically superior forces of the Empire. Who might the Libyan rebels find to assist them in this, their time of dire need? Well, think about it: who nearby are small, furry, and feisty?
The Israelis, that’s who! The Israelis should invade Libya on behalf of the rebels, saving the day, putting the Emperor in his place once and for all.
Which makes about as much sense as the US doing essentially just that**.
D.
*Talking the original trilogy here. Don’t even get me started about that other abomination.
**And we’re not as cute as Ewoks Israelis.
Obviously Israeli. The magazine is called Sabra, isn't it?
With American Gods in mind . . .
Mindless escapist fun. Looks good. But how can you lose with Natalie Portman on board, eh?
D.
Puddinhead
I hate Daylight Savings Time, hate it with a deep and abiding nasty dagger-tossing loathing hate. As many times as I read the explanations for why it was created or why it continues to be a good thing, to me it feels like a really, really bad thing. It ain’t natural. Meaning, it jacks up my biorhythms and I feel like crap all day for several days after that awful “Spring ahead.” And the “Fall behind” bit doesn’t feel too good, either. And so my brain feels mushier than usual for a few days until I somehow get used to the new thing, and I yawn a lot during the daytime, and I feel cheated, like being stuck with the jet lag without a vacation to show for it.
D.
Back home
We’ve been gone nearly three years, but it’s still hard not to think of Crescent City and Brookings as home. With the recent tsunami, both harbors took heavy damage. This is especially devastating for Crescent City, a town with few remaining industries — logging, fishing, and a maximum security prison. That’s about it. And now the fishing industry has just taken a nasty, nasty hit.
From NBC Bay Area:
View more videos at: http://www.nbcbayarea.com.
Is it too much to ask for Federal disaster funds, I wonder?
D.
Hallucinogenic, even for me
I’ve been re-reading Neil Gaiman’s American Gods and enjoying it a good deal more on the second read. I’m not sure why. Perhaps because I read it soon after publication (2001), which was before I tried to reinvent myself as a writer. Ten years later, I’m sure I have a better appreciation for craftsmanship. Guess I’m saying I have greater respect for Gaiman nowadays.
One possible metric for a book is the degree to which it permeates my thoughts, waking and sleeping. Last night I wandered from one wild scene into another in a world bereft even of dream logic. It’s a characteristic of mad speech that the sane listener can’t remember or reproduce more than a fragment of the monologue; in a similar manner, my dreaming self had a devilish time remembering things from one vision to the next.
But I remember a statue of a mermaid, human from the waist down, fish from the waist up. Devotees suckled her genitalia and were rewarded with gushes of salt water. Yes, I probably watch too much internet porn.
At the western limit of a carnival are cabins, shuttered windows glowing under a starred sky. It’s the red light district. I knock on a door and am swept in by a small, dark woman, one of dozens of small, dark women, who together greet me as if I were Norm from Cheers. I’ve come home it seems, and I fall, really fall into the arms of the woman who opened the door for me. The night’s cold leaves me. She asks if I’ve brought ice cream and when I say no, but I can run out and get some, she says that’s all right, you just stay right here, baby; and I fall asleep in her arms.
When I wake up, I’m in a hotel room, and in the mirror I see that the women have painted my lips, rouged my cheeks, and waxed my hair (yeah, I have hair in this dream) into a pompadour. They’ve had their way with me in the sense of dressing me up like a Ken doll and chortling all night long over the results. And I can’t wait to get back for more.
D.